@jamie

So I genuinely never expected these silly little tweets to grow into what they have (very happy that people are loving them!) but as a result... they're not very organised! But people have been asking me to put them in some sort of order so they can be read together and while putting them all onto AO3 or something would probably be best, I'm not planning to stop making more so having to edit that would be a lot (unfortunately I am a slave to capitalism!) But hopefully this works!

FYI - I will only ever post to this account and my AO3 so if you see any similarities to other fics/accounts those are not related to my au! All the twt stan oc's are mine and not related to any real accounts!

Since most of the posts are collections of tweets, there isn't an easy chronological order, so I've decided to sort them into 4 groups - Before The Cottage (including events from Heated Rivalry the show and the book), After The Cottage (the time period in between HR and the epilogue of TLG), After The Long Game (anything post canon), and Anything Else (the posts that span too many years to fit into the other categories - listed in order of posting)

Profiles circa 2017

Bonus - Lily's account circa 2012

Bonus - explanation of Lily's moots

Before The Cottage

Part 5 - 2011 - 2013 - Hollanov vs Scott Hunter

Part 30 - 2012 - 2013 - early Lily (Ilya's secret account)

Part 36 - Dec 2013 - Lily reacts to baby's first fight

Part 29 - 2014 - 2016 - Boston gang on twitter

Part 23 - 2014 - 2017 - Lily (Ilya) and their favourite Shane things

Part 4 - Jan 2014 - Ilya vs Hayden

Part 3 - 2015 - 2017 - Ilya on twitter ft his secret account

Part 20 - 2015 - 2017 - more Ilya on twitter

Part 2 - March 2015 - Hayden exposes Shane

Part 33 - April 2015 - Ilya vs Hayden

Part 39 - Nov 2015 - Ilya reacts to Shane's halloween costume

Part 41 - Feb 2016 - more Lily and their fave Roz stan

Part 54 - July 2016 - Lily discovers AO3

Part 6 - Aug 2016 - Svetlana is so tired of her bsf

Part 55 - Sept 2016 - Cosmo's Hottest Man In The MLH

Part 49 - Nov/Dec 2016 - Landrygate

Part 9 - Mostly 2016/2017 - more of Ilya's secret stan account

Extra (From Part 11) - October 2016 - Jackie reaches out to Lily

Extra - July 2017 - jealous Lily makes a claim

After The Cottage

Part 14 - Mostly late 2017 - Lily vs hockey twt

Part 32 - 2017 - 2019 - Lily in the boyfriends era

Part 17 - Oct 2017 - Lily misses her bf

Part 27 - Feb 2018 - Lily learns something new

Part 53 - Feb 2018 - some Skip (ft Ilya roasting the old man)

Bonus - April 2018 - Operation Lily (the stans gc)

Part 46 - 2019 - 2022 - Lily's non-Shane chaos

Extra - March 2019 - Lily vs Shaydens

Part 49 - Sept 2019 - more Lily thirsting

Part 16 - Jan 2021 - Ilya stans on twitter

Extra - Hollanov's new twitter profiles (I know I spelt Ottawa wrong it was like 3am and if you bring it up I'll cry)

Part 47 - May 2021 - fuck Shayden lives

Part 10 - July 2021 - Lily post Hollanov wedding

After The Long Game

Part 25 - Cens twitter profiles

Part 26 - 2019 - 2023 - best team in the league

Part 35 - March 2020 - Scott and his little brother Ilya

Part 8 - 2021 - 2022 - Hollanov husbands <3

Part 12 - 2021 - 2022 - Hollanov husbands <33

Part 22 - May 2021 - Shane vs gay culture

Part 44 - Aug 2021 - all my homies (Lily) hate the Voyagers

Bonus - Sept 2021 - Ilya helps a friend (Shu)

Part 28 - Sept 2021 - twitter reacts to Hollanov on the Cens

Part 31 - Sept 2021 - Hayden and the husbands

Part 43 - April 2014/Nov 2021 - Marley on his bestie

Bonus - Dec 2021 - Shane vs Shaydens

Part 45 - Nov 2021 - Feb 2022 - here's how Roselana could still happen

Part 52 - Jan - Apr 2022 - the Cens get to know their captain properly

Part 7 - 2022 - Hollanov husbands <333

Bonus - 2022 - reading thirst tweets drabble

Part 42 - Jan 2022 - Hollanov switch jerseys

Part 21 - March 2022 - Ilya forgets to switch accounts

Part 34 - May 2022 - Shane's birthday

Part 48 - May 2022 - Ilya is Shane's WAG

Part 40 - June 2022 - Ilya's birthday

Part 50 - June 2022 - STANLEY CUP EDITION

Part 38 - July 2022 - Scott's birthday

Part 13 - Oct 2022 - flower girls shenanigans (Ilya and Rose)

Part 24 - Oct 2022 - Hollanov's first public date (meant for this to be the week after part 13 but got the date wrong! oh well!)

Part 37 - March 2023 - Cens on a plane

Extra - Sept 2023 - Lily's a DUDE???

Anything Else

Part 1 - the dump that started it all (not really considered canon to the au anymore, just funny)

Part 11 - Ilya/Lily being a menace

Part 15 - Ilya/Lily and the Pikes

Part 18 - Roselana edition

Part 19 - more Lily (ft my fave rare of Hudson)

When you open the door, he’s standing there barefoot, sleeves pushed up, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes scan you with that subtle, perceptive calm he always has — like he’s already done the math and knows exactly how close you are to unraveling.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice still thick with sleep.

“I know.” He tilts his head, eyes soft. “But I wanted to. Come on.”

You trail after him into the kitchen where two plates are set, steam curling in the morning light. Scrambled eggs with herbs, multigrain toast with avocado, roasted sweet potatoes — a weirdly perfect balance of comfort and energy. There’s even a mug of tea waiting by your seat, your favorite kind.

He sits across from you, watching carefully, like he wants to make sure you’ll actually eat. You do. The first bite nearly makes you cry — not because it’s extravagant, but because it’s intentional. It tastes like quiet love. Like someone saw how hard you were holding yourself together and stepped in to say, “You don’t have to do it all alone.”

Zayne doesn't rush you. He eats slowly, sipping his coffee, resting his chin in one hand as he watches the sunlight move across the kitchen tile. When your fork clinks softly against the plate, he finally speaks again.

“I packed you lunch,” he says, standing to grab a container from the counter. He hands it to you with a casual kind of care, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world — to think of you when you weren’t even awake yet. “Don’t forget it. You need fuel more than flashcards.”

There’s a note tucked under the lid. You blink at his handwriting:

“Proud of you. Even on the days you forget how much you’re carrying.”

Your chest goes tight. He just knows.

“I—” you start, but your voice cracks a little. “Thank you.”

Zayne steps forward, brushing a hand down your arm before slipping his fingers through yours. “You don’t need to thank me for loving you,” he says simply.

You look up at him, eyes burning. His thumb rubs across the back of your hand, warm and slow.

“Seriously, Zayne. You didn’t need to go out of your way—”

His brow furrows. “This isn’t ‘out of the way.’ This is the way. You’re stressed. You’re exhausted. You needed help, so I did something about it. That’s love. That’s what we do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, holding onto his hand like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Eventually, he pulls you gently into him, wrapping his arms around your waist as you rest your forehead against his chest. His hand rubs up and down your spine in slow, rhythmic motions. Steady. Calming.

“You’re gonna get through today,” he murmurs. “And tomorrow. And every other awful, brain-melting exam. And I’ll be here for all of it."

You pull back just enough to look at him, to catch the faint grin he tries to hide. “I might hold you to that.”

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek — soft, grounding. “Please do.”

The world still feels heavy, but not quite unbearable. You grab your bag, your tea, your packed lunch. And when you leave the apartment, his note still tucked safely inside your backpack, you walk out with a little more air in your lungs — because Zayne reminded you that someone is on your side.

Someone sees you.

And he loves you through it all — quietly, patiently, fully.

XAVIER

It’s past midnight again.

Your desk is a battlefield — textbooks splayed open like fallen soldiers, your notes scrawled in a frenzy of highlighter and caffeine-fueled desperation. The room smells faintly of instant ramen and stress.

You’re not sure when Xavier showed up. He has a habit of appearing quietly, as if afraid being too loud might make everything worse. Now, he’s sitting cross-legged on your bed, awkwardly holding a blanket in his lap like he’s not sure what to do with his hands.

You barely glance at him over your laptop.

“You can go home, you know,” you mumble, typing furiously.

“I... could,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “but I don’t really want to.”

You glance at him again. He’s got that look — soft eyes, nervous mouth, like he’s waiting for permission to care out loud.

“Not doing much,” he adds, then frowns at himself. “I mean, I’m here if you need me. Not like need need, but — like — uh, in case you crash or something. Not that I’m saying you will. I just... y’know. I’ve got a lap.”

You stop typing.

“You’ve got a what?” you say, biting back a smile.

He goes crimson, pulling the blanket up to his chin like it’ll shield him from your teasing.

“I just meant — like — if you’re tired,” he mumbles. “You can sleep. On me. Not in a weird way.”

You chuckle, rubbing at your tired eyes. “You’re so weird.”

“Thank you,” he says solemnly.

And then you’re too tired to pretend you’re not swaying in your chair. Your head is pounding, and the words on your screen are starting to blur together into alphabet soup. You don’t want to admit it, but your body’s already leaning toward him like he’s gravity.

“You serious about the lap thing?” you ask, voice small.

He blinks, like he didn’t think you’d take him up on it. Then he nods quickly, scooting back and patting his thigh. “Uh — yeah. Totally serious.”

You shuffle over, dropping your laptop on the nightstand. He opens his arms awkwardly, and you curl into his side, head finding the crook between his shoulder and chest like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

He goes still for a second, like he’s afraid to breathe. Then, slowly, his arms wrap around you — loose at first, then tighter, like he’s trying to be careful with something breakable. His fingers start moving, gently stroking your back, brushing through your hair.

Your brain is fog, but his warmth cuts through it like sunlight. Steady. Solid.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers, breath warm against your hair. “Even if you don’t feel like it. I see how hard you’re trying.”

You press your face into his chest, and the stress starts to melt — just a little.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Always,” he says.

You’re already drifting when he adds, quieter this time, “I like when you rest on me.”

You smile, eyes closed.

“I know,” you whisper back.

RAFAYEL

It starts with a question that isn’t really a question.

“You okay?”

You’re standing in the kitchen, hands shaking slightly as you try to open a bag of snacks. It rips too fast, spills everywhere, and that’s the final straw. Your vision blurs with tears, your breath catches, and your shoulders go tight with the effort of holding yourself upright.

You don't answer him.

Rafayel crosses the room before the first tear even falls. You feel his presence before you hear him — warm, steady, like a storm is coming to wrap you in safety, not fury.

“Hey, hey.” His voice is low, grounding. “You don’t have to talk if you can’t. Just let me be here, okay?”

And you do. You let it go.

It hits fast — a broken sob, the kind that scrapes its way out of your chest like it’s been trapped for days. Your legs give out halfway, and he catches you without hesitation, strong arms winding around your waist as you crumble into him.

“I’m trying so hard,” you gasp against his hoodie. “But I can’t — I don’t know what day it is anymore — I keep studying and it’s like none of it sticks, and I can’t sleep and everything just hurts—”

“I know, I know.” His hand rubs gentle circles on your back. He holds you like you’re the only thing that matters. “You’ve been holding all of this in. Too much for too long.”

You grip the fabric of his sleeve, knuckles white. He lets you cry it out, lets you shudder against his chest without pulling away or trying to fix it too soon.

When your breathing finally evens, he gently guides you to the couch and sits down with you, pulling you onto his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair in slow, comforting motions.

“You know,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, “breaking down doesn’t make you weak. It means you’re human. And you don’t have to go through this alone.”

You let out a weak laugh against his chest, still sniffling. “You’re saying that now, but I’m basically a snotty puddle on your hoodie.”

He looks down at you, eyes shining with the kind of softness that makes your heart ache.

“Then this hoodie’s exactly where it’s supposed to be,” he says simply.

You rest there, cocooned in his warmth, in the scent of his skin and the safety of his arms. He doesn’t try to distract you from your feelings or minimize them. He just lets them exist. Lets you exist — messy, tired, raw.

“You’re not a machine,” he whispers. “You’re allowed to break sometimes. I’ll be here to help you put the pieces back together.”

You pull in a shaky breath and nod against him.

“I don’t want to do this alone anymore,” you admit.

“You don’t have to,” he says, without hesitation. “I’ve got you. For however long you need.”

And in that moment, you believe him.

SYLUS

The clock ticks past 1:00 a.m. again.

Your shoulders ache. Your neck feels like it’s been fused into a single knot. Your foot’s fallen asleep from being tucked under you for too long, but you’re too buried in your notes to care.

Finals are chewing you up and spitting you out, and at this point, your body is just along for the ride.

You don’t even hear Sylus come in.

You feel him first — his fingers trailing through your hair, a teasing tug near the ends. You glance up and he’s already smirking, that slow, lazy grin that should be illegal this late at night.

“Well,” he drawls, “if it isn’t my favorite academic weapon.”

You sigh and let your head drop forward onto your textbook. “I’m dying, Sylus.”

“No,” he says. “You’re just crispy around the edges.”

His hands rest lightly on your shoulders. You expect him to tease you more, maybe nudge you about posture, but instead—

He presses down, slowly, deliberately.

You let out a sound you didn’t mean to make.

“...Oh my god.”

He chuckles behind you, voice smug and smooth. “Your tension level is catastrophic. Honestly, I’m offended you’ve been sitting here suffering without calling in your personal massage god.”

You laugh, barely — a short breath, tired but real. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me?” he repeats, incredulous. “Kitten, you could wake me up at 3 a.m. with a full spreadsheet of muscle complaints and I’d show up with lavender oil and hot towels.”

You shiver as his fingers work deeper into the muscle near your shoulder blades, thumbs pressing with just the right pressure.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

“Nope. Just Sylus.” He leans closer, lips grazing the top of your ear. “Though I’ll accept divine praise if you’re handing it out.”

You swat at him weakly, but he catches your wrist and brings it to his lips, kissing the inside gently before returning both hands to your shoulders. His touch is grounding — firm and slow, like he knows exactly where you’re hurting without asking.

“You’re carrying too much,” he murmurs, voice dropping softer. “Not just in your body, but in your head. I can feel it.”

Your eyes flutter closed. You don’t even try to deny it.

“Turn around,” he says.

You do, obedient and boneless, swiveling in your chair until your back meets the edge of the desk. He kneels, warm hands cradling your bare foot, thumb pressing into the arch like he’s done it a hundred times. You bite your lip.

“You know,” he muses, looking up at you from under his lashes, “if this whole college thing doesn’t work out, you could always hire me as your full-time stress reliever.”

You arch an eyebrow, flushed and dazed. “Is that your job title?”

“Officially? No. But informally?” He kisses your ankle, light and teasing. “Yeah. It’s got a nice ring to it.”

By the time he finishes — feet, shoulders, and the tension melting from your neck — your brain is soft, your body heavy in the best way. He pulls you up and into his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist like you’re the most important thing in the room.

And maybe you are.

“You good?” he whispers.

You nod into his chest.

“Don’t let finals take all of you,” he says. “Save some for after. For us.”

You smile, half-asleep already. “Only if you promise to keep the massages coming.”

He kisses your forehead.

“Forever.”

CALEB

Your textbook is glaring at you like it knows you’re about to give up.

You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for fifteen minutes, and not even the highlighter in your hand knows what it’s doing anymore. You might be physically upright, but mentally? You're flatlining.

“Okay, emergency nerd rescue incoming,” Caleb announces as he flops onto your bed, legs swinging over the edge, a granola bar between his teeth and a stack of flashcards in one hand.

You blink. “You weren’t invited.”

He gives you a mock gasp, clutching at his chest. “How dare you. I’ve come here, out of the goodness of my gorgeous, underutilized brain, to tutor you. And this is the thanks I get?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re studying to be a pilot.”

“And you’re trying to survive Psych 201. So congrats — your knight in questionable academic armor has arrived.”

You snort, but he grins and scoots in beside you on the floor, back against the wall. He bumps your shoulder lightly. “Come on. Let’s get that beautiful brain of yours working. I’ll go easy on you… maybe.”

“You literally distract me,” you mutter, but hand him the textbook anyway.

“I distract you because I’m incredibly handsome,” he replies, flipping to the chapter you’d been silently begging the universe to erase. “It’s not my fault you’re weak to charm.”

“Delusion is a full-time job for you, huh?”

He wiggles his brows. “And I’ve got great references.”

But then he actually does start helping. In between the teasing and bad jokes — “Think of the amygdala like your brain’s little drama queen” — he breaks things down in a way that makes the information stick. He quizzes you without making you panic, celebrates your correct answers like you just solved world peace, and calls wrong ones “learning plot twists.”

You’re still exhausted, still overwhelmed — but he makes it feel lighter somehow. Like you’re not drowning. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re gonna be okay.

At one point, you rub your temples and let your head drop onto his shoulder. “Why do you actually make this fun?”

“Because I’m a treasure,” he says smugly, before softening. “Also, because I hate seeing you stress so much. You’re way too cool to be crying over chapter summaries.”

You laugh softly, and he bumps your knee with his.

“Let’s finish one more section,” he says, “and then we take a snack break. Or a cuddle break. Or both. You pick.”

You give him a tired but grateful look. “Thanks for helping me.”

He winks. “Don’t thank me yet. We’re not done."

You were a menace. But he wouldn’t trade your specific brand of chaos for anything in the entire universe. 

You were the one that made this lonely empty house a home, after all.

His grin widens as he remembers just how clean your own apartment in Linkon always is. Naturally, he comes to the conclusion that you only act like this when you know he’s there to pick up after you. To take care of you.

The most important job he’s ever had. 

The sound of the shower continues to run upstairs while Caleb tidies up the living spaces. He quickly returns ingredients back to their designated cabinets, abandoned after you so thoughtfully cooked dinner for him last night. As he shuts the cabinet, he sighs, eyes catching sight of the various vitamin bottles you’d left on the counter, nearly hidden by the rice cooker.

He gathers them up in his large palms, finding a spot for them in his own cabinet of medicine and supplements. 

One by one, he meticulously puts them onto the shelf.

Omega-3, vitamin C, collagen, creatine, prenatal gummies, vitamin B-12—

Wait.

Prenatal gummies?  

Caleb’s violet eyes widen, his breath stuck in his throat, as he reads those red words over and over.

Prenatal gummies for pregnant or nursing women. With folic acid and DHA. Whatever that meant.

His heartbeat quickens as his mind races a mile a minute, his thoughts landing abruptly on the only plausible explanation.

Were you really…pregnant? 

Was it possible? Yes. 

On more than one occasion, definitely way more times than he could count on two hands, he hadn’t been…careful. You’d begged for it, but he should have known better. It was his job to protect you.

But it’d always been on non-fertile days, or that’s what your little period-tracking calendar had always said. 

No, Caleb thinks in a sheer panic. Please no. I can’t be a dad. Not right now. Maybe not ever. 

He’d barely been able to protect you at the lab. He couldn’t possibly let down someone else—a child, a baby. Your baby. That you’d made together. 

He would not survive failing your child. Through heaven and hell, that is something he’d never be able to recover from. 

Caleb runs a shaky hand through his dark brown hair, his normally controlled and collected Colonel’s mask completely and utterly shattered at his feet.

Right now, he was just Caleb, the man who dedicated his entire life, who’d give up anything and everything, to protect you—and would do so until his last breath. 

And this Caleb had never been more terrified in his entire life. Through an entire life of experimentation, through traveling the Deepspace Tunnel, through an explosion that nearly claimed his life, he’d never been more scared than he was right now.

Fatherhood.

The world felt like it was closing in on him—every time he’d failed you replaying in the ever expanding black hole that was his mind. 

The lab. Losing you during the Chronorift Disaster. Every bully, every knee scraped. Ever. The Toring chip. The list goes on and on. 

His chest tightened until he could hardly breathe, his knuckles white with the force at which he gripped the bottle of prenatals. 

He wasn’t equipped for this. 

And yet…he couldn’t deny how many times he’d thought about this life, with you. A life of mundane and blissful domesticity. No Fleet politics, no Wanderers, no imminent danger at every fucking corner. 

A life you’d created together. When he’d grown up thinking there was no such thing. That there would never be a world that the two of you could truly call yours.

“Caleb?”

Your voice pulls him out of his all-consuming thoughts. His head snaps up to see you coming down the stairs, your hair wet, body swimming in one of his big shirts. Your face, beautiful as ever, is laced with concern as you see how uncharacteristically pale he is.

When his eyes meet yours, you can’t help but smile, always so happy to see his face and sparkling nebulous eyes—even when he looked like he’d just seen a ghost. Your smile doesn’t fade as you approach him, palms instinctively coming to rest on his chest when you reach him. 

And just like that, he wasn’t so scared anymore. 

The thought of a little you running around. With that smile?

A mini version of the most precious thing in his life. One that’d undoubtedly drive him insane with that same attitude he loved so dearly. 

That had your laugh as he pointed out different types of planes soaring through the sky. Or your mischievous curiosity as he taught him how to fly his very first jet.

Yeah. He could get used to the idea of that. 

“Did something happen? You look like you’re about to be sick,” you raise an eyebrow at him. It’s then he finally releases the plastic bottle of supplements, setting it down on the counter with a soft ‘clack’. 

Your eyes immediately drift to the source of the intrusive sound, widening when they see what he was so fixated on.

”Caleb it’s—”

You’re cut off by your own squeal, Caleb’s big palms gently but firmly gripping either side of your waist, pulling you so close you could hear his pounding heart. 

“Am I—I mean are we actually…Are you pregnant?”

You can’t help but giggle at his frantic words, stumbling over himself with none of the usual poise and polish of the Farspace Fleet’s revered colonel. 

Caleb’s hand moves from your waist to your tummy, his thumb stroking softly against the fabric of his ratty shirt. His palm cups against your naval without thinking, already instinctively providing a protective barrier between the most important things to him and the rest of the world.

”I…I don’t know if I’d be any good at this,” he whispers, nebulous eyes bright with emotion, “I don’t know if I’d be a good dad.”

Your eyes widen at his vulnerable admission, not expecting it in the least. You’d never expressly discussed starting a family that extended beyond the two of you, but it’d always felt like something Caleb wanted. A stark contrast to his words, you always knew Caleb would be an amazing dad, if that was what the two of you decided you wanted.

Before you can interrupt, Caleb continues, “But—God help me…I will never let anything happen to you. Either of you.”

Your heart flutters at the sincerity of his solemn vow, and you find yourself unable to form the words you should say.

”Caleb…you….” you trail off with a gulp, unsure how to verbalize the torrent of emotions you have for this unbelievably incredible man.

“You’d be the best father.” Your quiet whisper rings whole-heartedly, voice thick with adoration and a bubbling anticipation for your future with him.

Caleb watches you with rapt attention, his heartbeat still hammering like the thrum of a hummingbird’s wings amidst the silence between you two. You’re about to open your mouth again—tell him you’re not pregnant, when he picks you up and backs away from the kitchen counter so he can spin you around. His strong hands are secure under your armpits, the smile on his face so effortlessly Caleb.

Behind the thin mist of fear in his eyes, this was the brightest you’d ever seen Caleb.

You can’t help but burst into a fit of giggles, clutching his muscled shoulders.

“Caleb, put me down!” you demand through your unabashed laugh of delight.

”No,” Caleb grins, “You’re never walking anywhere ever again—never lifting a single finger. Not while you’re carrying our baby.” He suddenly swings you so that his arm is hooked under your knees, carrying you like a prince would a princess.

You smile so wide your cheeks hurt, but you know you have to tell him the truth. You couldn’t bear to disappoint him, but what’s worse was giving him false hope.

Reaching up to tenderly cup his face with your hands, your voice shakes, “Caleb…”

Caleb smiles warmly at you, his cheeks leaning into your touch, “Yeah, princess?”

You bite your lip at how adorably he resembles a happy puppy, his earlier fear seeming to have evaporated into pure excitement. 

You find tears inexplicably forming in your eyes, grieving a pregnancy that was never even there to begin with. Blinking them back, you rip off the bandaid.

“I’m not pregnant.”

Seeing the befuddled expression in his features, his amethyst eyes squinting with unanswered questions, you continue, “The prenatals aren’t for that. A friend recommended them for my skin. Since work’s been a little stressful and I’ve been breaking out.”

You clutch his jacket, staring at his chest—waiting for him to speak. To express disappointment. Maybe even scold you for letting him believe, even if only for a minute. 

“You’re stressed? How come you didn’t tell me? What’s going on at work?”

Caleb only stares at you with genuine concern, still not setting you down, holding you tighter. Your heart hammers at the worry laced in his voice, drowning in emotions that that was what he was most concerned about. 

Your troubles.

“N-Nothing serious, it’s just workplace politics—anyways! The point is I’m not pregnant, okay? I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.” 

You can’t stop the apology from tumbling out, even when you know you have nothing to be sorry for. But just seeing how excited he’d been is enough to make you feel like a monster for being the one to squash it. 

Caleb sets you down so that you’re sitting on the counter, his thick body positioned between your thighs. Your heart can’t help but sink at the simple action that felt like it signified so much more. That he was disappointed with you.

But suddenly Caleb flicks your forehead with his index finger.

“Hey!” 

“Dummy,” he mutters, thumb soothing the area he’d flicked, “Why are you sorry?” 

“I—you were so excited,” you say sheepishly, “I probably should’ve mentioned I started taking them before you found them yourself.” 

Caleb chuckles, almost in disbelief, hooking your hair behind your ear. Before he can respond, you whisper, “You’re really not mad?”

“How could I be mad?”

His hand abandons the edge of the counter, once again coming to rest over your stomach. His thumb strokes you reassuringly.

“Just knowing that you think I…” he trails off, his own voice murky with emotions. 

“That I’d be worthy of being the father of your children.” 

You place your hand over his, squeezing gently. It felt almost comical—the two of you in the kitchen, hands pressed over your stomach like there was anything there. 

“Besides, I’m not in a rush,” he smiles gently, taking your chin into his fingers and brushing his lips against yours. 

“We have a whole lifetime to make our own little pip-squeak.” 

© aeyumicore 2025.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

"I was wondering if... You'd let me put my cock inside you without me having to ask or with any ceremony." He said in a careful voice. "Of course, if you don't want to at the moment, just tell me and I'll completely stop. I totally understand if you find it weird and don't want to do this and I pinky promise we never have to talk about it again and I'll never bring it up ev-“

"I want it!” you said and threw your head to one side. His eyes widened in surprise. "Wherever you want. No matter when you want. I trust you." You kissed one of his eyes. "And I love the idea of you fucking me without ceremony and at any time."

"God, you're going to drive me absolutely crazy. Thank you." He squeezed you in a tight hug.

Once the two of you had agreed on this, you initially thought you'd be having sex the way you always did, hard, deep, kinky, full of fluids, scratches and bites, or doing intense quickies several times a day. But no, it was simple and intimate, simply delicious. Caleb just wanted to be with you and inside you all the time.

Little by little, you realized how the stool he had ordered served more than one purpose. Sometimes you'd be doing your makeup for work, standing in front of the bathroom sink, and Caleb would simply approach you, asking about your plans for the day. As the ordinary words and dialog went on between the two of you, he would gently pull up your shirt, pull down your panties and put his cock inside you. It was addictive. The fucking step step not only gave you the perfect height for the furniture in the house, but also to leave your ass at the right height for Caleb to find himself in you without having to hold you down, sit or lie down. It was usually like this: his cock nestling into you with slow, intimate strokes, while you both carried on chatting about anything, just spending time together.

By then, you made a habit of walking around the house in your (his) large shirt and no panties, knowing that Caleb liked to be with you, inside you, whenever he could. Of course, you still had brutal sex like two animals frequently, but it seemed that Caleb's obsession and need for you - and you for him - was able to bring about the most painfully intimate, simple and tender sex of your lives. It was just so good to trust so deeply in someone and to want someone so badly that no words or timing were needed. At one moment it was a "Can I stay here with you, baby?" and the next you were reading your book, bent over the counter, while Caleb slid his cock up and down between your folds, stroking himself against your clit, praising you and your pretty pussy. He did it not only because he wanted it, but because he could.

Sometimes he wouldn't even come, or even move. If you were watching a movie, he would surely be inside you, both of you cuddled up, relaxing after an exhausting day, cockwarming.

In fact, you liked it so much that when he didn't take the initiative, you went after him. There were times when he was reading reports, sitting on the living room sofa or in the office armchair, and you would silently approach him, fiddling with your cell phone, sit on his thighs, and soon his cock was hard and hot under his pants. Within moments, you were slowly riding his throbbing cock, while he used his thumb to caress your clit, slowly, just like the rise and fall of your hips. If you got tired, you didn't have to get up. You just kept yourself there, hugging Caleb, with his hard cock throbbing inside you, filling you up completely.

One day, talking to Tara and Simone at the pub in Linkon, the topic came up: "How many times a week is it normal for a couple to have sex?", and the girls debated curiously.

"I don't know, three or two times a week? It depends on their schedule." Simone said, sipping her drink.

"Some couples do it every day! Can you imagine? Having sex every day?" Tara said, her eyes widening. " What about you and your boyfriend? How often do you do it?" She asked, curious.

And that made you wonder. There was the mind-blowing sex, the longing sex, the dirty sex, the rough sex, the slow sex, the sex when you were reading, the sex when he was reading, the sex when you were on your cell phones, the sex when talking about anything, the sex on the kitchen counter, the sex on the bathroom sink, the bath time sex, the movie time sex, the bed time sex, the sleep time sex, the wake up time sex, the boredom time sex, the play time sex… And all you could do was blink, trying to calculate how many times a week Caleb and you had sex and it simply wasn't possible to count.

You laughed, sipped your drink and sighed.