cuttlebuddy

But truth be told though, he’d have a hard time staying awake behind the wheel on especially hard days without his coffee. This man doesn’t exactly have the healthiest diet, especially not while driving, his passenger's seat is always full of fast-food bags and his cup holder always has soda or an energy drink lingering in it. Coffee, however, helps him start his day off right. It’s a tasty, warm energizer early in the morning when his eyes are still adjusting and his brain still isnt awake.

Yet the only thing that can get his day off to a good start better than coffee is you.

You’re a sweet college student, probably close to graduating, maybe a four-year degree, he thinks. You work at a cafe he frequents as often as he can, as long as he’s in the area it's his number one choice for his morning coffee and bagels. Half of it is because he really likes the coffee, the rest is because he likes seeing you.

You’re way too kind for someone working the early morning opening shift. You always smile at him and banter with him, no matter how clearly exhausted you are. And he’s way too cheery for a guy who wakes up at the ass-crack of dawn to drive a big ass truck around all day, so you guys have that one in common. You have a lot in common. Maybe you guys have matching eyebags, he thinks, or your voices are equally as groggy. 

But you always smile when he comes in, he's a regular at this point, the kind of regular who doesn't even need to order because the barista knows what he's getting. You always draw a little heart next to his name on his cup, sometimes lately you’ve been writing Alfie instead of Alfred, too. That one will never cease to make his heart stutter. You know exactly how much cream cheese he likes on his bagels, you know exactly how much cream to put in his coffee, and yeah maybe that's just because you’ve made the same order for him a gazillion times but he likes to think of it as something more intimate than it is. 

One time you complimented his hoodie, it had a little alien head embroidered over his heart, and “I come in peace!” was written over his back. You noticed it, you mentioned it, you complimented it, and he broke out into a grin.

“Really? I think it's great, too.” He said triumphantly. “My brother said it was corny, but you should see some of the shit he wears.”

“Corny? Maybe. Cute? Definitely.” You giggled, writing his name on a large cup. 

“You’re supposed to be on my side, you know.” He winked playfully, leaning on the counter and watching you as you made his drink. He’s seen you do it a thousand times, he never gets over how efficient you are.

“I said it was cute!” You said, defensively, a coy glint in your eyes. “But I can’t exactly lie to you, either.”

He laughed joyfully.

The first time Alfred saw you he thought you were cute, the second time he thought your haircut was cool. Now when he sees you it's like a puppy seeing his owner after they’ve been at work all day. He gets happy, his stomach does backflips like an Olympic gymnast, and he can’t stop smiling.

Most of the time it's just you, him, and one or two of your coworkers. Not many customers pop in so early—shocker, right?—so he gets to enjoy chatting with you until his coffee is ready before he has to set off on the road. 

Sometimes there’s another person in the cafe though, sometimes two. One time that other person was clearly a college guy, one who had no business being here this early, one that should be hungover and passed out on his frat house’s deck instead of leaning over the counter and trying to flirt with you.

That was probably the first time Alfred realized you weren’t just his barista friend, but his barista crush. What tipped him off? The fact he wanted to grab the guy by his collar and carry him out of the building like a mama cat carrying its kitten by the scruff of its neck.

He didn’t, by the way, he wouldn’t do that unless you asked him to.

Instead, he just grit his teeth as he waited in line behind the guy, listening as he dragged out the ordering process to drop some lame pickup line that made his skin crawl—and yours too, judging by the awkward smile on your face and the forced laugh you humored him with. Alfred definitely wanted to groan out loud at that point. When the guy finally got the hint and left, Al walked up to the counter with a smile, and your shoulders relaxed and you sighed. 

“Long time, no see, partner.” You smiled tiredly up at him. 

It had been a long time, maybe a week or two, and he realized he missed you all that time, too. 

“Yeah, it’s great to be back in town.” He tipped his ballcap like he was tipping a cowboy hat, a dumb grin on his face. He didn’t have to place his order, you knew already.

You giggled softly at that. Was it just him or were you more exhausted than usual? Maybe the weirdo hitting on you drained your social battery or something, maybe it was finals week or something. 

“Great to have you back, I missed my favorite regular.” 

“Aw, you tellin’ me you have other regulars?” He clutched his pears in faux shock, acting hurt for dramatic effect. Somewhere to your left, your coworker snorted.

“Maybe, but none of them are as cool as you.” You grinned. “And none of them have such easy orders, either.”

“I’m a simple man, what can I say.” 

When you handed him his coffee and bagel, your fingers brushed his, and he felt a tingle go down his arm for a split second. Then you winked, and he felt one in his heart.

To say you felt any different than him would be a lie.

Alfred was definitely your favorite regular, that was no joke when you said it to him no matter how playful your tone was. He was always sweet and respectful and always cheered you up when you were barely dragging yourself through your shift.

The first time he came in you thought he was hot, the second time he came in you thought he was funny, and now when he comes in you feel a breath of fresh air cut through the coffee-scented air and your heart speeds up momentarily at his smile.

His smile always got to you. It was so attractive, he had such nice straight teeth and his lips framed them perfectly. It felt like a beautiful oil painting framed in gold or something. What came out of those lips was no different, his voice was always pleasing to the ears, and sometimes he came in sounding like he just rolled out of bed, and that was also pleasing. 

Alfred’s presence was the best part of your week, everything else sucked if you were being honest. Your coworkers made it really hard to feel positive when they were so bitter because they had to do the job they applied for. Your patience was thinning every day, and honestly when that guy from one of your classes showed up you felt like quitting then and there. Thankfully he never came back, if he did you probably would’ve thrown down your apron as soon as he entered. 

As much as you hate to say it, Alfred alone wasn't enough for you to want to keep the job. So you turned in your two weeks, you found a new job—one much more impressive than “barista”—and you counted the days until you were free from your coffee-stained shackles.

The last week of your job you didn’t see Alfred once, and you were starting to get anxious that you wouldn’t see him again. Maybe you could get one of your lazy coworkers to give him your number, or you could show up every morning until he was there. 

(that was in no way plausible, you barely even wanted to show up now and you work there)

But, to your relief, on your last day, Alfred popped through the window. His blue eyes shone through his glasses, his blonde hair was a mess, and he was wearing a hoodie with his iconic bomber jacket over it. He looked warm, he looked good. He grinned widely at you, shooting you finger-guns as he approached the counter.

“If it isn’t my favorite barista!” 

“And my favorite customer returns! I was getting worried, you know.” You smiled back, grabbing a cup for his drink.

“Aw, I always come back to this place! If you didn’t see me today, you’d see me tomorrow or next week or something.” He promised.

“I actually wouldn’t.” You said, “Because I wouldn’t be here.”

Alfred paused, “What’d’ya mean?”

“It’s my last day.” You smiled, glancing back up to him momentarily and catching the way his lips tugged down slightly.

“Like… forever?” He asked.

“Yup, I got myself a shiny new job.” You boasted.

“So I won’t get my morning coffee from you anymore?” He leaned on the counter, his voice seemed disappointed.

“Uh,” You pulled your eyes away from the coffee machine to meet his, “Yeah. Not anymore.”

He nodded slowly, “I won’t get to see you again, then?”

You chuckled to yourself, “Of course you will, silly.”

“I will?”

“Yeah, did you think I would part ways with you without giving you my number or something?” You grinned.

Slowly, he did too. His eyes twinkled and his chest shook in laughter. “I’d sure hope not.”

You smiled, face warming a little as he stared at you intently. This time, when you handed him his coffee and bagel your number was written beneath his name. 

“So, your number-?”

“It’s on the cup.” You noted.

“Got it. Yeah. I’ll- I’ll call you.” He grinned, walking backward for a moment before ripping his eyes away from your face and walking out the door feeling like a giddy teenage girl.

Today his day got off to an amazing start. Coffee always helped with that, but you? You always made it ten times better.

-For whatever reason, he just can’t avoid you. Your pretty little face always seems to be wherever he’s looking, and it’s driving him nearly mad. Moreso because he can’t seem to look away when it’s there.

-He closes his eyes, and he sees you behind their lids. He dreams about you when he goes to bed. He thinks about you when he’s bored and needs something to cheer him up. It’s always you, you, you.

-Boy, this love stuff isn’t for the weak, is it?

-Love stuff??

-Realization hits him like a truck, doomscrolling on his phone at 3 am. Is he in love? Like, really in love. Like, stupidly head over heels for you in love.

-He has to get up and do something when it hits, runs like twenty laps over and over just to think.

-Okay, so, he’s in love. Is that a bad thing? He could just ignore it.

-...

-…No, he can’t, he knows he can’t. He could try to, but a little tiny voice in his head is telling him that’s not the best idea. So what the hell does he do? He can’t be in love. 

-In a very rare show of emotional intelligence (which he mostly lacks, sorry), he goes to Arthur in an even more rare case of vulnerability.

-He expects Arthur to berate him, or mock him, god knows he would do it. But Arthur doesn’t. There’s no snark or sass, more than his usual, at least, it’s gentle the way he handles him. Were it any other situation, Alfred might’ve found it insulting.

-The guy's been a goddamn global menace since his founding. He wasn’t some weak loser; he was a superpower. One of the most powerful, destructive countries in the world.

-Yet here he was, stuck in his head on his brother's couch like he was still that little kid from the 1700s. Because for once in his life, Alfred has to sit and think about something, and he’s not too good at doing that.

-Arthur knows the whole deal by this point. He’s loved too many humans to count, and he’s buried each of them with just as much care as he loved them. Doesn’t make it easy, especially if it's your first time in about 250 years of living.

-Gentleness isn’t really either of their styles, but it’s almost… nice, the talk they have. The way Arthur lays everything out to him so plainly, how good it feels to experience that kind of love. The kind that isn’t eternal, it’s not going to be there for the rest of his life, but when it is, it’s wonderful in a way words can’t describe. The pain he’ll feel when he loses you to time, the importance of remembering, always remembering.

-It’s kind of eye-opening to good ol’ Al. He’s never been one for those kinds of deep connections. Hell, the deepest connection he has (that isn’t some kinda familial) is with a guy his government dropped a bomb on. He’s good with planes, with guns, with fighting… not with feelings.

-But the way Arthur describes it, it almost sounds nice. Natural. Like some kind of dream come true. He likes the sound of it, but he’s still not sure of himself.

-Imagine that, an unconfident America. Sounds almost laughable, but even he can be a little nervous sometimes.

-He thinks it over for a little while, wondering if it was worth it in the end. Knowing that it would inevitably end in heartbreak, something he’s notoriously bad at handling.

-Yet, when you smile at him from across the room, he already knows the answer.

-How silly of him to be so caught up in this kind of thing. He was the United States of Freaking America; he always listened to his gut, and his gut knew what it wanted right now.

-So, he listens, and he tells you in no uncertain terms that he’s gonna take you out and treat you nice. Even more certain when he tells you you’re gonna love it so much you’ll be thinking about him ‘til heaven comes.

-There’s not an inch of doubt on his face when he does so, all confidence and pride. It’s hard to say no to him when he’s just so eager to please, and so you don’t.

-Now, Alfred is a really weird guy, whole personification thing aside. He does what he wants, and he gets what he wants, which leads to him being a bit… mmm… pushy? He’s not really used to respecting boundaries, or listening, or behaving, or… anything really.

-Simply put: he’s a brat.

-You gotta force him to stop, literally sometimes. Grab him by his shoulders and say, “Alfred, chill out.”

-He’s too overeager about all this “being in love” stuff, and he kinda full-throttles into it without thinking of what that’ll look or feel like for you. He’s riding a high, like he usually is, and he needs you to pull him down to earth and show him how to take it at an easy pace.

-It makes him antsy at first; he likes going full speed without looking back, but when you get him to slow down a bit, he kind of realizes… oh, this is actually nice? He notices little things he’d normally miss, like the way your eyes crinkle when you smile, or how your laugh kind of reminds him of a songbird. Was living life full speed really making him miss so much?

-Yes, Alfred, yes, it was.

-Now he doesn’t suddenly become a patient person; that’s just never what he’s going to be, but he’s able to appreciate things a bit more with you around. Maybe it's just the fact that you’re there, and he loves you and wants to savor every moment with you, but he finds himself appreciating things a little more closely than he might normally.

-He tends to be pretty inconsiderate of you and your feelings, not on purpose, but because he doesn’t really think outside of himself often. He’ll just do things for you or without asking beforehand, and then get confused when you’re upset with him for it.

-However, he really wants to do things right, so in a particularly uncharacteristic move, he tries to correct his behavior as quickly as possible.

-You are probably the only thing in the world that can get him to behave other than his obligation to the US government. He doesn’t like upsetting you, doesn’t like it when you tell him off, so he listens to you like the good boy he is.

-He’s fairly busy, even if he seems airheaded; he’s constantly going and going and going thanks to his position dealing with different things for the government. He seems to have a never-ending supply of energy, he thought so too, but… well… 

-You and he come to find out he doesn’t. Actually, he’s really fucking burnt out.

-Only realizes how bad about 250 years of non-stop going, spreading, and doing things has been on him when he comes home after a particularly exhausting meeting. His head was kinda hurting, his shoulders were tense, and he just wanted to sit on the couch and flip through shitty cable reruns until he melted away.

-Then he sees you, also tired and rushing around, worrying over what you wanted to eat when you didn’t want to cook. You smile at him, and you ask if he just wants to order out, and by God, he nearly melts to the floor.

-Pathetic as a wet dog as he lays his head on your lap, eating a copyright-friendly burger, you doordashed him while watching crime shows from the early 2000s like the lil champ he is.

-Genuinely so weak to your whims and wants, he’ll do whatever he’s asked. Well, not really, if he really doesn’t wanna do it, he’ll tell you outright he won’t be doing it. But I feel like that's surprisingly rare from someone as stubborn as him.

-He likes to see you happy, and even more so, his selfish ass likes it when you praise him for doing things you like. Even if it’s just a “this restaurant is really nice!” or “your jacket is super warm, thank you,” his tail is wagging.

-Now, Alfred, as one might expect, is a provider in the fullest use of the terms. He likes to be the one and only person you rely on for just about anything.

-He, whether you like it or not, is the breadwinner. He has no end of money he can spend how he pleases, not that he really ever tends to need to use it. Y’know, countries are paid a lot of money, but it really doesn’t mean much of anything in the end cause they’re also usually provided with whatever the hell they want. Materially, at least.

-You’re kind of his excuse to use it, lol.

-He likes to impress you with the things he can buy for you, and for a while, he thought that was fulfilling enough in the relationship. If you so much as looked at something for a little too long, he’d buy it for you, because he can do that, because he has the money to do it. Isn’t he cool? (Sure, bub)

-He doesn’t even care much if you use half of the things he gets you. God knows he doesn’t use most of his shit, he only wants you to have it so he can say he got it for you. Besides, isn’t it better to have it and only need it sometimes than not have it when you need it? Mmm.

-If you’re very adamant, and I mean very adamant, about him not spending so much on you, he’ll cut back. But like, he’ll still be buying you things he thinks you’ll like. It’s hard to stop the ultimate gift-giver from getting you gifts.

-Along this same line of thinking, though, Alfred is pretty physical. Which I think is obvious, considering how he acts in the show and the manga.

-Most of his physical affection is kind of rough, more like you’re one of the guys rather than his partner. He also doesn’t know his own strength, so often he’s literally suffocating you when he pulls you in for a bear hug. He’s an excited guy, and he loves to touch and hold his friends, so of course, he wants to hold you tight.

-He’s really not good at intimacy, at least not when he initiates it.

-He’s too big, too rough, too loud, too much. He knows it, and he really doesn’t mind those labels; it’s what makes him, him.

-Yet, with you, he finds himself wishing he were a little more like his brother. Quiet, gentle, all the things he’s really not. He feels guilty that he doesn’t know how to be loving and sappy in the way you see in all those romance movies.

-You’ve gotta reassure him that’s okay, because you’re with him for him, not for some guy that doesn’t exist outside of his head.

-And it’s not as if he can’t be intimate and enjoy loving moments with you. He can, he just doesn’t realize that he can.

-Intimacy with Alfred is watching movies and laughing about how bad they are, or crying because they’re such emotional hard hitters, and you guys feel okay crying in each other's arms over movies like that. Or it’s naps on the couch after long days where neither of you has the energy to think about anything other than holding one another. Or it’s even the way he makes a fool out of himself just to make you smile when you’re feeling down, because the only thing worse than him having a bad day is you having a bad day, and he can’t have that.

-These are all things that come naturally to him, and because they’re natural, he doesn’t think they’re special. Doesn’t think it's enough for you, but it is. It always was, and always will be.

-Believe it or not, Alfred tends to get rather jealous often. He doesn’t like to share your attention, and he will pout if you’re giving it to anyone for an extended period of time when it should be on him.

-He’s not entirely unreasonable, he doesn’t care much when it's your friends or his family, (unless it’s like obvious they’re interested). But when charmers like Feliciano or Antonio come at you with sweet words, knowing who you’re with. Kinda grinds his gears.

-Don’t worry, he’s easy (enough) to placate, just keep giving him attention, and he’ll crack eventually. What a loser.

-He tends to keep you and his work life separate, though. Proud as he is to be America, you don’t really have any business dealing with the things he does. Sometimes you’ll hear him complain about a particularly annoying day, but he tries his best not to let it bleed into your home life.

-Also, like, super protective. Constantly acting like a giant shield between you and anything he finds threatening. Particularly paparazzi, because you can’t avoid them even if he wishes you could, but also small things like the angry little Samoyed his neighbors keep, or the sun when it hurts your eyes.

-God forbid something actually happen to you. He’s always trigger-happy, but it's better that the world doesn’t find out what targeting his significant other will do.

-Last thing I want to acknowledge is, as I’ve vaguely referenced, is his family. They’re a mess, but very important to good ol’ Alfie, even if he won’t admit it.

-I personally fall in line with the idea that his family is France, England, Canada, and Seychelles, all of whom he loves quite a lot, even if that love doesn’t manifest normally. Countries are different than humans, after all.

-Being that Mattie is so close in relation, he introduces you to him first, and thank god he does because Mattie’s actually the only one willing to warn you about just how weird the other three are (other than Seychelles, she’s pretty normal actually).

-The family dynamic is more like watching various types of verbal abuse rapid fire across the room, which explains a lot about why Alfred is the way he is, but it’s pretty funny once you get used to it.

-What’s really important is that you get along with them. Very well. They’re very open and accepting of you, particularly Arthur, who can’t stop thanking you for putting up with America’s bullshit every day.

-They also like to get you random gifts. Usually, souvenirs or cute little trinkets, things you don’t really need, but it’s their way of showing they like you. It always seems to make Alfred smile when you put them on display, so it’s not so bad, right?

-Truthfully, Alfred is a bit of a weirdo, but he’s sweet, and he’s really honest with you. Maybe he’s not for everyone; he’s not for most people, but who he is for, he really is for.

and so, it's no surprise when caleb has you seated in his lap, legs spread apart. one hand gently caresses your chest. kneading your breast in his hand with the occasional pinches to your nipple. while his other hand works deftly against your oozing cunt.

his two middle fingers rub against your clit, fast circles that have you twitching in his grasp. he coos into your ear, sending notes of praise into your ear. his fingers dance towards your entrance, teasing you with fluttering touches and heavy rubs. it's blissfully agonizing, feeling him like this, touching so close to where you need him most.

you buck your hips against his hand, desperate for more. To your dismay, he removes his hand. you watch as his hand lifts up into the air, only to make its way back down to spank your pussy. you jolt forward, crying out with a yelp while your cunt squeezes down on nothing.

"caleb. . ." you pout while looking back at him, "don't be meaaaan." you say while dragging out the word.

he lets out a chuckle, it tickles your ear. "m'not being mean pips." he says while spanking your pussy again. "i'm takin' care of you."

and then his fingers plunge into your sopping hole. expertly maneuvering his fingers to suit your needs. they thrust in and out of you, occasionally curling upwards to hit that one spot that makes you almost drop limp in his arms.

the hand that was toying with your breast moves up, up, up, towards your neck. a firm hand grasps onto your throat, not tight enough to cut off air. his hand is your own personal collar. he angles your head upwards to give you kisses. chaste at first, but becoming all the more consuming with every consecutive kiss. soon enough, it feels like he's devouring you.

his fingers continue to delve deep inside you, and you feel your legs begin to shake. it's so close, building up and up.

"c'mon. . . let go for me." he says between kisses.

his thumb circles your clit as his fingers move in and out. within seconds, your head falls back against his shoulder, mouth crying out sounds of pleasure while your orgasm hits. his fingers slow down but don't stop, to milk it out and help you ride through it.

after you catch your breath, you look up at him again, wondering if other parts of his body are as skilled as his hands . . .

Your knees dig into the hard flooring, nipples stiff in the cold air, and you can feel the slippery wetness of your bare cunt with every shift of your hips. The scent of his leather gloves fill your nostrils and you’re pretty sure there’s the lingering taste of metal from his gun on your tongue.

Index and middle fingers slip ever so slightly further back into your throat and you gag lightly.

“You can take it.” He murmurs. “You always take it so well, don’t you?”

He uses the fingers in your mouth to force your head to nod and you whine.

“‘Yes, Colonel,’” He mocks. “‘I love taking your fingers in my throat while my needy little cunt drips all over your floor.’”

His boot taps against one of your thighs, a silent command to spread wider for him. He tuts.

“Dirty girl, making such a mess.” The tip of his boot pushes gently against your pussy, tip digging into your clit. “Should have you clean it all up with your tongue.”

You instinctively grind down onto his boot, knowing you must be leaving your juices all over it. You whimper around his fingers that begin to slowly thrust in and out of your mouth.

“Hm.” His head cocks to the side as he looks down at you thoughtfully. “I think I’d like to have you come like this - rubbing that desperate cunt all over my boot.”

You look up at him with wide eyes. You look so innocent despite having his fingers stuffed in your mouth. He wonders if he might come in his trousers if you keep looking at him like that.

“Go on,” He nods down to his foot. “I don’t have all day.”

You quickly shift your hips to try and get a better stance over his shoe. You rest your weight down on his boot, the leather cool against your warm cunt, and you begin to rock against him gently.

Your hands come up to wrap around his leg to give yourself better leverage and soon enough you’re moving with more urgency, your baser instincts taking over. He slips his foot forward slightly and you moan around Caleb’s probing fingers. Your clit rubs over his laces, back and forth over each little bump, creating the most delicious friction. Your eyes slip closed, completely lost to the pleasure.

“Ah, ah.” He scolds, fingers leaving your mouth only to give a couple of light taps to your cheek before returning to their rightful place. “Keep those pretty eyes on me. Wanna watch them tear up in frustration as you struggle to get yourself off.”

He’s cruel. He knows this won’t be easy for you and he’s taking pleasure from it.

His eyes bore into yours. It’s intense, too intense, and you want to look away but you fear the consequences should you do so. You gag around his fingers again, the tips rubbing up and down the back of your tongue. He pulls them out and you heave in a breath, swallowing the copious amount of saliva that was beginning to pool in your mouth.

“We’ll need to train your throat more if you want to take my cock down there.” He says plainly, watching you attempt to catch your breath.

He graciously gives your throat a moment of reprieve, allowing your pathetic moans to fly free as you continue to roll your hips over and over again. He’s watching you with disinterest, like it’s a chore having to stand there and he’s merely tolerating your pitiful attempt to make yourself come.

He taps your bottom lip with his drool covered fingers.

“Open.” He demands.

And of course you willingly obey. Your lips part and his fingers slip in once more.

“Suck.”

Your lips wrap firmly around his fingers and he can feel the vibrations of your moans through the gloves. 

Your hips jut back and forth, like an animal in heat you no longer have a single care or thought in your head other than needing to come all over Caleb’s boot.

He smiles in satisfaction when he sees it - the start of tears beginning to well in your eyes, both from the frustration of not being able to make yourself come and the overstimulation of your poor little clit rubbing against the rough of his laces.

“Aw, what’s the matter?” He says, voice dripping with a fake sympathy. “Poor little puppy can’t make herself come?”

“Please…” You beg, voice muffled around his gloves. “I need you to-”

“No.” He says sternly. “What did I say?”

He raises his eyebrows and looks down at you pointedly. You whimper in submission.

His free hand raises to carefully wind your hair around his fist. He pulls slowly, angling your face so high up your neck is straining with the effort. He brings his face closer down to yours, nose barely an inch away, and he pushes the two fingers still resting in your mouth further into your throat. He wants to push your limits tonight.

“You come on my boot,” He says with a cold quietness. “Or not at all.”

A tear slips down your cheek.

“Remember to pinch my leg if it gets too much.” He whispers gently, the facade of the Colonel slipping away momentarily.

You relax your grip on his thigh, reassuring him that you’re fine. You want this. You need this as much as he does. So you move your hips faster, harder.

Your pussy is beginning to burn from the friction and another tear spills free. You feel so vulnerable - knelt completely naked on the floor, pathetically humping your boyfriend’s dirty boot while he’s fully clothed and looking at you like you’re nothing. Humiliation pricks at your skin and it only fuels your need to come. You can now clearly hear the schlick, schlick, schlick of your wet cunt drooling all over leather and it’s all becoming too much.

“Is my filthy little girl gonna come for me?” He coos.

You nod and whine, nails scraping at his trouser leg while your hips move at a frenzied pace.

“So fucking desperate aren’t you.” His fingers leave your mouth and he grasps your chin in his hand, spit smearing across your jaw. “You’re gonna come all over my boot like the obedient, needy little thing you are.”

A garbled mix of moans and obscenities leave your mouth. You’re shoving your abused cunt so hard down on his boot and you’re so fucking close it hurts.

“Come for me.” He says through gritted teeth, fingers digging into the sides of your face. “I need it. Now.”

You hold your breath and you can feel your impending orgasm building rapidly through your body until it finally crashes over you. The air releases from your lungs with a long moan and your whole body shakes. Your walls clench around nothing, no doubt covering Caleb’s boot in more of your slick as it drips out of you.

“Good girl.” Caleb says, pressing his forehead to yours and looking into your eyes. “That’s my good fucking girl. Keep moving those hips, keep coming for me.”

And you do. You keep rocking your hips until you’re twitching from the overstimulation and your clit is red raw. Your ears ring, your head feels light - your orgasm has utterly wrecked you.

Your hips slowly come to a halt and you rest your head against his leg, throat slightly burning and knees trembling from being on the floor for so long. His hand comes down to stroke your hair.

“How’re you doing?” He asks gently. “Can you give me a colour?”

“Green.” You sigh blissfully. “So green.”

He chuckles and crouches down to pick you up. Legs and arms wrap around him and you lie your head on his shoulder.

“Bad day at work?” You mumble.

“Yeah…” Caleb trails off. You don’t push him. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

In the bathroom he leaves you perched on the countertop. Gentle hands wipe between your thighs, careful not to rub too hard where you’re bound to be sore and chafed, mumbling gentle praises as he does so.

“You did so well for me.” He says, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead. “Thank you.”

You bring your hands up to frame his face.

“I’ll always be here.” You say, noting how the tension that previously tainted his face has now mostly gone. “Whenever you need me, I’m here.”

“I know.” Caleb closes his eyes and leans into your touch.

You cling to him, burying your nose in his shoulder. He smells like work, leather and metal and gasoline. Sweat, too, but that you don't mind. It's something that's Caleb's. You like his smell. When you pull back from him he's smiling wide, eyes soft as he looks down at you. 

“Hi, pips. Didya miss me?” 

“Missed you enough not to ask why you look like haven't slept in three days,” you reply lightly. You poke his cheek with a finger. “Did you miss me?” 

“Always do, pretty girl.” Caleb readjusts his bag, and you tug on his arm. 

“Then let's go,” you say, and Caleb lets you lead the way. 

“I'm happy you came to pick me up, baby, but next time you can just have me come straight to your door, okay?” Caleb steps behind you, around you, moving himself to the part of the sidewalk closest to the street. His hands are on you when he does, gently, steering you on your arm, your lower back. 

“But this way I get to spend more time with you.” 

There's never enough of it. Time. You realised that, after Caleb died. Wished to turn it back, flip the hourglass, just another day, another minute, just one more second with Caleb. 

Somehow you got your wish. You intend to make the most of it. 

Caleb laughs and ruffles your hair. “Okay, smooth talker.” 

This part is easy.  

You're always ecstatic to see him, these first couple of hours. The joy is so fierce and intense you don't care about anything else; you're just happy Caleb is here, and that he's with you. You greedily drink in his affection, grab hold of anything he'll give to you, because you know that it's precious. Grains of sand in the hourglass. 

You chat while you walk. You do most of the talking, as usual; Caleb can never say more about his work than ‘fine’ or ‘okay’ or ‘busy’. You try to accept this, even when it hurts. Even when the anger burns; even when it makes you want to shake him until the secrets fall out of his pockets. 

“What do you wanna eat today? Should we stop by the store?” 

You shake your head. “Dinner's waiting for you.” 

Caleb is surprised; he smiles, bemused, and raises a brow. “Did you order in for us? Or did you make somethin’ and burn it again?” 

"No,” you jab at his ribs with your elbow. “I cooked for you. And that was just the one time, you meanie.” 

“For me?” Caleb is pleased. He pulls you close for a moment, arm swung around your shoulder, and kisses the top of your head. The warmth of it trickles all the way down to your toes. “Thank you, sweet girl. What'd I do to deserve that, huh?” 

“Don't say thank you yet. Maybe you won't like it.” 

“I like everything you do, baby.” 

If you could, you'd eat those words instead of dinner. Pluck them right from the air and let them dissolve on your tongue, then swallow. Hoping you taste Caleb's voice in your throat. 

Yeah, this part is easy.  

It's good—it's how things are meant to be. It's not without effort: you have to pretend that Caleb's eyes haven't changed, that his complexion hasn't become paler, more drawn. You have to pretend not to see that the edges of him have sharpened. This Caleb is harder. Quieter. His quick, easy smile has lost about ten percent of its previous shine. It is a loss you grieve very much, but— 

you're well acquainted with grief, now. 

For the first couple of hours, you're always very good about ignoring all of this. 

You walk Caleb all the way to your apartment, and line your shoes up next to his in the hallway. His sneakers are huge and well-loved, logo old and faded on the sides. He always buys a same pair of new ones, then wears them out until he can't use them anymore. 

You should spend more money on yourself, you tell him when he buys you flowers, heels, a watch, a nice coffee machine. Caleb never listens to you, just smiles. 

I just like spoilin’ my girl, that's all.  

You've begun to watch your words more closely when you talk about things you like. 

“You even set the table? What's goin’ on here?” Caleb narrows his eyes at you playfully when you enter your home. “It's not my birthday for a while yet, pips.” 

“Don't be silly.” You move to the stove and turn it on low so the pans already assembled there can start warming up. Caleb did this for you for years, day in, day out. Breakfasts and lunches and dinners, snacks from the corner store. He used his pocket money to get two of everything you liked. 

You ate it together on the pavement just outside your home. 

“Sir? Your seat is ready,” you say, and pull out his chair with a bow. Caleb sits down with a chuckle, and you serve him food. Things he likes, lots of it. Rice and fish and sour fermented things. Fried vegetables, crispy and still-warm. 

“You've finally gotten good at this, huh? No burned edges this time,” he teases. 

“Like you didn't snatch up the burnt ones before I could eat them.” You push more food on Caleb's plate. He's too thin, these days. It makes you wonder if he remembers to eat when he doesn't do it with you. 

Caleb insists on doing the dishes after, and this you allow, though you help him dry and put things away. 

“I got you dessert, too. Do you want it while we watch a movie?” 

Caleb looks at you, hands covered in bubbles. “Why're you bein’ so nice to me today, huh? Did you do something bad again?” 

You huff. “Fine. No dessert for you, then.” 

Caleb splashes you with soapy water in retaliation, and you dodge, laughing. You lean your head against his shoulder, just for a moment. It's nice. You're punishing yourself. 

“I just want you to have nice things.” 

Caleb shifts, pressing his weight into you until you move away again. “I already got you, pretty girl. I don't need anythin’ else.” 

You turn your back to him, hang up your towel to dry. You keep your voice level. “What about a girlfriend?” 

The faucet runs, then stops. “You know I'm not dating anyone. Not planning to, either.” 

“I'm not pretending to be your girlfriend at work again,” you warn him. It was awful. Nothing like back when Caleb went to DAA. His colleagues were nice, but you felt like you were burning alive with Caleb holding your hand, fingers interlaced, talking to some of the guys he worked with. Kissing you on the cheek when you left. 

It was so nice. It was the worst kind of punishment he could have given you. 

“Why not? You're so good at it.” 

Like anything was difficult with Caleb. You didn't even need to do anything; just stand there, next to him, looking at him like you were in love. It required no effort on your part. 

“I don't like lying,” you say simply. “What do you wanna watch tonight? You can pick.” 

Caleb looks at you with a serious expression. For a moment you think he'll continue about the girlfriend stuff, but then he shakes his head. “Actually, I wanted to take you somewhere tonight. You not too tired?” 

“Depends. Where are we going?” 

Your breath comes in white little puffs, clouds that trickle up to the night sky. It's very clear out tonight; the moon is at three-quarters, so it's not too dark, not even here at the outskirts of Linkon. 

Caleb hands you a blanket from his car, then zips up your jacket all the way to your chin. 

“’S cold out, baby.” 

You marvel at all the things he pulls out of the back. A thermos with hot chocolate, a heating pad, camping chairs that unfold with one shake. And that's not counting all the stuff he usually has in there: first aid kits, fixing tools, flashlights, rechargeable batteries. Gum and water and sanitary pads and towels. Your favourite chapstick, a sweater for when you get cold.  

Apocalypse Caleb, you called him when you first found out. He laughed. 

“What if I'd said I wanted to stay in? Look at all this,” you say. “You prepared so much.” 

Caleb shrugs a little. “Then we would've stayed in.” He tests the camping chair, pushing it securely into the ground. “Here you go, pips, go sit down.” 

You do as he says, tucking the blanket over your lap. Your nose is cold, but the rest of you is very warm. Caleb insisted you put on more clothes before you went. 

You let your head fall back to look up at the stars. They blink back at you; little dazzling lights, far far up ahead. So far out of reach. Just like Caleb. 

The first couple of weeks after he came back you felt like you were in a stupor. Dazed. You'd forgotten how to walk and talk and breathe the way you normally do. You didn't know how to look at your brother anymore, the person you loved most in the world. You felt like you were burning out of your skin being in the same room as him. You felt like you were dying when you weren't. 

“Earth to pipsqueak.” Caleb's finger pokes your cheek. “You got a deep thinkin’ look on your face. What's on your mind?” 

You shift, turning your face to him. He's sat down right next to you; the arm of his camping chairs right up against yours. Absentmindedly, you fiddle with the little net at the end that lets you put cups in there. 

“I was thinking about when I saw you again for the first time.” 

Caleb smiles a little, but it's not a very happy smile. “Not a fun day, huh.” 

“It was the best day.”  

You cried so much you couldn't open your eyes anymore. Blindly, you clung to Caleb, refusing to let go. When he had to leave you for a minute to sort out his Colonel duties you had a full-blown panic attack. 

He had to rush to your side to work you through it, warm hand rubbing your back, telling you listen to his breathing. Just focus on me, pips. On me, okay? I'm right here.  

This is the tricky part. 

You love Caleb very much. You're so, so happy he's here.  

You're so, so furious. 

Some days you think that this anger is the only thing that sustains you. 

“Are you still upset with me?” 

Your big brother never had to ask how you were feeling. He always already knew, even when you didn't want him to.  

There's lots of things you don't know about me now.  

You look back up at the sky. “What will you do if I say yes?” 

Caleb takes your hand, rubbing warm fingers over your cold ones. “I'd ask you to tell me how I can make it better.” 

I want you to turn back time. I want you to let me go inside first. I want to die in your place. I want you to bury me.  

“You already make everything better.” 

Caleb makes a small noise, like he's in pain. You squeeze his fingers, and he squeezes back. 

“I wish...” he trails off, then sighs. “I wish you were angrier with me.” 

You laugh a little. Wisps curl up from your mouth; cold air is sucked back inside. It tastes clean on your tongue. “If I was any angrier I'd explode.” 

“So you are angry with me.” Caleb's voice is very soft. “Why haven't you shown me? You can yell at me if you want. Or hit me. I don't mind.” 

“No.” You look at him again. His eyes are dark. Everything is, out here, in the middle of the night. The only light comes from the stars. “That's your punishment. You have to stay with me for the rest of your life, and you only get to have nice things. I'll never hit you. I'll never curse at you. You'll let me take care of you whenever I want, and you'll never get to see me angry again.” 

The only thing that could hurt him more is removing yourself from him, and you can't do that. This will have to do. You want him to suffer. You want him to be punished, every day, for dying, for leaving, for not seeking you out again. 

You’re a bad person. Maybe it's yourself you're so angry with, all the time. 

Caleb lets out a deep breath beside you. “I'm sorry, baby. I'm really sorry.” 

You don't care. You'd love him even if he weren't. 

Caleb takes your hand, presses a kiss to your palm. “If that's what you want, I'll do it.” 

“There's one more thing,” you say. Your curl your fingers over his cheek, stroke along his jaw. “I'm not pretending to be your girlfriend anymore. You can tell your colleagues we broke up.” 

Caleb's breath hitches. “Because you don't like lying?” 

It hurts, when Caleb lies to you. It hurts because you love him so much, even with all his lies. 

“Yes. Also, what if you meet someone you want to date? Or maybe I'll go on one.” 

You've never even been kissed. There was always Caleb, always only him, and then there was school, and somehow no one ever even seemed to be interested in you anyway. Then Hunter exams, work, death. Only recently have you begun to consider that while you may forever be cursed to want what you can't have the most, maybe you should give the experience a try with someone else.  

Even if it's just to see what it's like. Even if it's just so you can fantasize about Caleb's hands touching you better. 

Caleb is still next to you. He does that sometimes, where his whole body stops. But underneath everything is moving, buzzing, like there's an animal in a cage wanting to get free. A plane stuck in forever takeoff. 

“I'm not going to date anyone. Who are you going on dates with?” He asks quietly. 

You shrug a little. You kick your feet, scuffing dirt on your toes. “No one yet.” 

“Is there somewhere you wanna go?” Caleb presses. “Or something you want to do? I'll do it with you. I'll take you anywhere you want.” 

The anger fills you. You're so happy he's here, your Caleb. He wants so badly to never hurt you, but his presence is one big hurt. It's a kind of pain you crave, can never have enough of. But it crushes you. Every day again. 

You look up and see a star blink at you and then disappear. There's another, but this time it blinks red. A plane flying overnight. 

“I've never kissed anyone,” you say, still looking up. “Tara was shocked when I told her. If I can't find someone on my own she said she'd help me.” 

“Baby.” Caled sounds desperate. He's holding your hand very tightly, so you look at him. “You don't ever have to kiss anyone if you don't want to. Or—” Caleb exhales. He looks tense, like he's upset but doesn't want to show it. “Or you can do it with me.” 

You frown. If he's going to sound so reluctant saying it he shouldn't say it at all. 

“But I do want to,” you mumble. “And I wanna do it with someone who wants it too. I don't want it to be pretend.” 

“Then it can just be practice. How's that sound, pip? You can practice with me as much as you want. See if you like it, and if you don't, then it doesn't count.” 

You're conflicted. 

On the one hand, you want to take everything Caleb gives you. And this is one of the things you want most, have been wanting most, since you were about fifteen and started to understand that the way you felt about your brother wasn't like how most people felt about their siblings. 

I'm not your brother, Caleb's voice says in your head. I'm tired of playing house.  

It's an offer that's too good to refuse. But— 

You're very angry with him. And you worry that if he gives you this you'll let some of it slip through; after everything you just said to him about punishment it'd be an embarrassment to your integrity if you just gave it up.  

Unlike Caleb, you're not a liar. Some things that are true you just keep to yourself. 

“What do you think?” 

Caleb is smiling his warm big brother smile. You relax instantly; at this point, it's Pavlovian. You see Caleb, and you know you're safe. Nothing will happen to you as long as you're with him. 

Caleb senses that you're about to give in, because he adds, “We can even do it now, if you want to. You want to, baby? Come sit on my lap, and I'll kiss you.” 

You throw off your blanket. Stand up. Take one step, and sink down on his lap. Caleb's arms wrap around you immediately, holding you tight against him. His hands squeeze you through your jacket. Very faintly, you feel his heartbeat. It's fast. 

“I don't want you to force yourself,” you say. But you're already here. If he makes you leave now, you’ll cry yourself to sleep tonight. 

“I never force myself with you, pretty girl.” Caleb's calloused fingers stroke your cheek. He pulls on your chin so you face him properly. 

Very, very gently, his lips press against yours. They're soft—even softer than you thought they'd be, and you've spent a lot of time thinking about Caleb's lips. Your pulse is rabbit-quick, heart threatening to grow wings and fly out of your chest. 

You breathe against Caleb. The cold air prickles in your nose, but Caleb is very warm. He always has been. Your sun. Your summer in a bottle. He moves his lips against yours, and you copy him. Curious, you poke the tip of your tongue against his lower lip.  

Caleb groans. He opens his mouth, then, and presses you against him tighter. He slides his own tongue against yours, and you taste hot cocoa. The pudding you got him for dessert. Your head feels light, fuzzy, like you're way up in the clouds next to all those stars. Your heart thunders in your ears. 

When you pull away you realise you're panting; Caleb is, too. He's hard underneath you. 

Suddenly you're overcome with what you've just done. Whose dick is hard under your legs just from kissing you. You duck your head into Caleb's shoulder so he can't see your face and he lets you, running his big hands soothingly over your back. 

“How was that, pips?” he asks. His voice is hoarse. “Did you like practicin’ with me?” 

“I don't know,” you say muffled into his neck. 

“You feelin’ a little shy? Want me to take you home?” 

“I don't know.” 

Caleb laughs a little, then sighs. It's a happy sigh. He squeezes you against him tightly, then stands up holding you in his arms. “My little girl is so cute I could eat her up,” he says fondly. “C'mon. Let's go back.” 

You don't protest. You feel like you're burning up again. Caleb tucks you into your seat, clicks on your seatbelt, and loads all the stuff he brought back into the back. The car engine rumbles to life under your feet, and then you're gliding back into the city.  

Caleb's hand is on your leg while he drives. Just below the knee, fingers squeezing down occasionally. You wish he'd move it lower. You wish he'd stop the car and kiss you again. You wish he'd fuck you on the backseat. 

The radio is on low, and Caleb hums along to the song. You don't feel angry so much anymore now; you're flushed, flustered, quiet. 

You touch your hand to your lips and watch the world outside the window slip away in the dark. 

“Up you go now.” 

“Hmm?” you ask sleepily. “Caleb?” 

“Yes, baby. I'm right here.” 

There's the sound of a car door closing, and air rushes past you. You're floating, no, flying—it's Caleb, carrying you. Your body moves with the sway of his feet, boots going thump thump thump along the hallway to your apartment door. You rub at your eyes. 

“I'm sorry I fell asleep.” 

He looks down at you and smiles. “Don't be. You were feelin’ all tired, weren't you? Now you can go back to sleep in your bed.” 

You don't want to go back to sleep. If you have to be in bed you want Caleb there with you, kissing you more. Even if it means you won't be able to look him in the eye tomorrow. 

“I'm not sleepy anymore now.” You press your finger against the lock, and the door clicks open. Caleb steps inside, toes off his boots, then continues into the living room to set you down on the couch. He kneels to take off your shoes. 

“I can do it,” you say, nudging at his hands. “Caleb—” 

“I know. But let me do it for you.” 

You sink back into the cushions and watch him for a moment. “I've decided,” you tell him. 

Caleb looks up at you. He's finished with your shoes. His hand is wrapped around your ankle, and strokes up, along your calf, over your knee. “Decided on what?” 

“I want to practice more.” Your cheeks burn when you say it. It's dark inside, just low light from a table lamp behind you, but you can see Caleb much better compared to when you were out stargazing. 

It means he can see you much better, too. 

Caleb's hand squeezes your leg, moves a little higher. His eyes look bright. Eager. Angry. “Yeah? You sure you're not too tired?”  

You nod, and zip off your jacket. You're suddenly very warm—the extra layers Caleb insisted you wear for your little trip stick to your skin, sweaty and too-tight. Caleb, still kneeling, helps you with your jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the couch. When you get stuck in your sweater he helps you with that, too. 

He chuckles when you grab his zipper and bend closer to pull off his jacket all the way. He's wearing a fleece sweater underneath, and that has to go, too. You pull on it impatiently, and once it's off, tug on Caleb's shoulders. Come closer, your hands say. I want you closer.  

You're angry again. 

You think Caleb might be, too, because he doesn't kiss you so gently this time. He's wound tight, a wire ready to spring, and licks into your open mouth like he'll die if he doesn't. The kiss is harder, messier, spit and teeth, Caleb half-crawling, half-crouching over you and pressing you into the cushions. His knee is in between your thighs, dangerously close to your wet hot core, the part of you that's burning brightest. Burning for him. For his touch. 

Your hands roam over his chest, dig into his hair, pull on his necklace. The metal is warm from his skin, and the chain digs its teeth into your fingers. Caleb moans when you pull on it, pull him closer to you. 

Caleb's hands are in your hair, too, cradling your skull, moving you below his hungry mouth. You make sounds, too, little hitching breaths, whines that he swallows whole. Your body is hot. You want him so, so badly. 

You've always wanted him. Always chased him. Curled up at his side, hanging off his arms, perched on his shoulders. 

Look, Caleb, I'm flying!  

He'd make you fly for real one day, Caleb promised. Once he's a pilot, he can take you anywhere. See anything. Even way beyond the clouds. 

You start to cry. 

Caleb jerks back as if shocked, big hands coming to rest on your cheeks. His eyes flit over your face, brows pinched. “Oh, pips, baby, what's wrong? What's wrong?” He hugs you close and rocks you, just like he did when you were little. “Did I hurt you? I'm sorry.” 

You hurt me all the time. You hiccup against his shoulder, tremble when he pets your hair. Try to breathe, chest heaving, blood rushing fast. 

“Hey, talk to me. What's got you so upset, huh?” 

You're so angry. You're so angry you can't talk for a moment, mouth nothing-words against Caleb's shirt. “Can't—” you hiccup again. “Can't tell you.” 

“Gonna make me guess? I'm reaaal good at it.” Caleb shifts to sit on the couch, lifting you on his lap. You bury your head in his shoulder, and he tucks your hair behind your ear before stroking it again. 

“Guess number one: you didn't like the kissing.” 

You shake your head. You liked the kissing very much. 

“Hmm... Guess number two: you're mad at me. Am I right?” 

Yes. No. Kind of. Not really. You're upset Caleb can't give you what you want. You're angry at yourself for kissing him anyway. You knew this would happen, so why why why did you do it?  

Because you love him so much. Because you've never wanted anyone but him. You want so badly for this to be real, and it can't be. You're the worst kind of person, greedy and cruel, because even after you got what you wanted more than anything else in the world—Caleb, alive, different, changed, but not dead, not in the ground, not blown to pieces—you still want more. 

Caleb takes your silence as a yes, and he kisses your head. “See? I told you I'm real good. Now how can I fix it, baby? Why are you upset at me?” 

“What if—” your voice comes out scratchy. You sniffle, start again. “What if I wanted to do other things? Not just kissing. Would you practice with me then too?” 

Caleb is silent for a moment before answering. “I told you, pips. Whatever you wanna do, I'll do it with you.” 

You push up suddenly, twisting so you can look at him. Your nails dig into his chest; your vision is blurry with tears. “I hate it when you do this. When you act like this. I'm so angry at you, all the time. You lie to me, you hurt me, and it doesn't even—doesn't even matter, because I—” the tears fall again, heavy and wet, “because I love you so much. I just let you. I just hurt.” 

A sob wracks your body, and you fall back against Caleb, shaking. His arms come around you and squeeze you so tight it's painful. 

“Oh, pip.” Caleb almost sounds like he's crying, too. “Baby. I don't want you to hurt. I don't want anything to hurt you, even me. Least of all me.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “Can you tell me what it is I'm doing that's making you so angry? You sure it's not ‘cause we kissed?” 

You shake your head. 

“Then why? What am I actin’ like, pretty girl? Tell me and I'll fix it.” 

“Like—like it doesn't matter. Like you'd do whatever, and none of it really matters. Like I'm just using you.” 

Caleb noses against your forehead. “Everything I do with you matters, baby. And I like it when you use for me stuff you want.” 

“I don't want it like that,” you say quietly. “If you don't feel the same way I do, I don't want it.” 

That's a half-lie. You want it. You take it all, Caleb's touches, the kisses he drops on your head, the hand he holds yours with in a crowd, the groceries he buys for you, the time he makes for you, his calls, his texts, his warmth, everything. 

But all of those things fall under safe territory. Things that can be explained away into the familiarity of the act, because Caleb's always taken care of you. Kissing and dating and sex is something else, something that you can't bear to lie to yourself about. To have Caleb lie to you about. 

Caleb is very quiet. He's hard under you again, something neither of you acknowledge.  

“Then how do you feel, pips?” he asks finally. You draw up your knees and curl your hands in your lap. 

You knew this question was coming. This is what you were afraid of, letting him so close, letting him touch your want, your anger, your fucked-up desire. Some of it spilled out. He asks questions you can never answer, except now you did. 

“I can't tell you.” 

“Do you want me to guess again?” You hear the smile in Caleb's voice. He likes playing with you. He likes when you make him work for it, whatever it is.  

“It's a secret. You can't guess it.” 

“Then do you wanna trade?” Caleb says softly in your ear. “I'll give you my secret, and you give me yours.” 

Caleb has so many secrets now. So many things he hasn't told you, so many things you don't even know to ask about. You promised each other you'd never keep anything from each other, years ago. But Caleb broke that promise, and now there's a whole wall of things left unsaid dividing you. 

Of course you want to know. 

“Then you go first. And it has to be a good secret. I won't tell you if you try to trick me.” 

Caleb hums and leans back against the couch, gently wiping at your cheeks. “My secret's that I really liked kissin’ you, pip. I was so happy you let me, ‘cause I've been thinking about doing that for a long time.” 

Caleb's thumb is still stroking over your cheek, even though you're pretty sure there's no more tears left to clean up. As expected, his secret isn't as heavy as yours, but the words pierce through you regardless. 

He's thought about it for a long time. What's a long time? A month? A week? A lonely year in deepspace? 

“I liked it too,” you say in a small voice. 

Caleb's eyes crinkle into little crescent moons. He's smiling wide. “I'm so happy to hear that, baby. I want you to feel good. I want to make you feel good.” 

Then make me feel good, is on the tip of your tongue. You can't say it. You need to think about how to respond, how to match Caleb's secret with your own in a way that won't repulse him forever. 

“Is there anything else you've thought about for a long time?” 

Caleb gazes at you with dark eyes. They're beautiful, framed by long dark lashes that kiss his cheek when they flutter closed. He's not closing them now, though; he's looking at you with a strange, serious expression. 

“Yeah.” 

When he doesn't elaborate, you push him. “Like what?” 

You earn a tap on your nose for that. “Now who's trying to trick who, huh? It's your turn.” 

You press your hands against Caleb's chest and look down at them while you speak. The words come slowly. Carefully. 

“I guess that... my secret is the same as yours. I've thought about it for a long time, too.” 

Caleb's heartbeat flutters under your palms. He echoes your question back at you: “And other things?” 

You're burning again, a hot little flame that starts low in your stomach and blazes through your neck, your cheeks, your ears. Red all over. 

You keep your eyes away from Caleb's, afraid of what he might say, and don't answer. 

“You asked me, right? If I'd do other things too?” Caleb's voice is very close. His breath is warm on your cheek. “What other things, pip? What have you been thinking about doing with me?” 

Your heart trips over itself. He's going to find out. He's going to know. He'll know and he'll be disgusted by you, he'll pull away from you, he'll finally be alive again and you still managed to ruin it all—  

Caleb presses his lips to your jaw, once, then twice, then nudges you with his nose, his hands, to kiss you on the lips. “You can tell me,” he murmurs. “It's just me, pips. Only me here.” 

He kisses you again, coaxing you out of your little shell. And you come crawling, because it's his voice that's calling your name. Caleb's hands slide over your arms, your waist, stop to squeeze at your hips. He lifts you, briefly, so he can grab your leg to straddle him. 

You're so wet you're afraid he'll feel it, afraid he'll feel a wet little spot just like you're feeling his cock strain against his pants under you. When you break the kiss a thread of saliva keeps you connected. Without noticing one of your hands has wound itself in Caleb's hair, and you slide it lower to cup his cheek. His skin is warm and tanned. The freckles that grow darker in summer dance under your fingertips, and you map them with your eyes, putting together constellations on his cheeks. You always wished you'd get freckles, too, but unlike Caleb you just burned. 

Even now, whenever you smell sunscreen you think Caleb. If you close your eyes you can feel his hands rubbing it on your cheeks, your arms, every part of you. Like a shield, like armour. 

But even with all those layers— 

“Still don't wanna tell me?” Caleb asks. His voice is rough and low, husked at the edges. You're this close to kicking him out so you can finger yourself while you still taste him on your lips, trying to fill the aching emptiness everything he does ignites in you. 

—you're always burning. 

“Tell me what you want. I'll give it you.” 

“I want—” 

You're just a person. Human. Weak with wants and needs. Everything has a limit, even you. Even your desires. 

“I want you to touch me,” you whisper. 

Caleb makes a low sound in the back of his throat. His dick twitches in his pants, and when you dare to look at his eyes you see they're blown so wide there's barely anything left of his usual violet. 

“Where, baby? Where do you want me?” 

You shake your head, whine. Caleb chuckles breathlessly. 

“You're not makin’ it easy for me, princess. Is it here?” He moves his hand from your hip to your thigh, squeezing. “Or here?” His other hand travels up, all the way to the back of your neck. 

“I can't. You'll hate it,” you manage to force out. “It'll ruin everything. And then you'll leave, and I can't—I can't lose you again—” 

You thought you were done with crying, but tears threaten to spill again. Caleb shushes you. “I'm not goin’ anywhere. I'll never you leave, pip, I promise. No matter what you say to me. No matter how angry you are, or how much you cry. I'm always here.” 

Can you believe him? Can you trust him?  

And if not Caleb, who's left? 

“I want to touch you,” he whispers. “All over. You just tell me where. I want it.” 

You close your eyes. You take the hand on your thigh, and bring over, up, right over where your jeans zip closed. You're catching fire. 

“Right here, huh?” Caleb says. There's a tremble in his voice. “Do you wanna take off your pants when I do?” 

Eyes still closed, you nod once.  

Immediately, Caleb's moving, hoisting you up with both his Evol and his own strength. Your eyes fly open in surprise, and you see he's taking you to your bedroom. For all his hurry you're laid on the bed oh so gently, and then his fingers are working open button—zipper—shimmy down— 

And a thumb hooks around your underwear. Caleb's breathing fast, eyes glued on the wet spot right in the centre of it. He strokes his thumb over it, and your hips jerk in surprise and arousal. 

“Can I—” Caleb groans and presses his forehead against your naked thigh for a moment. When he looks up at you again your breath catches over the raw need on his face. “Can I touch with just my hands? Or can I use my mouth?” 

The heat is making you short-circuit. “But—I—wait, I haven't showered,” you stutter. 

Caleb presses his nose against your core, inhaling deeply. His fingers dig into your legs so hard it'll bruise, and he moans. You think you might pass out before he actually does anything. 

“Can I?” he asks again, though this time it sounds more like he's begging. He's already pulling your underwear off, and you're too distracted to notice he stuffs it in his back pocket instead of throwing it on the floor. 

“I—okay,” you whisper, because Caleb so very rarely asks for anything. Because you want to give him everything. Because you're so unbelievably wet that you'll die if he doesn't touch you right now, hands, tongue, whatever he wants. 

As soon as you give him the okay he leans in. You gasp when he licks up a broad stripe over your cunt, pressing his tongue flat against it, groaning like it's him who's feeling good. 

“Caleb—” You whimper when he does it again, and then again, and then he's eating you like he's been starving for days. He fucks you with his tongue, he sucks on your clit, and when he adds his fingers—long fingers, big and strong, big enough to curl against your weakest spot—your head falls back on the bed with a whine. The more sounds you make, the more eagerly he laps at you, kisses you, bites at the soft flesh of your thighs. 

Dazedly, you wonder if this is meant to feel this good. You can't stop clenching down on him, trying to suck him deeper inside. You're going to come, and you're going to come fast, and is this even real or a dream inside your head? 

“Shi—it,” Caleb groans. “You're so pretty, baby. So fuckin’ pretty. Knew you would be, too. Fuck.” 

“Caleb,” you pant. “Caleb, I'll—” 

He moans in response, tongue working you again, the sound of his fingers moving inside you wet and obscene. The pleasure builds, crests, then rushes over you like a wave. Your whole body tenses, one big strain, caught up in the current. Broken moans leave you on the comedown, body shuddering like a leaf caught in the wind. 

You twitch away from Caleb, who hasn't stopped lapping at you, and then melt, boneless, into the sheets. While you catch your breath you see Caleb rise, licking his lips. He sucks his fingers—his fingers, the ones that were just inside of you—clean with a lidded gaze.  

Even now, after just having come on his tongue, you feel a warm twinge in your lower stomach. 

“Was that nice, pretty girl? Did it feel good?” 

You nod. It was more than nice. Caleb just ruined your vibrator for you, and you fear you’re going to have to spend a pretty penny to get anything that'll come close to the way he just made you feel. 

When you push yourself up on your elbows it occurs to you that Caleb's still fully dressed, and you're still wearing your shirt. You haven't even taken off your socks. The red dotted pattern winks at you from the edge of the mattress. 

You suddenly feel shy. What are you supposed to say now? Will Caleb go home, leave like this was business as usual? Your dimly lit bedroom is cosy and warm, but you doubt you'll be able to fall asleep tonight. Not after this. 

Fortunately Caleb saves you from having to say anything. Smiling, he crawls up the bed, hovering over you to kiss you again. You taste traces of yourself on his lips; you realise this is the very first time that you do. It's weird. A little bitter, a little musky, but— 

It's not bad. Not if Caleb's the one making you taste it. 

When he gathers you in his arms, maneuvering you side by side, your face tucked under his chin, you hug him back. If you cling to him tightly enough maybe he won't leave. 

“Was that what you wanted, baby?” Caleb murmurs into the crown of your head. 

“How are you so good at that?” you whisper back.

Caleb laughs and squeezes you closer. His cock is rock-hard and poking you insistently in your stomach, even through his pants. “Am I? I'm glad you think so. It's my first time givin’ it a spin.” 

Huh? 

Shock overtakes embarrassment, and you pull back to look at him. 

Huh? 

“What?” 

Caleb cocks an eyebrow. “What ‘what’?” 

“Have you ever had sex?” you blurt out. 

The corners of Caleb's mouth twitch upwards. “Nope.” 

“But why?” The endless love letters, the confessions, the whispers, the stares. Everyone loves Caleb, no matter where he goes, and you've come to accept it simply as fact a long time ago. You understand, because you love him too. Even if the jealousy makes your stomach feel sick with it sometimes. 

“’Cause I never wanted anyone else. I told you, didn't I? I want to touch you. You just tell me where.” 

Anyone else? 

Anyone else?  

You sit and gape at him. Caleb chuckles and kisses the hand that's curled against his chest. “I can see the steam comin’ out your ears, baby.” He sighs, and the smile fades on his lips. He looks back at you with his serious eyes again. “Well, what about you? Have you?” 

“No,” you say meekly. “There was—no.” 

Caleb relaxes, and his smile returns. “Good.” 

“Caleb.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you...” you hesitate. Pause. Rethink what you want to say. “You didn't mind? Touching me?” It doesn't gross you out? Disgust you? Make you hate me, make you leave, make you not want to be around me anymore?  

Caleb kisses your hand again. “I loved it, baby. Even more than I thought I would. I'd do it every day if you let me.” 

Every day—  

You shake your head. Focus. “If I tell you another secret, will you tell me another one of yours again?” 

“There's more secrets?” Caleb frowns a little, but he brushes over your cheek gently. “Yeah, pips. I'll tell you if you tell me.” 

He hasn't run screaming yet. He said he wanted to touch you, that he's wanted to kiss you. You don't dare to look too closely at what it might mean. What lies at the end of devotion? Does it have an end, with Caleb? 

I've been thinking about doing that for a long time.  

“I wanted you to touch me,” you say carefully. “But I also want to—to touch you. Not for practice. Just because it's you.” You peek at Caleb through your lashes. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes glitter like stars. 

“Where, beautiful? Where do you wanna touch me?” 

Your voice is very quiet when you answer. “Anywhere that makes you feel good.” 

Caleb's eyes flutter closed for a second. When he opens them again he looks serious, but it's not serious angry Caleb. It's serious thinking Caleb, one who's arriving at the end of a very long equation. 

“For a long time?” 

You duck your head. “Maybe. Now give me your secret.” 

Caleb sits up abruptly and pushes into your space. You fall back in surprise, back hitting the mattress, as he leans over you. His pretty purple eyes are dark again, intense, storm-in-a-bottle. Clouds gathering for rain. 

“I want you to touch me. I've wanted you to touch me since forever. I want to fill you in every way I can, with my hands, my mouth, and my cock, and I want you to look at only me.” 

Your mouth drops open, air coming shallow and fast. 

“It's never been pretend for me. I don't want anyone else touching you, ever. Only me.” 

You swallow. “But—what—what if it doesn't work out? Things will be different. And I don't want to lose—to lose you.” Not again; never again. 

Caleb lowers his head to press a kiss against your pulse, just below your jaw. "You'll never lose me, pip. I promise.” When you stay quiet he lifts his head to look you in the eye. It's a little frightening, the intensity of his gaze. The weight of his want. “I promise. Is that the only thing you're worried about? Losin’ me? Think I won't like you anymore after I've been inside you?” 

You're worried about a million things. About not measuring up, about falling out, about being so angry with him and loving him so, so much at the same time. About drifting apart, again. 

Caleb takes your hand and guides it to his groin, presses it against his cock. He lets out a little hiss. “Feel that, beautiful? Feel how much I want you? It's always been like that. When we were livin’ together—I jerked off three times a day, I wanted you so bad. I felt like I was going crazy. I—” Caleb exhales, drops his head on your shoulder. “I stole your used panties. I sniffed your gym clothes. I was so fuckin’ desperate.” 

Caleb's words send a zap of lightning between your legs. Your whole body is aflame and breaking out in a sweat; it's a little hard to focus on anything but Caleb's dick twitching against your fingers, his hot breath on your skin, and I stole your used panties. I wanted you so bad. Feel how much I want you?  

It's always been like that.  

You tug at his shirt. “Take off your clothes,” you demand. 

A tentative smile breaks through on Caleb's face. Without a word he obeys, sitting back up on his haunches and peeling off his longsleeves. There's a compression tank under it, and this too is dropped on the side of the bed. 

But you're impatient, now, and your fingers reach his belt before he can. You tug the leather free, fumble with the belt loops, then go for his zipper. Caleb's hips rock against you, once, like he can't help it, and he watches your hands with a shaky sigh. 

He helps you tug his jeans down, and then his underwear, and then, and then— 

Your mouth feels dry when his cock slaps against his stomach, finally freed. It looks red, angry, leaking with precum. You want to touch it, so you do, pushing yourself upright while Caleb kneels before you: one careful, curious finger stroking alongside the shaft. 

Caleb shudders. 

“How can I make you feel good?” you ask earnestly. “Show me.” 

Silently, Caleb takes your hand and wraps it around his cock. Your fingertips just barely manage to touch, not-quite closing around him. He places his much bigger hand over yours and shows you, squeezing at the base, twisting upwards, gently at the tip and down again. He's panting; the flush on his cheeks has spread all the way down to his neck, over his chest, his lovely freckled skin. Scarred and bruised. So perfectly his. 

When you grow bolder and start moving your hand on your own, upping the pace, Caleb lets out a strangled moan, throwing his head back as his hips jerk forward helplessly. “Oh, fuck,” he groans. “Pip, baby, angel, that feels so good. Feel so good around me. I'm gonna—ah, gonna cum soon if you keep going.” 

“Do you want to?” you ask. You look up at him, your big brother, your protector, your heart. Your pain and the cure. 

Caleb laughs, breathless and eager. “I wanna cum anywhere you let me.” 

That's not good enough. You slow your hand and stop while holding him at the base. Caleb squeezes his eyes shut, brow scrunching up. 

“But I want to know what you want,” you say. A little petulant, a little bossy, because Caleb's always spoiled you, indulged you, and you told him, didn't you? This was punishment. He'll let you take care of him whenever you wanted. He's only allowed to have nice things. To feel good. To get everything he wants. 

Caleb's eyes open again. “Inside you,” he rasps. “Inside your pussy.” 

Another wave of heat makes you let go of him, scooting back on the bed. Caleb watches, entranced, as you lie back and hold out your hands to him. 

“Okay,” you say simply. 

There's a moment where Caleb looks like he's frozen in time; disbelieving, desperate, helpless. 

Then he moves. 

He crawls over you and kisses you again. He's trembling a little, and you think you are too. You jolt when you feel his fingers against your clit again, still sensitive, raw, everything so new. 

He dips them inside, nose pressed against your neck and inhaling deeply, stroking once, two, three times, curling them until your nails dig into his shoulders. When he removes them he spits in his palm; then holds it out to you, under your chin. 

“Spit,” he commands. 

You spit. 

He slicks himself up with your combined saliva, your arousal, his sweat, and then his tip is pushing against you, into you—  

“Fffuck,” Caleb groans. “Relax, pip. Relax for me. Shit, you're perfect. So tight.” 

You're trying to do as he says, but your whole body has turned into one big nerve, and at the root is the little place that Caleb's entering now, deeper and deeper, hot wet thick warm tight. 

His jaw is clenched, and even in the low light you see the sweat shining on his brow. He's so careful with you, pushing himself further in so very slowly. Pausing when you gasp or tighten around him reflexively.  

Once he bottoms out, pelvis flush with yours, he exhales. 

“Caleb,” you croak. You're so full.  

A bead of sweat drips down his nose, and your Caleb smiles. “Yeah, baby. You're doin’ so good. Feel how far in I am?” 

You can feel him in your throat. Your lungs. Your heart, completely.  

“I love you,” you tell him, voice patchy, and watch his eyes glisten. His lips press on yours, hard, full of relief.  

You tell Caleb you love him every time you say goodbye. It's a little bit of a compulsion. You have to say it, need to say it, because what if? What if you don't get the chance to again? What if this loop of time is broken, again? 

But it's different, now. 

“I love you, too, pretty girl. Always have.” Caleb rolls his hips into yours, and you gasp. He does it again, a little harder and a little faster, and keeps doing it until you're whimpering under him, your legs locked around his hips and your arms scrabbling for purchase on the wide, muscular planes of his back. 

He cradles your skull and tucks it against his neck, large fingers splaying wide over your head. His shoulders are broad, overtaking everything you see. Everything you feel. 

Caleb's other hand shoves itself between your two bodies to rub your clit, and when Caleb shifts, angles his hips, and fucks you—  

Stars explode behind your eyes. A loud moan swings loose from your chest, unable to stay inside, because it feels so, so good, and then Caleb keeps hitting that spot, keeps making more noises spill from your lips, just like they do from his, until the core of you is wound tight again. 

Caleb kisses you messily, panting in your mouth and groaning low whenever you squeeze down on him. 

“Come on my cock,” he rasps. “Come on my cock, pip, let me feel you, just like that, c’mon—” 

You're helpless before his command. You do as he says while clinging to him tight, shaking, and a few tears slip out from the sheer intensity. Caleb leans down and licks them up, tongue hot and wet on your skin.  

He works you through the wave, just barely, before he loses his rhythm. He hits you deeper, now, harder, clenching his teeth, pressing biting kisses on your neck. The only thing you can do is hold onto him. 

“Gonna—gonna come, angel, gonna come inside you, fuck, I'm gonna fill you up. Take it, you're gonna— take it—” 

Caleb's hips jerk one, two more times, and then he spills inside of you with a heady groan. It shocks you, the heat of it, and you moan with him on his comedown. Caleb rocks inside you a few more times, trying to fuck his cum into you deeper, and then— 

He melts. Right on top of you, heavy as can be, and the air is pressed out of your lungs with a soft oof.  

Before you can complain, though, he turns, rolling you onto your side. You do your best not to knee him in the stomach while you reposition your legs, because Caleb won't let go of you even a little. 

He buries his face in your neck, hair tickling your cheek, and you stroke your fingers through his short dark strands. “What do you think?” you tease him. “Do I need practice after all?” 

Caleb squeezes your sides; you can feel him smiling against you. “Depends. Am I the one you're practicin’ with?” 

You laugh. Caleb's cock is still inside you, and you feel it twitch at the sound. “Nope. I told you, I only want it for real.” 

Caleb loosens his grip on you just enough to look you in the eyes. His hair is messy, and his cheeks are still flushed. Sweat clings to his temples. He looks so beautiful it's like he's not from this world. 

“Then we'll do it for real. As long as it's me, pips. Will you promise me?” 

Caleb's holding his pinky, and you take it in yours. “And if I want other things? Not just—kissing or touching?” 

The tips of your ears are warm again. 

“Then we'll do those too.” 

You lower your eyes, focusing on a freckle near his lovely mouth. You have to say it now. After this you can't go back to the way things were. 

“Like dating. For real. Not... not just so you can turn down confessions.” 

“Oh, pip.” Caleb pulls you close again, a tight, warm hug, and your eyes flutter closed at the proximity. Silly, the way you’re still connected but him embracing you makes you feel warm and safe all over again. “I'd turn those down either way, you know. Even if you didn't wanna help me.” 

You give his chest a weak slap. “Answer the question.” 

“Yes ma’am.” Caleb does his funny soldier voice, and suddenly you just can't take him seriously anymore. Dummy. Dork. Crazy. Still inside you, still hard, and he gives you a salute when you ask him very seriously if he wants to be your boyfriend. 

You throw your head back in exasperation. You're trying very hard not to laugh. “I'm serious!”  

Caleb chuckles softly and gently pulls you back so he can kiss you. “Good. Me too.” 

“No, you're not,” you accuse him. “Stop goofing around and answer me. Or I'll think everything you said was a lie.” 

Caleb's gaze softens. “I meant it, pip. I'm very serious about you. About us. If you want me to date you, be your boyfriend, anything, you already have me. I wouldn't lie to you about that.”  

You purse your lips, considering. “I guess if you're my boyfriend I could make sure you're fulfilling your punishment.” When Caleb cocks an eyebrow, you huff. “Did you forget already? I said you have to stay with me for the rest of your life. You only get to have nice things, and you'll let me take care of you.” 

“...And you wouldn't get angry at me. I remember,” Caleb says softly. He brushes his lips over your cheek. “I'll take anything you wanna give me. Even if I wish that you'd be angry at me.” 

That wall of secrets separates you again. You've lost so much time grieving. 

Caleb, too. You see the pain in his eyes, the change in his face. He's still yours. He's always been yours, and nothing can take that away from you. 

But you and him, you've been through a lot. Scared to show each other the scars—afraid of what the aftermath might change. 

“Then stop hiding yourself from me,” you say. “Maybe I'll be angry at you, then.” 

“Have you... do you wish I was still the old Caleb?” 

Caleb's voice is unsure, vulnerable in a way that you've heard very few times in your life. It's anxious Caleb. And just now you had silly Caleb, and there's angry Caleb, and serious Caleb, all these different sides of him, gleaming in the light like facets of a pretty stone. 

All different, all the same. 

You smile. You rest your head on Caleb's chest, feel his strong heart pump the blood around in his body. You're sweaty, messy, and the sheets need changing. Tears and drool and cum. Blood and spit and hurt. Love and pain. Anger, so much of it, and someday it will need a name. A place to sit and live. 

For now, though— 

(For always, though—) 

-“If those numbers aren’t on my desk by tomorrow morning, I swear to God—” Then the line had gone dead. So now you were here. Alone. Again.

You pushed into your office with a sigh, dropping your bag beside the desk before bending to search through the disaster of paperwork scattered across the surface.

The storm outside rattled faintly through the windows.

Your phone buzzed. Maya. You answered immediately, relieved for the distraction.

“Hey.”

“You’re still there?” your friend asked. “It’s ten at night.”

“I forgot the reports.” “Again? Jesus. That place is killing you.” You laughed weakly, rubbing at your eyes. “Tell me about it.” You could hear traffic on her end, muffled music in the background.

Normal life.

Outside life. For a second, you envied her so badly it hurt.

“You still coming tomorrow?” she asked. “Brunch. Eleven. Don’t cancel this time.”

“I won’t.”

“You said that last week.”

“That was different.”

“You always say that.” You opened your mouth to answer—

—and froze.

There was someone standing outside your office.

Tall. Broad shoulders, still as a statue behind the glass wall. Your stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.

The hallway lights reflected faintly off the blue of his suit.

Homelander. You stopped breathing.

Maya was still talking through the phone. “…and if your boss says anything, tell her to go fu—” You hung up instantly.

His eyes followed the movement. Even through the glass, you could feel it. That unbearable pressure of his attention.

Then he smiled. Slowly. And pushed open the office door.

“Hi.”

Your throat tightened immediately. “H-Homelander.” He stepped inside casually, glancing around your office like he belonged there. Maybe he did.

Everyone in the building belonged to him in some horrible way. “You’re here late,” he said.

You forced yourself to straighten. “Just finishing reports.”

“For Ashley?” You nodded. A flicker crossed his face. Barely there. Displeasure.

“She works you too hard.” The way he said it made your skin prickle. Not sympathetic. Possessive. Before you could answer, he glanced toward your phone still sitting on the desk.

“Who were you talking to?” “My friend.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

Too fast. You hated how fast you answered. His smile widened slightly.

“Good.”

The room suddenly felt very small. You tried to laugh politely, but it came out thin and nervous. “Did you need something?” Homelander walked slowly around your desk instead of answering immediately, fingers brushing over the edge of the wood surface.

Calm. Relaxed.

Like a predator already certain the prey wouldn’t run. “I noticed you’ve seemed stressed lately.” Your pulse started climbing. “I’m okay.”

“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.” He stopped beside you. Too close. You caught the clean, expensive smell of his suit, something sharp beneath it like static in the air before lightning strikes. “You look tired,” he continued quietly. “You skip lunch half the time. Your shoulders tense every time your phone rings. And every morning you come into this building already anxious.”

Your mouth went dry.

Because those were things no one should know. Things no one could know unless they’d been watching. Homelander tilted his head slightly when you didn’t answer.

“I pay attention to you.”

Something cold slid down your spine. The storm cracked outside, thunder rumbling through the glass.

You took a careful step backward.

“I should really finish these reports—”

“Ashley screamed at you today.”

You froze.

His expression didn’t change.

“She made you cry in the bathroom afterward.” Your heart started pounding so hard you could hear it.

How did he—

“She shouldn’t have done that,” he said, and the softness in his voice scared you more than anger would have.

You swallowed hard. “It’s fine.”

“No,” Homelander murmured. “It isn’t.”

The office lights buzzed faintly overhead. Outside the windows, lightning flashed silver across the city skyline. Then Homelander reached up and touched your face.

Gentle. Careful.

His thumb brushed just beneath your eye like he was handling something fragile. You should have moved away.

You knew you should. But shock rooted you in place. His voice dropped lower.

“People are very cruel to you.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because he was right. Because nobody had ever said it out loud before. Everyone always acted like you were overreacting.

Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too weak for the industry.

And now the most terrifying man on earth was looking at you with something dangerously close to tenderness.

“I can take care of it,” he said softly.

Alarm shot through you immediately. “No.” His eyes sharpened slightly.

“No?”

“You don’t have to… do anything.”

Silence. Then that smile returned. Pleasant and artificial.

“You’re scared of me.” Your stomach twisted. Because denying it felt impossible.

Homelander watched your expression carefully, and for one horrible moment you saw something wounded flicker underneath his calm facade.

Not guilt, neither shame. Loneliness.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said quietly. The words should have comforted you. Instead they made your pulse spike harder. Because you suddenly understood that he wanted you to believe him.

Wanted it badly. You stepped away from his hand carefully. “I should get back to work.”

For a second, the room went still. Completely still. Then Homelander smiled again and stepped back.

“Of course.”

Relief flooded you so fast your knees almost weakened. He moved toward the door.

Stopped. Without turning around, he asked:

“Why do you flinch every time someone raises their voice at you?”

Your breath caught and he glanced over his shoulder. Those bright blue eyes pinned you in place effortlessly.

“I hear things,” he said softly. And then he walked out.

—

Three days later, Ashley disappeared. Nobody explained it. One minute she was storming through meetings throwing binders and screaming at assistants, and the next her office sat empty with the blinds drawn shut.

People whispered about scandals.

Transfers. Rehab? Nobody knew.

But the new department head smiled at you too much and approved your vacation request without even reading it. And every time you passed security downstairs, people suddenly avoided eye contact.

Like they knew something you didn’t.

By Friday, you couldn’t sleep. Every tiny sound in your apartment made your heart race. You kept remembering Homelander’s hand against your face. That awful gentleness.

The way he’d said “I can take care of it.” You told yourself it was coincidence, because it had to be-...It had to be.

Until Saturday night.

You were standing in your kitchen making tea when your phone buzzed with a text from Maya.

you:

Running late. Some creep followed me off the subway lol

You frowned immediately.

you:

What?

No response. You stared at the screen. One minute. Two. Then your phone rang. You answered instantly. “Maya?”

Static and heavy breathing. Then a man’s voice.

“Cute friend you got.” Ice flooded your veins. “What the fuck—”

The line disconnected.

You grabbed your coat so fast you nearly dropped the phone, panic rising sharp and ugly in your chest as you rushed toward the apartment door—

—and found Homelander standing outside it, making your entire body lock up instantly. He looked immaculate as always. Cape draped perfectly behind him. Hair untouched by the rain. Like he’d stepped out of a commercial instead of into the hallway outside your apartment at eleven-thirty at night.

“Don’t panic,” he said calmly.

You stared at him in horror. “My friend—”

“She’s fine.”

“How do you know that?” He smiled slightly. “I handled it.” your blood ran cold once again.

“What did you do?”

“He scared her.” Homelander shrugged. “So I scared him more.” The hallway suddenly felt suffocatingly narrow.

You backed away instinctively. “Did you kill him?Homelander’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

Not anger.

Confusion. Like the question itself was unfair. “He touched someone important to you."

The word hit hard enough to make your stomach twist. “You can’t just murder people!”

“Why not?” The sincerity in his voice terrified you. Genuine confusion. As if morality simply worked differently for him.

You shook your head, breathing unevenly. “You can’t solve everything like that.” Homelander stepped closer slowly. “You were terrified when you opened that door.”

You said nothing. “And then you saw me,” he continued softly. “And part of you relaxed.” Your chest tightened immediately because he was right. You hated that he was right. He watched realization cross your face and smiled faintly.

There it was again. That look. Like he was learning you piece by piece.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he murmured. The rain battered against the apartment windows behind you. Your pulse hammered painfully. Homelander reached up carefully and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with unbearable softness.

“I take care of the things that hurt you,” he whispered.

And standing there in the dim apartment hallway with fear tangled so tightly with relief you couldn’t separate them anymore— you realized that was exactly how he wanted it.

The first thing you noticed was that the building had become quieter around you. Not all at once. Not enough to alarm you immediately.

Just slowly, subtly, over the course of a few weeks after Ashley disappeared. Conversations stopped when you walked into break rooms. Coworkers who used to dump work on your desk now smiled too quickly and told you not to worry about deadlines.

People moved out of your way in the hall.

Even the security guards downstairs straightened when they saw your ID badge, suddenly polite in a stiff, nervous sort of way that made unease crawl beneath your skin every single time.

At first, you tried convincing yourself it was coincidence.

Then one morning, you overheard two assistants whispering near the elevators.

“—I’m telling you, he watches her.”

“Shut up, are you insane?”

“I saw him leave her floor last week—”

The elevator doors opened before you could hear more. The moment they noticed you standing there, both women went pale. One of them physically stepped back.

Like you were dangerous too.

By the time you reached your office, your hands were shaking hard enough that you spilled coffee across your desk. You stared at the spreading stain blankly. Your heart wouldn’t slow down. Because deep down, beneath all the rationalizing and denial, you already knew.

Homelander. Everything kept leading back to him. The promotions. The sudden kindness. The fear in everyone else. You pressed trembling fingers against your forehead. This was insane- You needed distance, and space- and something normal.

Which was why, by six-thirty that evening, you were sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant downtown across from Maya, trying desperately to force yourself back into reality.

The restaurant smelled like garlic and wine and fresh bread, warm light glowing softly from little candles on every table, and outside the rain drizzled steadily against the windows while traffic blurred red and gold across the wet streets.

It felt normal. And safe. Thank god. Maya was halfway through complaining about her boss when she stopped abruptly and frowned at you over the rim of her wine glass.

“Okay, seriously. What’s wrong with you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”

“Sorry.”

“You look exhausted.” You stared down at your untouched pasta. The knot in your chest had been there for days now. Tight. Constant. Every time your phone buzzed. Every time someone looked at you strangely at work. Every time you imagined blue eyes watching from somewhere above the city.

Maya leaned forward slightly, concern softening her face.

“Is this about Vought?” You hesitated. Too long, thats what makes it obvious. Her expression shifted immediately. “Oh my God. It is.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You laughed weakly, but it came out strained. Maya lowered her voice. “Did something happen?” You opened your mouth. Then stopped.

Because how could you even explain it?

I think the most powerful man in the world has become obsessed with me.

It sounded delusional. Worse—it sounded impossible. And yet every instinct in your body had been screaming danger for weeks. “I just…” You swallowed hard. “I think I need to quit.”

Maya blinked. “Then quit.” “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?” Because he would notice. The realization slid into your mind so naturally it made you feel sick.

Homelander would notice, because he noticed everything. The thought alone made your pulse jump. Maya stared at you carefully now, really looking. Then her expression changed. Not fear. Recognition. “You’re scared.”

You looked away immediately. Outside, headlights smeared across the rain-streaked windows. “I’m just stressed.”

“No.” Maya’s voice softened. “You look terrified.” Something sharp tightened painfully in your throat. Because she was right. You were terrified. Terrified in that exhausting, constant way where your body never fully relaxed anymore, where every shadow felt watched and every silence stretched too long.

And somehow the worst part wasn’t even fear of what Homelander might do to you. It was fear of what would happen if he suddenly stopped paying attention altogether. That realization horrified you enough that your stomach twisted. Maya reached across the table and touched your hand gently.

“Hey. Talk to me.”

Warmth spread suddenly behind your eyes. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed someone normal to touch you. Someone human.

Your voice came out small. “I think something’s wrong with me.” Maya frowned immediately. “What?”

“I keep…” You laughed shakily. “I keep thinking about him.” The words tasted poisonous. Maya went still.

“Who?” You already regretted saying it, but exhaustion cracked something open inside you.

“Homelander.”

Silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the heavy kind. Maya stared at you for a second like she genuinely thought she’d misheard. Then

“…Homelander?” You nodded once, humiliated instantly.

“He keeps showing up and talking to me and I know it’s weird and I know I should report it or something but every time he looks at me I feel like I can’t think properly anymore—”

You stopped abruptly, breathing unevenly. Maya’s face had gone pale.

“You need to stay away from him.”

“I know.”

“Y/n, I mean it.”

“I KNOW.”

Several people glanced over, making you lower your voice immediatly, and Maya leaned closer across the table.

“Listen to me very carefully. Men like that— men with power like that— they don’t get attached normally.”

Your stomach dropped once again, because attached was exactly the word you'd been searching for- Not 'interested' nor 'flirting'.- attached. Like something tightening around your ribs day by day. Maya squeezed your hand harder.

“This is how it starts.”

Fear curled sharply through you, traveling from your toes to your chest.

“How what starts?”

But Maya never answered- because suddenly the restaurant went silent. Instantly.

With conversations getting cut off and forks being set down, the air itself seems to tighten, and your blood turned to ice before you even looked up. Maya’s grip on your hand loosened slowly. Around you, people stared toward the front windows. Toward the figure descending from the sky outside the restaurant in a blur of red, white, and blue.

Your heart stopped.

No.

No no no—

The entire restaurant watched as Homelander landed lightly on the sidewalk beyond the glass, cape settling behind him in perfect waves despite the rain- People immediately started reaching for phones. Someone whispered- “Holy shit…”

Maya looked at you. Really looked at you. And the horror that crossed her face made your stomach lurch. Because she understood instantly.

Homelander smiled the moment he saw you through the window. Not at the restaurant, but at you. That terrifyingly soft expression spread across his face like he’d finally found what he’d been looking for.

Then he walked inside. The atmosphere changed the second he entered. The restaurant owner rushed forward nervously. People stared. Nobody breathed properly. But Homelander ignored all of them. His eyes stayed on you the entire time, fully focused.

“Maya,” you whispered urgently, panic clawing up your throat, “don’t say anything.”

Too late.

Homelander reached your table smoothly, smiling down at you like this was some perfectly ordinary surprise visit.

“There you are.” Your pulse hammered violently. “How did you know I was here?” He tilted his head slightly.

“You told someone at work you were getting dinner downtown." Jesus fuck, had he been listening then too?

Maya slowly pulled her hand away from yours under the table. Homelander noticed immediately. Of course he did.His gaze flickered briefly toward her before returning to you.

“You left work early,” he said softly. “I was worried.” Worried. The word wrapped around your lungs like silk. You could feel the entire restaurant staring. Maya sat rigidly beside you now, fear written plainly across her face.

"i have to use the bathroom." She excuses herself quietly. Traitor, leaving you with him. Homelander noticed that too. And smiled. Not in a polite way, just Patient. Like he understood something she didn’t yet.

“You seem tense,” he murmured to you. No shit, your voice barely worked. “I’m fine.”

“No,” he said gently. “You’re frightened.” The way he said it made heat creep shamefully into your chest. Like he was the only person observant enough to notice. Like fear itself had become intimacy between you.

Homelander crouched slightly beside your chair then, bringing himself closer to eye level, and the entire restaurant seemed to disappear beneath the weight of his attention.

“You know I’d never let anything happen to you,” he said quietly, and your throat tightened.

Because part of you believed him completely. That was the worst thing. Not the fear. Not even the obsession. It was the unbearable safety you felt whenever he appeared. Like no matter how terrifying he was, nothing else in the world could possibly touch you while his eyes were on you.

Homelander saw something change in your expression then. He saw it happen. His smile softened with slow, terrifying satisfaction.

“There she is,” he whispered.

And you realized with sudden horror that he was watching you become dependent on him in real time.

Just waiting.

By the time Maya returned to the table, your head already felt strange, Like the entire evening had slipped sideways into something unreal while you weren’t paying attention.

Homelander had moved back slightly by then, posture relaxed again, one arm hooked lazily over the back of your chair as if he’d always belonged there, as if seeing the most powerful man in the world sitting in a tiny downtown restaurant beside an ordinary Vought employee was somehow normal.

But nothing felt normal anymore. Not the way people stared at you now. Not the way your pulse reacted every time his attention settled fully onto you. Not the awful, humiliating relief spreading slowly through your body whenever he spoke in that low, gentle voice.

Maya sat down carefully, eyes flicking between the two of you. You could tell she’d been crying in the bathroom. Shes always been an emotional person. Her mascara looked slightly smudged beneath the dim restaurant lighting. Guilt twisted sharply in your chest. Because she looked scared.

Not for herself, but for you.

Homelander smiled at her pleasantly. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she answered too quickly. You noticed she didn’t look at him anymore when she spoke. Only at you, like she was trying to communicate something silently.

Run. Leave. Wake up.

But then Homelander’s hand settled lightly against the small of your back beneath the table and every thought scattered instantly. The touch wasn’t forceful, and that was the problem. His fingertips barely rested there at all through the fabric of your dress, warm and steady and impossibly careful, yet the moment he touched you, your body reacted before your mind could.

The tension in your shoulders loosened, your breathing slowed and Homelander felt it happen. You knew he did because his thumb stroked once, slow and approving.

A tiny movement. Still your stomach flipped violently. Maya saw your expression change.

Horror flashed across her face immediately, if thats even possible at her current expression anymore. You looked away from her first because you hated yourself for that.

Dinner ended not long after.

Nobody argued when Homelander quietly insisted on taking you home.

How could they?

Outside, the rain had gotten heavier, pouring silver beneath the city lights while crowds gathered along the sidewalk behind barricades and security trying desperately to catch a glimpse of him. Phones flashed constantly. People shouted his name. But Homelander barely acknowledged any of it.

His focus stayed on you as you stepped outside beside him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself against the cold night air. The second the rain touched you, Homelander frowned.

Then his cape settled around your shoulders, making you feel warmer immediately. It smelled like him.

“You’ll freeze,” he murmured.

The crowd noise seemed distant suddenly. Muted. Like the entire world had narrowed down to the warmth wrapped around you and the terrifying softness in his eyes.

You should have refused.

Instead your fingers clutched the edge of the cape tighter around yourself automatically.

And Homelander smiled. God, that smile. Not public, an' not performative. Atleast he makes you think that.

Maya stepped closer quickly before you could move.

“Text me when you get home,” she said firmly. Too firmly. Like she was trying to remind you of something. You nodded immediately. “I will."

Homelander looked between the two of you, quietly observing, or rather analyzing. Then he asked softly-

“Do you always worry this much about her?” Maya stiffened.

“She’s my best friend.”

At that, something unreadable crossed Homelander’s face, its gone almost instantly. But you felt his hand press slightly more firmly against your back. Possessive.

Maya noticed too, And you could see fear rise behind her eyes again. Then Homelander smiled warmly at her.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take good care of her.”

The words should have sounded reassuring.

Instead, they landed like a threat.

Maya heard it too. You saw it in her eyes.

But before either of you could say anything else, Homelander’s arm wrapped around your waist. The movement was smooth and natural enough to almost seem casual. Except the second he pulled you against his side, your entire body locked up from the sheer overwhelming awareness of him.

Strong.

Not human.

His hand rested securely against your hip while the rain poured harder around you, the city glowing gold and red beneath blurred stormlight.

“You ready?” he asked softly near your ear. Your throat tightened. What is he talking about?

“For what?” His smile deepened slightly, and then the ground disappeared. A startled sound tore from your chest as the world dropped violently beneath you, wind rushing past in freezing waves while the city exploded into dizzying lights below. Your fingers grabbed his suit instantly. Instinct.

Homelander laughed quietly at the reaction, one arm tightening around you effortlessly as he carried you high above Manhattan. “Easy,” he murmured. The sound of his voice vibrated through his chest beneath your hands. You couldn’t breathe properly.

Not from fear alone, no-...just, from him. From the overwhelming closeness of him.

Rain whipped through the air around you while clouds swallowed the city lights below in silver haze, and you buried your face against his shoulder automatically as another gust of wind hit.

Immediately, Homelander’s expression softened.

“There you go,” he whispered, too soft for a disgusting Manipulator. Like he liked seeing you cling to him. Like he wanted it. The realization made heat twist low in your stomach despite the terror.

You hated- no, despised- how safe he felt.

Hated how his arms around you made the rest of the world disappear completely.

The penthouse came into view slowly through the rain.

Massive windows glowing gold high above the city.

Isolated & untouchable. Your stomach flipped hard at the sight. Because suddenly, horribly, it didn’t feel like he was taking you home. It felt like he was taking you somewhere that belonged to him.

Somewhere above everyone else. Into his Nest.

Homelander landed smoothly on the balcony, barely jostling you despite the force that cracked faintly beneath his boots.

But he didn’t let go immediately afterward.

His arms stayed around you.

Keeping you close against him while rainwater slid down the sharp line of his jaw and the city glittered endlessly beneath the storm behind him.

For a second, neither of you spoke, not being able to.

You became painfully aware of your hands still gripping the front of his suit.

Of how close your bodies were.

Of the way he was looking at you.

Not hungry. -actually, hungry. Really fuckin' hungry. Your pulse stuttered unevenly.

“I should go home,” you whispered.

Homelander’s eyes searched your face quietly.

Then very gently, he brushed wet hair back from your cheek.

“You don’t want to be alone tonight.”

The words wrapped around your exhausted mind so softly that for one horrible second, you almost nodded.

Because after weeks of fear and confusion and pressure and loneliness—

the thought of leaving him suddenly hurt. He saw the exact instant your expression weakened, and something dark and deeply satisfied flickered behind his eyes.

Not victory, just ownership. His thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone.

“Come inside,” he said quietly, knowing just what tone to use. Not a command- worse. An invitation he already knew you wanted to accept.

Lightning flashed across the sky behind him, illuminating the enormous penthouse windows glowing gold in the dark like something beautiful and dangerous waiting with its mouth open.

And after a long, trembling hesitation—

you followed him inside.

He did it. You're his perfect girl now.

He sat at the head of the table because of course he did. Where else would he be? A god doesn’t take side seats unless he’s playing at humility, and today, with the fluorescent lights droning and a parade of interns trying not to sweat through their cheap shirts, he didn’t feel like playing.

Leather chair beneath, crisp suit on skin, boots polished so sharply they could blind someone (and what a loss that would be — another set of eyes not blessed to witness perfection). The air conditioning hummed a gentle praise-hymn; the building breathed around him. Even the vents worked harder when he was present. Everything did.

Across the long, obscene table, a thing of custom oak and smug expense, Ashley shuffled notes. Her hair was a little too shiny. Trying too hard, as always. There was that faint greasy sheen near the scalp, stress sweat, desperation oil. She masked it with perfume that stung the nose if one wasn’t careful. A citrusy, synthetic attempt at optimism.

Unfortunate really. She was decaying faster than she realized.

And the others — oh, the others. They fidgeted in their padded chairs like toddlers forced to sit through church. Someone had gained weight. Obvious. Suit buttons strained, thread protesting. Someone else had acne hidden under makeup, cakey, settling in pores; the human face trying so hard to pretend it wasn’t human.

What a privilege, really, to sit before perfection and try to mimic it.

Voices droned. Words like brand synergy and patriotic engagement pipeline. They actually seemed proud of these sounds. They filled the room with them, thinking language could ever matter here. That numbers and projections and public sentiment graphs could shape the world when the only thing that truly shaped it sat at the head of the table.

Power didn’t live in bullet points.

Power was the bullet point.

They yammered about quarterly crises, protests here, a supe misconduct rumor there, competitors in foreign markets trying to replicate the formula. They had no idea the true problem wasn’t any external force. It was them. Their fragility, their meat nature, their constant sweating and swallowing and breathing.

How exhausting it was, tolerating lesser beings.

They loved those little buzzwords. Chewed them like cud. He wondered if they tasted like anything to them, or if they simply mouthed syllables to feel useful.

(Useful to him, of course. What other utility could there be?)

Ashley laughed at something she pretended was funny; her pen clicked two times, rapid and nervous. Someone else shifted their notes. Red, white, blue branding charts spread across glossy printouts. So busy. So dutiful. So desperately, pathetically human. They needed him. Every single one of them. They breathed because he tolerated the oxygen being shared. They existed in his orbit like particles of dust caught in a sunbeam.

Another executive tapped a pen, an arrhythmic little tick-tick-tick. Another cleared his throat, mucus, damp, earthly, and tried not to meet the gaze at the head of the table. Eyes always slid away eventually. Humans had instincts, at least.

Poor things. They were built to kneel; evolution simply hadn’t given them the courage to admit it.

Ashley adjusted her blazer and offered a chart, her voice bright and thin. “We’re seeing an uptick in midwestern approval, especially among younger demos. Very, um — very positive feedback on the patriotic direction.”

Patriotic direction. His direction. Their entire brand fed from his pulse.

A polite nod was given in return. They nearly vibrated with relief, shoulders loosening, hearts slowing. One man actually exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. Pathetic. Endearing. Dog-like. Give a bone, command loyalty. Take it away, and watch them shrivel. A woman across the table blinked too rapidly, contacts irritating her. Cheap. Couldn’t spring for the premium kind? Disgraceful. He could laser her optic nerves clean and fix it forever, but they never asked him for miracles. They begged instead for approvals, sign-offs, direction. They wanted him to nod so they could live another day feeling useful.

Useful to him.

What other definition of useful existed?

Someone mentioned crisis control in Chicago. Something about messaging adjustments. Words, words, words. Throwable, ignorable, flammable. A god had to sit through this. A god had to pretend.

He leaned back, slow enough to imply ease, powerful shoulders relaxing in a way people imitate in gym mirrors but never achieve. Their eyes darted, watching for cues, desperate to match his mood, terrified to misread a single breath. The air felt thick with boredom, with the stink of ambition and insecurity. With hunger too, the hunger that came when greatness was forced to sit among livestock too long. He wondered — if he screamed right now, would their bones rattle? Would their spines snap?

A gentle inhale. The room inhaled with him. A slight exhale. They followed.

Perfect.

Ashley smiled at him tightly. “Everything’s looking very strong for Q3.”

Was it? If he said yes, it would be. If he said no, they would tear apart their own plans like terrified rodents gnawing at traps. Reality bent where his voice pointed.

He let his lips soften into that practiced almost-smile. “Excellent work,” he murmured.

Gasps nearly happened but were disguised as relieved chuckles. He knew. Maybe on some level they all knew, they sat inches from extinction and mistook it for company. How lucky they were to serve. How tragic they thought they were leading.

A spreadsheet appeared on the screen. It might as well have been a gravestone.

God, boredom.

He could burn cities, peel the sky open like wet paper, yet here he was listening to Todd-from-Brand-Synergy talk about engagement decline in Midwest female 18–45 demographic. Todd had a rash creeping up his neck again. Stress eczema. Weak genes. Predictable.

Ashley sat stiff, vibrating nerves hidden under a blazer that didn’t fit right. She tried to project authority, but everything about her screamed please don’t look at me too long, I might dissolve. He wished she’d moisturize. For everyone’s sake.

Slide nine. Ten. Eleven.

The sentences blurred into white noise: synergy outreach narrative brand reinforcement compensation value realignment—

Like listening to a sewer pipe try to form sentences.

A tiny part of him wondered if this was what people called Hell. Eternal punishment. But no, Hell implied a greater force inflicting suffering. Here, he chose attendance. Which made this worse somehow. Made them worse for existing in his air.

His fingers drummed on the armrest. Every tap felt like a suppressed explosion. He pushed his tongue into his cheek and watched. Observed. Dissected. Kara from PR shifted, her chair squeaking. She’d gained maybe six pounds since last week. Human bodies always fighting themselves. Pathetic little sacks of needs.

Someone mispronounced “analytics.”

Someone else laughed like they were auditioning for laughter.

It was offensive, the whole thing, being forced to witness mediocrity in motion. Like watching ants act like CEOs of the dirt. His mind drifted. Slipped. How many bones in this room? How quickly could they crack? Would the drywall absorb the sound or would it echo?

A name was said. A question was asked.

“Thoughts?”

They stared. Expectant. Hopeful. A congregation awaiting scripture. He smiled, the polite kind. “Looks great,” he seethed. Which meant I could eat each of you alive and you’d thank me while I chewed.

Relieved laughter again. Always relief around him , not joy, not admiration. Dead-eyed nodding. Someone wrote “H. approves!!!” on a notepad like they’d just carved commandments into stone.

He nearly yawned.

Then, the door clicked. And there you were.

Coffee trays balanced in your arms, sleeves pushed up, expression fixed in that unruffled neutrality that somehow didn’t reek of desperation or fear or ambition rotting under perfume. Two months here and still no sour scent of panic on you. Strange. Unsettling. Fascinating.

And oh. There it was. A flicker in his chest. A spark under ash. Hunger of a different flavor. You scanned the room like you weren’t stepping into a lion’s jaw. Set cups down, unfazed by the scramble of executives practically drooling for caffeine salvation. Your face might as well have said I’m not impressed by your apocalypse, thanks.

His boredom cracked. Just enough for light to get in. Your eyes met his for half a second, casual, like you didn’t know what he was. Or worse… like you knew and didn’t care.

He sat up straighter.

He watched you leave the tray, move, exist. Finally, something, someone.

You didn’t bow. You didn’t flinch. You just handed him his cup like he was… people. His mouth twitched. Dangerous, what you didn’t realize you were doing. He wondered who’d notice first —- when the god in the room finally had a reason to stay awake.

Observation wasn’t a hobby. It was instinct. Dominion disguised as curiosity. And you, quiet little anomaly that you were, had been disrupting that instinct for weeks now.

Two months, precisely. Fifty-eight days. Three interactions. (Four if you counted the time you bumped into him in the hallway and fumbled for an apology.)

Steady. Dutiful. A worker bee who didn’t realize the queen drone had become… fascinated. You made eye contact without trying to leash him with it. You followed orders without scrambling to impress. Obedience without worship. Awareness without panic. A pet, but one who hadn’t been collared yet.

He lifted the cup you gave him, inhaled steam as if warmth alone earned loyalty. People thought power came from being obeyed. They were wrong. Power was being chosen. Even unintentionally. You turned to leave. He didn’t let you.

“Actually,” he said, voice dipped in that sugared tone that pretended kindness and promised nothing of it, “why don’t you stay.”

Every head snapped your way.

You paused, a flicker of instinct across your face. Fight-flight-freeze. He savored the freeze, the way your breath stalled. You stepped back inside.

He gestured to an empty seat near him. Not a request, a radius of command. The meeting drones blinked, confused, confused again, then terrified as they realized they should pretend this was normal. Everyone suddenly discovered something deeply interesting on their notepads.

He leaned back, casual.

A king feigning boredom while placing a new piece on the board.

“So,” he purred, eyes cutting to a bland proposal slide full of numbers and slogans. “What do you think about this direction?”

Silence. Air tightened. A couple execs swallowed so loudly it was almost comedic.

Your mouth opened slowly, like your body was filing legal paperwork with your brain before speaking. “I think…” Tiny breath. “…it feels disconnected from the demographic you’re saying you’re trying to reach.”

A crack in the room’s oxygen.

Someone actually choked.

His gaze sharpened. “Disconnected,” he echoed, tasting the word. Dangerous if spoken by anyone else. He leaned in, elbows lazy on the armrests, eyes lit with something too present. “Whys that? Tell me.”

You blinked, because he never asked people for rationale. He demanded, he dictated. He didn’t fish for thought. “They’re… trying too hard,” you managed, eyes forward. “It comes off pandering.”

Honesty. Bare. Unpolished. No trembling attempt to flatter power. His chest loosened around a laugh that didn’t come out; too earnest for the room, too real for witnesses. Instead, he hummed. Approving. Possessive. He turned his gaze to the executives, predatory, like he’d just learned a secret and found everyone else unworthy of it. “You hear that?” A blade-thin smile. “Pandering. Doesn’t look good on us.”

Murmurs. Nods. Frantic scribbling of notes they wouldn’t dare misinterpret. Then his eyes slid back to you. Calm. Hungry. Amused by your pulse betraying you under your pretty composure. “And what do you think does look good?”

You swallowed. He heard it.

Tiny bravery squared your shoulders. “Authenticity,” you said.

That word hit him like a hand to the throat, not choking, more like claiming a pulse that shouldn’t belong to you but somehow does. Authenticity. As if you thought he could be real. As if you believed there was something real to be. Nobody spoke. Nobody blinked. He smiled.

You looked away first, respectful, not submissive, and he loved that distinction so much it almost hurt. He could feel it, that thin awareness you wore on your face around him. Fear and respect. A perfect mix.

He hummed. “You can go.”

Not suggestion. Command. You moved, the precise velocity of someone who understood gravity. He didn’t watch you leave. He felt you leave.

The meeting ended eventually, noise returning like color after a blackout, but none of it mattered. When he stood, the room rose with him.

Hallway. Glass. His reflection slicing itself into clean fragments as he walked. The floor lights bowed under every step. Thoughts drifted, lazy and critical: A-Train — slowing again. Puffed cheeks, sprinting on excuses. Fastest man alive, he scoffed internally, if we clock disappointment as speed.

The Deep — an aquarium pet pretending to be a man. Greasy devotion. A waste of space.

Black Noir — dependable, sure. But silence could only shine next to noise. And he was the noise. Noir was just… absence.

Maeve — brittle beneath all that armor. Sad behind the eyes, all martyr, no redemption. A statue with a drinking problem.

Starlight — hypocrisy wrapped in freckles and moral speeches.

Humanity’s chosen heroes.

Chosen by who? Cattle choosing their own shepherd. Adorable. They worshipped weakness. They expected greatness. They deserved extinction.

Footsteps approached behind him, too fast, too eager, the patter of a dog scrambling for attention. The sigh built in his chest before the voice even arrived.

“Sir! Homelander, sorry— sorry to interrupt.”

Of course you are. Yet here you are.

A junior PR analyst, badge swinging, breath already nervous. Sweat collecting along the hairline, cheap shampoo, citrus trying to hide the stress stink. Eyes too wide. Pupils frantic. He could hear the heartbeat fluttering, stupid little bird trapped in ribs.

“Uh— Ashley asked me to tell you. A-Train’s numbers… dipped another three percent. Engagement’s down across Midwest markets. Brand sentiment reports say he’s, um— losing audience trust. And they think it might be smarter to… consider a lineup refresh. You know. Bring in some new blood.”

There it was.

Refresh. New blood. The audacity. Replaceable? In his house? Talking about his team like furniture to be rearranged without his hand guiding it. Without his permission.

His mouth smiled; his eyes did not. “Is that so.”

The kid nodded too fast. Terrified eagerness to please. Pathetic.

A-Train failing was no surprise. He’d seen it in the tight uniform, seams biting too hard into flesh that hadn’t been there a month ago. In the wheeze hidden under a laugh. In the way cameras lingered less, bored of the fading toy. Heroes age like fruit.

But the insult wasn’t that A-Train was weak. The insult was someone else observing it first. Someone delivering news to him as if he needed informing. As if his awareness required supplementation. As if gods read memos.

His gaze slid to the trembling man. He leaned in just enough, the way predators lean toward trembling rabbits. “So,” he murmured, tone dipped in sugar and venom, “you thought I needed an errand boy to explain my own team to me?”

Color drained from the analyst’s face. Words crumbled on his tongue. “I— I wasn’t— I mean, Ashley said—”

“Mm.” A soft sound, dismissive as a swat to a fly. “Ashley says many things. Doesn’t mean they’re worth repeating. Or hearing.”

Silence. The kid swallowed. Loud. Ugly. Homelander inhaled slowly. The boy smelled like cafeteria coffee and fear. Fear always sharpened the air nicely.

“You know,” he continued, voice smooth, “it’s funny. People assume information is… helpful. But sometimes?” He tilted his head.“Information is just noise. And I don’t like noise.”

The kid nodded. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Run along,” Homelander said. “And next time— think. Before speaking. Not all news needs to travel upward.”

He didn’t move as the analyst stammered a thank-you and fled, shoes squeaking on polished floors. Didn’t watch him leave, listening was better. The trembling breath, the trip in his steps, the retreat. Anger curled still in his ribs, a low, metallic taste. A-Train. Replacement. Opinions whispered like they mattered. How quickly mortals forget who holds the sky up for them.

His reflection in the glass caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The fracture in calm. He hated that they could do that, tug him even an inch off his throne. Ridiculous. They were insects.

He was patience. Power. Perfection.

And yet something ugly simmered. A urge to rip the wings off anything that dared fly near his reign.

He moved.

Not walked, cut through space, the building bending around his stride as though the hallways re-ordered themselves to avoid the pressure in his chest. Anger like a hum behind the teeth. Not heat, heat was human. This was cleaner, colder. He needed to leave. Or break someone. Or both.

They think they can discuss my team. They think they can evaluate me by extension. Refresh the lineup. New blood. As if my blood isn’t enough to baptize them all.

He passed a staffer, she plastered herself to the wall like a roach caught under kitchen lights. Good instinct. Late, but good. A ceiling vent whined. Someone laughed too loudly two halls away. Someone’s pen scratched against paper in a rhythm that dared to exist, dared to annoy. Everything grated. Everything sounded like daring. He could leave. Go outside. Remind the city how small it was beneath him.

He turned the corner —- and froze. You.

Clipboard balanced on one arm, sleeves rolled, a lanyard slightly askew. Human. Mundane. Thoughtfully incompetent posture as you tried to juggle paperwork and a coffee you clearly didn’t want to spill on yourself.

You didn’t see him yet. Which was better; anticipation was a flavor all its own. He slowed his pace, perfectly engineered casual, like a panther remembering how to pretend to be furniture.

He adjusted his route one degree left. Pure coincidence, and yet fate bent with it. You turned at the same moment.

“Oh—! Sorry, didn’t see you there.” A smile, polite, slightly nervous, but not the desperate, bowel-loose terror everyone else offered. A respectful flinch. He let the silence breathe. Not because he needed words, he never needed them, but because watching you fill the quiet was delicious. “Uh… long meeting?” you tried.

The audacity of the understatement flickered across his face in a nearly-smile. “Mmm,” he hummed, tone gentle and deeply false, “meetings are… endless.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he was studying an artifact only he could decipher. “You always rushing around, sweetheart?”

A blink. You weren’t sure if it was a joke.

“Well, someone’s gotta keep the place running,” you said lightly. “God forbid Vought collapses without me color-coding the printers.”

There it was.

A flick of humor. Unsanctioned levity in his kingdom, risky and yet you delivered it like a gift instead of a rebellion. A laugh curled low in his throat, not loud, just a warm, lethal purr. “If the company relies on you that much,” he said, stepping just half a foot closer, “we should make sure you stick around.”

Your pulse spiked — he heard it. Lovely. Not panic, awareness. The right kind of fear. The smart kind. He watched you a beat longer than polite, a predator sampling atmosphere: your breath held a fraction too long, your spine straightening instinctively, the way prey stands still hoping the lion admires posture over flavor. Cute. Very cute.

“Walk with me.”

Not a request. His hand ghosted by your elbow, not touching, but the implication pressed anyway, a heat hovering at the edge of contact that said move or burn. You obeyed.

The halls stretched as he carved a path, pace clipped, shoulders squared like a general disgusted with his own army. You passed floors quieted by his presence, cameras whirring, employees suddenly busy, glances darting down at tablets that weren’t even on. A Vought exec opened his mouth to greet him, thought better of it, and shrank back into the marble.

Homelander didn’t lead you anywhere in particular; he was orbiting fury, walking for the sake of peeling it off his skin. And you, oddly, were leash, witness. “They’re useless,” he began. “Every. Single. One.” He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to. You were expected to absorb, align, agree.

The sun does not check if a flower keeps up — it simply scorches.

“All sitting in there thinking they matter. Thinking their little… votes and opinions and meetings make them relevant.” He scoffed.

You murmured something neutral and safe. Something like, “That must be frustrating.”

He stopped walking.

You barely avoided colliding with him. His gaze slid down to you, pupils dilated, something volatile flickering behind the blue. Disappointment? Amusement? Threat? Hard to tell where one ended and the other began with him. “Frustrating?” he repeated. “This is incompetence. Treasonous stupidity dressed up as teamwork. They think they get to lead me. Me.” The laugh he gave was too light. “But you know that. Don’t you?”

He didn’t wait for your answer, because the only correct answer was the one he’d already scripted for you. He resumed walking; you followed like momentum belonged to him alone. “Do you think we need new blood?” he asked casually. “Fresh faces? Younger talent?”

A test.

You offered something diplomatic. Careful. Something like, “Whatever you believe best for the team, I—”

He cut you a look. “Of course whatever I believe is best.” He tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an ant farm, curiosity laced with the urge to shake. “But see, come on,” he coaxed, sweet poison in tone, “you must have an opinion. You’re observant. You… watch.” The implication curled around your throat. You did watch. Everyone watched. Watching was survival.

You tried again. “I think… certain members have grown complacent. And complacency is dangerous around someone like you.”

There. Flattery woven into fear. His smile sharpened, pleased.

“That’s right. Complacency kills. Complacency… dies.” He hummed, almost delighted. “And I don’t tolerate dead weight.” His gaze dipped to you again, lingering longer than necessary, as if cataloguing whether you counted as dead weight or useful worship. “You’re smart,” he murmured, and the words weren’t praise so much as a collar slipped around your neck. “Sharp. I like that. You should talk more in meetings.”

A hint of threat in the suggestion, as though talking incorrectly would be punishable, but silence would be worse. “People need to hear voices that aren’t completely moronic,” he added. He stopped in a corridor you had no clearance for, hands clasped behind his back, chin tilted upward like he was accepting worship from unseen cameras.

You hesitated. That thin sliver of sanity still clinging to procedure tapped your shoulder. “Sir—” your voice stayed soft and careful. “I’m not technically supposed to be over here.”

He turned his head toward you, like someone bothered by a fly that dared, dared, to land on gold. Brows lifted, offended on your behalf. “You’re with me.” His smile sharpened with something carnivorous. “There is no ‘not supposed to’ when you’re with me.”

That was the end of that discussion. He pivoted and kept walking, you followed because survival had a sound, and it was his footsteps. “They think,” he began, tone sliding into a simmer, “that because they have meetings and memos and… little charts…” His nose curled like the word had a smell. “They get to decide.” A incredulous laugh. “It’s my team. My face. My legacy.” He gestured loosely, a king tired of peasants fumbling his empire. “They exist because I let them. And now suddenly they think they’re… what? equals? Partners?“ He scoffed as though the notion alone committed treason. “They’re lucky to stand in the same building. Lucky to breathe air I’m in.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “They should be thanking me every morning for letting them keep their jobs. Their families. Their… goddamn spines.”

Every few steps he glanced at you, not checking if you followed, but confirming that you witnessed. That you saw. That someone properly appreciated the weight of a god unfairly burdened by mortals. “No new direction without me,” he muttered. “No changes. No votes.” His voice dropped, dangerous velvet. “I make the decisions. I decide who stays. Who matters. Who gets to stand next to me when the world remembers greatness.”

You murmured something in agreement, the exact wording didn’t matter. What mattered was tone: submission dressed as admiration. The only currency that ever bought time near him.

He moved again, and you moved because gravity didn’t argue with the sun. Through the lobby, through security that pretended not to see, out into the open breeze where the city exhaled beneath Vought’s glass crown. You thought you were done. You weren’t.

A hand touched your elbow. “Come on,” he said. Not a request. A fact. And then the air thinned and snapped and you were on the roof, wind knifing through your clothes, the city stretching out in obedient sprawl below. The door behind you was locked, heavy, irrelevant, he didn’t need doors.

Here, above everything, he always looked… truer. You stayed near the gravel, because instinct whispered that standing too close to the edge with him was risky. He didn’t face you at first. He just stood there, breathing like the world belonged to his lungs. And then touch. His knuckles brushed your sleeve, almost curious. As if verifying you hadn’t evaporated when he blinked.“You’re quiet,” he studied. “I like that. You don’t—” little huff of contempt “—clutter the air.”

His hand drifted down your arm, idle, testing texture. Friendly, for someone who confused affection with possession. Not quite a caress, more like he was feeling the edge of a knife, fascinated by what it could do. “I like you, you know.” A whisper, but heavy. Like he’d dropped gold bars at your feet and expected worship in return. The hand on your arm stilled, not gripping, but one shift away from it. The message clear: you will stay.

Wind tugged at your clothes. You could feel the height, the nothingness behind you, the drop so total it hummed in bones. Alone on a rooftop with a super who didn’t understand no, who didn’t need to hear no to take offense, who might not even recognize the concept.

He wasn’t threatening you.

He didn’t need to.

“You understand power.”

Your heartbeat betrayed you, spiking, sharp, and his smile deepened, pleased, as if fear was applause. Down below, the world roared and lived and screamed in car horns and humanity. Up here, it was just you.

And him.

A man who didn’t need to threaten to be terrifying, because his affection felt more dangerous than any anger.

You swallowed, made your voice something soft and grateful and harmless. “Thank you, sir,” you said, careful, without sounding like you were trying too hard. “I’m glad. I just… try to do my job.”

A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth — approval. A deity entertained by your humility.

You glanced at the door. Wrong instinct; the rooftop suddenly felt like a stage and you’d almost stepped off script. “I should probably get home soon, though,” you added, gentle, like you were asking permission. “Long day.”

He didn’t look at you at first. Why look at something that can’t leave? He traced the skyline with his gaze like it existed to decorate him, then breathed in, slow. “Nah,” he said lightly. A dismissal of your life’s logistics. “I’ll take you home.”

Your stomach dropped. You kept your face still, polite, grateful. Terror now found itself inside your bones where he couldn’t see it. “That’s — very generous,” you murmured. Not hesitation. Not refusal. Just… breath.

He turned then, and the feeling of being seen by something that never had to check consequences settled behind your ribs. “You don’t want me to?” A question only in punctuation.

Your spine locked. “Of course I— I mean, I’d be honored. I just didn’t want to impose.”

He scoffed. “You can’t impose on me.”

And that was the end of that.

His hand found your back. “You ever gone flying?” he asked suddenly, tone bright in that eerie boyish way sociopaths mimic excitement.

You forced a laugh. Light. Accepting. Like this was normal, like this was a story you’d tell your friends if you had any left after an encounter like this. “No,” you said, smiling through the horror of inevitability. “Can’t say I have.”

He lifted his chin, delighted. “Well. We’ll fix that.”

Before you could breathe his arm slid around you, confident, not seeking consent because oxygen doesn’t ask permission to fill lungs. A warm strength bracketed your ribs, pulling you against him like you were only safe pressed to his gravity. The world dropped beneath your feet. His fingers tightened — reassurance or warning, you couldn’t tell.

“You trust me,” he said.

Not a question. Not a command. A definition. Because if you didn’t, you would anyway — fear was just faith with better instincts.

The rooftop blurred. Wind rose. You clung to stillness inside your head because panic felt like something he’d enjoy too much. And above the city, held in a grip that didn’t know limits, you realized: It wasn’t that he had no boundaries. It was that being near him meant you didn’t get to have any.

“Good.”

And then the world tilted, and you lifted off the edge, because gravity bowed to him… and you were learning you were expected to as well.

The city shrank beneath you in shivering grids of light, highways like veins, windows like watchful little eyes. Cold bit at your skin, wind clawed at your lungs; you didn’t dare shiver in his hold, didn’t dare remind him you were breakable. He flew like someone who believed space itself deferred to him. No hesitation. No fear. Just ascending, slicing the sky as if the atmosphere had been created solely to cradle him.

He landed somewhere high, higher than even Vought’s ego. Not open to the public, not even finished. Plastic sheeting fluttered like peeled skin in the wind. He set you down gently, as though kindness was another form of power he rationed. Then stepped back and waited. For awe.

“This place isn’t even on the maps yet,” he said, pleased with himself. “Top secret. They’ll pretend it’s for some new donor hub or whatever marketing drivel makes them sleep at night.”

A pause. He glanced at you, reading your heartbeat more than your face. He expected admiration like oxygen. Required it. The city was beautiful, but only because he wanted you to think so.

“It’s incredible,” you acknowledged, voice modulated perfectly between reverence and breathlessness. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

His smile sharpened, not joy, validation. Of course you hadn’t. Of course only he could give you this.

He walked along the edge, hands behind his back, like a king inspecting his balcony. The cape fluttered triumphant. He didn’t look to see if you were following, he simply assumed you would. A glance once or twice to confirm his assumption was correct. “People don’t appreciate perspective,” he said, sounding almost irritated. “They stay down there. Crammed in their little boxes. Crying. Complaining. Pretending their lives matter.”

A scoff. The wind carried it like an insult to the whole city.

“You put something this high above them, and they call it elitist. Dangerous. Arrogant.” He turned to you. Eyes lit with a gleam that could be admiration or prelude to annihilation. “But when I stand here? It becomes divine. They don’t even understand why.”

You nodded, heart tight against your ribs.

“You see it, don’t you?” His tone sharpened, hungry for agreement. “How small they are. How… insignificant.”

Your throat fought not to lock.

“I… yes. I see it.”

A satisfied breath. The world could have fallen for how content he suddenly looked. He moved again, closer this time, shoulder brushing yours, casual only on his end. You were alone with the most adored man on Earth, and if he decided gravity didn’t get a vote tonight, neither did you.

He wasn’t touching you, but every inch of his presence pressed in like a hand around your throat, gentle only because violence would ruin the moment for him. His gaze slid over your face, your neck, down the line of your shoulders, like he was discovering hunger rather than feeling it.

No one ever tells you that being chosen by a god feels a lot like being hunted.

You kept breathing, nothing sharp or disrespectful enough to startle a predator. His eyes narrowed slightly, amused by your composure. Or by how obviously it cost you. He tilted his head, studying you as if imagining you carved in marble under his foot or in gold at his side, undecided which was more flattering for him.

Eventually, he exhaled, a pleased, almost lazy breath, and the moment broke. “Alright,” he murmured, as if dismissing court. “Let’s get you home.” It sounded like a favor.

You tried one last time, a soft, hopeful attempt at normal human boundary, “ I can just grab a cab, sir.”

His gaze flicked down to you. That tiny, baffled smirk. Like you’d suggested the sun ask permission to rise. “You don’t need a cab,” he replied. “You have me.”

There it was, not threat, not menace. Worse. Certainty. A god convinced the universe agreed with him.

So you gave your address. You hated how your voice dipped, how small the numbers tasted leaving your tongue. But he just nodded like it was a privilege to bestow, not something pried from your nerves.

And then the air dropped out from under you, carried again, his arm secure around you, controlled grip at your waist. He didn’t talk much this time. Just the occasional hum, self-content, like he’d solved something. Or claimed something. Something that was you-adjacent.

Landing outside your building, he didn’t release you immediately. He set you down slowly, golden streetlight pooled across his shoulders. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, it didn’t need to. It rested there like a weapon lying casually on a table. “See?” he boasted. “You’re safe with me.”

Safe. The word pressed wrong in your bones. Protection or possession — unclear, and he didn’t care to differentiate.

His gaze wandered over your face again, studying, collecting reactions he liked, discarding ones he didn’t. A curator choosing which version of you he preferred to display.

Then, as abruptly as he’d scooped you out of the sky, he eased his hand away. No farewell touch, no dramatic exit line. Just release. Like a leash slipping from a hand, not because the walker is done, but because they know the dog will still come back. “Get some rest,” he commanded in silk clothing.

You turned toward your building entrance, held together by politeness and survival instinct. Your keys shook slightly in your hand, only enough that you noticed. Hopefully not enough that he did.

But then — of course he did. He saw everything. Especially in you. Halfway through your door, you risked a glance back.

He was still there.

Hovering inches above the pavement now, as if gravity bored him and he’d decided to only pretend to respect it for your benefit. Cape stirring in the evening breeze, city lights gilding the edges of his suit. A perfect god framed by very human streetlamps, looking at your front steps like he’d carved them into the world himself.

And he was smiling.

Not the public smile, not the one that sold patriotism and purity and protection on glossy banners and cereal boxes. This one was private. Like he’d discovered something rare. Like he’d pocketed it. Like you had finally given him something real and it thrilled him.

You slipped inside and shut the door softly, gentle as if noise might offend him through the wood. Through the narrow glass, you glimpsed him one last time, still floating, still staring at your building, as though memorizing each brick, each window, each potential vantage point.

A god who believed he’d earned worship.

started 10.29.2025. finished 11.02.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

"You're being impatient again," Caleb's affectionate murmur smothers your sharp inhale as hundreds of small seeds rasp over one of your prickling nipples. "I promised I would, didn't I?"

Your back instinctively arches toward the sensation as he traces it over the other one. You whine as you meet the wall of his power instead. "Has your Caleb ever broken a promise?"

"N-no. Never," you breathe, shaking your head in response — the only part of you he's allowed full range of motion — as your body basks in yet another one of his lessons. His mission. His personal campaign to have you experience all the touches and tastes you've never encountered before.

"That's right," he coos, leaning into his arm until his face hovers over yours, strands of his hair brushing across your forehead. Your half-lidded eyes sharpen as you drink in the contours of his brow. The deep hue of rose painting his cheeks. The glisten of the sun's rays on his red-stained lips. "I'm just decidin' how I want you to have your first taste of strawberry."

"Maybe I'll let you have a little lick," Caleb muses. He drags the rough tip of the fruit over your bottom lip, pulling it out of reach when your tongue grazes it.

"Hmm, no. Maybe a little bite instead?" you huff out a frustrated breath, meeting his gleaming eyes with your impatient ones, parting your lips in silent demand only for him to bring it up to his own lips instead.

"Caleb." You strain against your restraints again, the futility of movement injected into the half-whimper, half-growl. Your eyes narrow in longing on the traitorous drop of crimson liquid that rolls from the corner of his bottom lip to the center of it. "Please."

"Shh, it's okay. I've figured it out." He leans forward, trailing his nose over the edge of your jaw, somehow still able to soothe you without the use of his hands. "Ready to try your first berry?"

"Yes." You take no care to bottle anything up this time as you let desperation leak out of every word.

Unable to raise your arms, you raise your head as Caleb puts the rest of the fruit into his mouth. Unable to rub your thighs together, you lick your lips as he suspends his mouth a hairsbreadth from yours.

That familiar tingle of what you've come to know as desire ripples over your body like a stone across water. Infusing every nerve ending with an agonizing sort of energy that you've learned is both pleasurable and painful in equal measure. "Yes, Caleb. I said I'm re-"

His mouth closes over yours before you finish the word. A sweet, wet, hungry kiss floods your mouth. The sensation tart, tangy, sugary as his tongue nudges the strawberry into your mouth. The fruit bursts between your teeth, the taste startling and vivid on your tongue.

But then there’s his taste under it, plundering its way through the sweetness. Warm, searing, electric.

And as you sink into your first bite of strawberry and your hundredth bite of him, you can’t tell if it’s the fruit that's stirring that tight and urgent mixture of pleasure and pain inside you, or Caleb.