sara

he hadn't expected her to suddenly dial him up to tell him that she'd brought her new boyfriend home for dinner. nor had he expected her to cry on the phone to him about how their daughter absolutely hated the man. and tony especially hadn't expected her to drop the news on him that she had a baby on the way, and that mystery man number seven now had been talking about proposing. it made sense that their daughter was upset, but he couldn't just up and say that part out loud.

it's not that tony was jealous in any way. no, he had been going steady with pepper for quite some time now, and he liked her very much. loved her even. it's just, even with this weird sort sort of co-parenting 'friendship' he had with his ex, he hadn't expected a call about her own steady relationship.

the mother of his child wasn't really known for keeping a man around. the tabloids had called the socialite-turned-actress a 'maneater', and wrote quite vulgarly about her various public flings with other famous people in that sphere of influence for years. he'd known all that when he met her seventeen years ago, but he hadn't cared then. he was on a well needed break on the easygoing, steady southern coast of california, away from the bustle of the big apple, and she was a gorgeous woman.

he didn't care that they were on again off again, nor that she probably didn't love him like she always told the press she did. he hadn't cared until she'd came to him crying one day, clutching in her trembling fist a dauntingly positive test that reminded tony that holy shit, this is real. that he had to get his shit together and figure out what they were going to do. that he had to start caring about what the future mother of his child did if they were going to bring another human into this world, so that their baby wouldn't turn out as screwed up as they were.

they succeeded for the most part, besides the fact that their daughter probably had some slight internalized issues from how emotionally unavailable both of her parents were growing up.

but how could she complain when she'd gotten every toy or lavish vacation or extravagant birthday party she'd ever wanted as a child? when she had a roof over her head her whole life — a very expensive roof at that — and that sort of silent nepotism that got her just the right amount of jealous attention from people her age? what more could anyone ask for?

she didn't know how to find the answer to that, not even as she'd finally lifted her head and let her gaze drift around her overwhelmingly large, overwhelmingly curated bedroom. even filled with all of those stupid things she'd meticulously picked out with her mother's card, it taunted her. it reminded her of how much she hated the imaginary walls that confined her to her sickeningly out-of-touch life in hollywood hills.

call her shallow, call her pretentious, call her out of touch, but the city drove her half-insane. she'd never asked to be born to her parents, and she hadn't ever wanted anything to do with the nepotism that came with it. thankfully, her mother had kept her out of the public eye as much as she could while she was growing up, so she wasn't exactly a hollywood-nepo-baby-micro-influencer or anything like that, but that didn't keep the kids at school from being damn nosy.

she'd been pulled out of public school when she was twelve after punching a boy in the face who made a joke about flirting with her mom. she heard that he'd scored a crooked, broken nose from the incident. he deserved it.

her lips twitch at the corners, just barely, as she turns the childhood memory over in her mind, but the humor of the moment doesn't last long when her mother's voice cuts through her thoughts.

"—miserable! i feel completely responsible for this!" the woman's voice sounds far, downstairs probably, but she can be heard pretty decently from the teenager's quiet bedroom.

pressing her ear to the door doesn't really help much, but she does it anyways. it's cool against her cheek, grounding as she listens to her mother's phone conversation without knowing who's speaking on the other side of the call or what they're talking about.

there's a pause, before the actress speaks again, "it'd only be until we figure this out," then, quieter, softer, "please. for our daughter's sake."

there's some murmurs that she can't quite make out but sound like goodbyes, and then the sound of footsteps coming up the staircase — her mother's. she'd memorized them as a kid while staring up at the ceiling from inside the childhood bed she'd tucked herself into whenever her mom came home late at night from a shoot or date or event or whatever. on those nights, the ceiling had always been lit with little glowy plastic stars that she'd stuck on it herself somehow. they were still there now.

".. sweetheart?"

a steady knock comes to the door she's pressed her back into, and she twitches, not answering. her mom knows she's there, so she continues, "i understand that you're upset, and i want to help."

eye roll, but still no response. her mother didn't deserve that much. at least, not until she got on with what she wanted to say. living with the actress had gotten her used to hasty apologies.

".. i called your dad,"

the woman's voice is calm. she's speaking to her daughter as if she's one of the press reporters she's been media trained to interact with. she does that sometimes, whether she means to or not. it was infuriating.

"we both agreed that you need a change of scenery, so.." she trails off for a moment. the silence settles between them for just long enough before she continues softly, "i suggested you going to stay with him for a while, just until things settle down. he agreed."

"what?"

the door is whipped open, and she finally faces the woman who'd raised her like she was a fancy, expensive teacup pet that she'd gotten on a whim because it was cute.

"you're sending me away because i don't like your boyfriend?" she snaps bitterly, "oh, real mature."

"this isn't about derrick," her mother was beautiful, even when hurt flashed on her face like it did now, "and i'm not 'sending you away.' aren't you the one who said you wanted to see him more often?"

"yeah, maybe when i was six. i'm fine speaking to him, like, once a year now."

that was true. she'd been practically enamored with the idea of having someone who was the face of such a sick tech company as her father when she was younger — not to mention a renowned, beloved hero to the public. it had only taken up to the second grade for her to realize that her father wasn't as enamored with her, and up to fifth grade to accept it. she was fine with how their relationship was now. more than fine, and she definitely hadn't wanted her mother to screw it up like this.

"he wants to see you."

"because you called him and forced him to have me over, just like you keep trying to force your stupid boyfriend into my life! i have no intentions of meeting a guy you're leaving in a few months tops for the next one!"

that might've been a little much. actually, it definitely was, because her mother actually looked upset with her now. like, a motherly kind of upset that you couldn't fix with a simple 'sorry, i got carried away. love you, mama!’

"i think it's best if you leave tomorrow."

and so, that was how tony stark's only teenage daughter got herself sent all the way to the east coast to stay with him for god knows how long, despite the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about raising a child. sounded easy enough, though.

instead, he swallowed thickly and pushed himself off the counter, turning to the food simmering on the stove. at least, that way, he could focus on something other than the fact that he wanted to bend you over the dining table you were working so meticulously on setting.

it was too soon. it was far too soon to do anything. those are the words caleb had to echo in his mind to keep himself in check as of late. hell, it had only been a month since you two had first kissed. since then, everything that followed finally started to become less subtle between them. the brush of their fingers, the press of their hugs — tighter than usual, the persistently dull ache deep in his gut that seemed to last hours anytime his lips touched yours … it all seemed charged.

caleb had waited all his life for you. he didn’t mind waiting some more. hell, he’d wait an eternity if it were for you. but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t drive him absolutely fuckin’ insane first.

“gege?”

your voice breaks him from his trance at the stove, and, suddenly, you’re not so far from him anymore. your gaze is curious at his shoulder. it always is, like you’re never aware of that you do to him. caleb swallows again.

“go finish setting the table.”

he doesn’t have to say anything else. you hear it in his voice — the way it wavers at the edges, how it’s barely audible over the sizzling of their food on the stove, how strained he sounds. you don’t move, but he hadn’t really expected you to anyways.

he reaches down without thinking, pinching the stretchy black fabric at your hip between two thick, calloused fingers. dark lashes fan out against his cheeks as he watches the way his light tug pulls the leggings away from your skin.

“these new?” his gaze flicks back up to your face, deep violet eyes unreadable even after growing up together.

you nod, blinking as he lets the fabric snap back against your skin, “i bought them for the gym, but they’re really comfortable so i’ve been wearing them around the apartment.”

caleb’s eyebrows do that thing — that little scrunch in the middle that makes him look so expressive, too expressive for his own liking. especially when he’s trying so damn hard to be good. it’s only a flash of expression shift before he trains himself back into that stoic look he was taught to perfect in his years training at the academy.

when your gaze flicks from his face downwards, he shifts, moving to turn half away from you so that you can’t see the physical evidence of his mental strain. but you’re persistent. you’re so damn persistent. and, in that moment, your eyes catch something that makes your breath hitch. caleb hears it and squeezes his eyes shut.

“go finish setting the table,” he repeats.

but then your hand is on his arm, and he feels something familiar prickle through all the nerve endings you’ve connected that tiny bit of your warm, soft skin with. it goes all the way down his spine, then back up to the burning nape of his neck.

“caleb..” you step between him and the counter, trying to meet his gaze. always so damn curious.

his hands come down almost instantly, whirling you around so that you’re turned with your back to him now, facing the countertop littered with the cooking utensils and vegetable ends. he doesn’t press into you. in fact, there’s a good inch of space between your bodies. but he’s trembling, trying to keep his hands steady on your hips.

“don’t look at me,” he mutters under his unsteady breath, gaze flicking down to the painfully obvious tent growing in his low hung sweats, cursing himself internally for losing his restraint so easily around you.

then his gaze flicks again, towards your ass in those damn leggings. his fingers twitch on your hips, just barely noticeable. goddamn it.

“why’re you being weird?”

he exhales a weak laugh through his nose, eyes fluttering shut behind you to keep himself from looking. his pulse is a low thump in his ears — quick, persistent, annoying. his forehead drops to your shoulder weakly. he presses his lips into your bare skin there for a moment.

“‘m not feeling well,” he answers shortly, lips brushing your shoulder at each word that he murmurs.

you’re both very still for a moment. caleb’s pulse starts calming, slowly, becoming more of a flutter against his eardrum. he’s about ready to step back and tell you to finish setting the table again when he feels the sudden warm press of something against his front, jolting him out of his momentary peace.

“meimei,” he warns, starting to step backwards.

your hands come to rest over his on your hips, squeezing them gingerly and keeping himself from slipping away from you. your voice is almost a whisper when you cut him off, looking over your shoulder at him, “why are you holding back?”

caleb’s jaw twitches as you brush yourself against him again, more hesitantly this time, as if you’re trying to test if he’s going to pull away. but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he drops his head onto your shoulder again, pressing another small kiss there, then up at your ear.

“not yet.”

the slight petulance that overcomes your manner is almost amusing to him. at the same time, it’s utter torture. caleb knows he wants to go slow with you. he’s waited for you too damn long to rush into anything. that’s why he usually held himself back so well. but the tone of your soft voice in your next whisper makes him shudder in restraint.

“but i want it too.”

the press of your ass against his sweats front is persistent, just like you. you push into him, and he lets you for a moment before tightening his grip on your hips and practically tearing himself away from that pretty, soft curve that molds into him too damn perfectly. the whine that comes from your mouth at the sudden loss of contact between their bodies pains him.

he reaches one hand up from your hip to drag it over his face as he exhales shakily. goddamn it. goddamn it. he’s going to lose his fuckin’ mind.

“not yet, meimei,” he grunts again when you try to brush back into him again, “not yet.”

“but i wanna feel you, caleb.”

caleb taps your hips with his fingers, knitting his brows together when you draw back, waiting for his response. hell, he can’t help but humor you.

“you wanna feel me?” his voice is hoarse, almost incredulous. cause there’s no damn way you want to feel him as much as he wants to feel you. “how bad, meimei?”

you whine again, “really bad.” then, “please.”

“yeah?” he can’t help himself from being a little shit now, his ego stroked, “bad enough to rub up on me in your new leggings?”

your fervent nod makes his lips twitch upwards ever so slightly. he hums, guiding you back against him, just barely. the words that leave his lips next are gruff, tolerable.

“okay,” his voice comes quiet against your ear, “okay, fine. just for a little bit.”

he lets you press your ass back into him again, hands hovering over your hips now so that you can move freely against him. you’re thankful, he can tell that much by the little murmurs of, “thank you, gege,” that you breathe out every so often. after a while of it, he lets himself touch you again, squeezing your hips and pulling you back into him in a slow, subtle rhythm.

it’s so fuckin’ sweet, the way you slot perfectly into his clothed cock. the way your leggings look stretched over the pretty curve of your ass as you grind back into him. almost too sweet, indulgently sweet.

“fuck, meimei,” he mutters into the skin of your shoulder when you pick up your pace, rubbing your clothed ass up into the now-painful bulge in his sweats, “don’t wear yourself out.”

when you don’t make a verbal reply beyond those pretty little breathy pants that leave your lips, caleb lifts you slightly so that your stomach presses into the counter. one of his hands goes to flatten into the marble next to your fingers, the other still helping to work you up and down his front.

“lemme help, ‘kay?”

and fuck, if he doesn’t help. you’re practically riding him through your damn leggings, the warmth of your cunt seeping through the thin fabric of your leggings against him. it’s too bad he can’t feel much of it through his sweats. but still, he’s reeling with a building desperation to be closer, closer, closer.

“hah..” your voice is so sweet, and he can’t help but bite into your shoulder as his hands keep guiding your ass against his erection. his cock throbs from the restrains of his boxers and sweatpants, practically twitching to be pulled out. he doesn’t give in, though — he won’t. he respects you too much to let himself fuck you against the kitchen counter for your first time together. “need.. need more..”

“yeah?” he mutters into your skin, sounding just as slurred from the heat of the moment as you do, “you wanna feel gege that bad, huh? can’t.. can’t help yourself?”

he knows damn well he’s the one who can’t help himself. he’s always driving himself up the wall thinking about you, about your sweet face and your even sweeter presence and the way he’d be so fuckin’ easy for you. he lets himself slip a little at the moan you let out in that moment, one of his big, thick hands snaking around to your front to press into your lower stomach.

your trembling hands go over his immediately as you keep up your effort to grind against him all while pushing his hand downwards wordlessly.

the sound that leaves your pretty lips the moment he pushes his index into your clothed, throbbing clit makes him let out a shuddery breath into your neck. his middle finger joins his index almost immediately, rubbing little circles into your clit before dragging them lower to your pussy. you’re practically soaked through your leggings.

“fuuuck, this all for me?” he slurs into your neck, pressing his canine into your fluttering pulse before kissing the spot sweetly, his fingers pushing into you through the fabric of your newest purchase.

“all for you, gege,” your reply comes soft, breathy.

he presses the fingers a bit deeper, internally very thankful for how stretchy the fabric is. he’s practically fucking you on his fingers through your leggings, still pulling you back to grind against his sweats all the while.

that is, until an incessant beeping jolts them right out of their desperate, pleasured haze. the fire alarm. the pan caleb had kept on the heat to ensure it was hot enough for dinner is smoking with black plumes that whirls upwards, as if taunting them. he leaps back immediately, covering the top of the pan and turning the heat down.

“uhh, shit,” he sounds sheepish, turned half away from you again and eyeing the burnt food inside the sizzling skillet as it keeps smoking under the top. his erection is painfully obvious, poking out from his sweats even from your angle. the back of his neck is red.

how had he forgotten the food on the stove? he was never so careless, especially not when it came to cooking. but fuck, it wasn’t his fault. not when you had pressed against him so well, not when you had made such pretty sounds.

“i’ll,” you swallow, burning up all the way down to your core, “i’ll go finish setting the table.”

but even as you step out of the kitchen and towards the dining table again, caleb can’t help the way his eyes follow the curve of your ass in those damn leggings.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

You were feeling thoughtful as it neared half a year together as a couple. It was strange to think back on how you two had met now that you had come so far. After seeing Ellie, a then stranger, a couple of times at your favorite little coffee shop in the city, you had finally decided to bite the bullet and approach her after some hyping-up from a friend. That was back in March of last year. It was December now, and the two of you had been going steady since that summer after your first introduction.

Ellie kisses at your nape silently for a moment. You can tell that she’s pondering your question even if you can’t see her face with her standing behind you.

“Why’re we talking about this?” she asks softly, though not accusatorially. Her fingers come up from your waist to play with the stands of hair at the back of your neck, pushing the hair away from the damp skin and gingerly wrapping the strands around her fingers.

You don’t reply for a long time. You just relish in the feel of your girlfriend standing behind you in that tiny old shower, in the feel of the hot water pouring down against your front from the shower head, burning your skin deliciously.

“I almost didn’t do it,” you finally admit, letting your eyes close and dipping your face slightly so that the scalding water poured over it.

That was the truth. You almost didn’t approach Ellie that day. There were a couple hundred worries plaguing your mind as you had sat at your little table in the far corner of that coffee shop, squeezing your paper cup tight and hashing out the details of how exactly you were going to go about it. At the forefront of your thoughts were your parents and what they would think about their daughter asking out a girl.

That was a worry you had poured over quite a bit last year before you and Ellie first started talking, before she had sat down with you on your worn down couch in your own apartment that one night after you had nervously confided to her and gently told you, “Y’know you’re not obligated to tell anyone anything, right?”

Ellie knows about your struggle with your sexuality, with accepting yourself and with not worrying so much about others accepting you. With your parents and how hard it’s been not being able to be honest with them. The two of you had talked about it before, of course, lots and lots of times.

“I was really scared,” you admit, using your girlfriend’s silence as a cue to continue, “of what it would mean if I approached a girl. Of what it would mean if I approached you.”

“But you did it,” Ellie murmurs into your skin, lifting her face from your nape, “You approached me in the end.”

You nod, mostly to yourself, silent for a moment. “I did.”

Ellie kisses your skin again, nimble fingers rubbing at your naked sides as the water streams over the two of you. You swear to yourself that this is as close to serendipity as you’ve ever been — under the hot stream of the shower-head with your girlfriend, hidden away in her tiny apartment away from the rest of the world. One day, you’ll have the strength to seek out more — holding hands with her outside in front of strangers, kissing her under the rain in the city center, showing her off to your parents — but, for now, you were content.

You turn in Ellie’s arms to face her and study her face carefully, taking in every single detail of it and committing it to your memory — the freckles dotting her rosy cheeks, the scar on her right eyebrow, the slight part of her pretty lips.

“You’re so pretty,” you exhale, eyes darting without purpose as Ellie’s hands move up to brush wet clumps of hair from your cheeks, “I really like you, Ellie.”

Her thumbs rest on your cheekbones, rubbing absentmindedly at the warm skin of your face. “You’re such a dork.”

Ellie’s lashes flutter though, in that way they always do whenever she’s flustered or surprised, even if she’s trained herself to maintain a mellow expression. She swallows, throat bobbing ever so slightly. You almost miss it.

She reaches for the loofah, almost as a distraction, lathering it up in the lemon shortcake scented body wash you had brought over one night because you didn’t like smelling like pine trees. Her hand moves gingerly against your neck, loofah squeezed tight in her grip, then down your bare front. It’s strangely intimate, and you let her lather you up without saying anything, gaze trained to her face. She’s looking down at her hand as she works, but her gaze flickers upwards to meet yours after a while.

“I’m glad you approached me that day.”

Her voice is soft, almost inaudible, and you can tell that her words are genuine. They melt you, and you find yourself leaning into a subtle, barely there kiss. When you draw back, Ellie’s lashes flutter again.

Just my luck, Ellie thinks to herself with an internal sigh, finding every possible seat occupied by one of her equally drenched, shivering peers. She moves over to the side of the bus where there were already a couple of students standing and holding onto the cloth handles hanging from the roof of the vehicle. Ellie opts to squeeze the handrail instead, waiting for the bus to start moving. A few stragglers come in, and the bus finally departs from the station.

Someone moves to stand between Ellie and another student, cramping up the already tight space. Ellie’s about to scowl in the student’s direction when the scent of vanilla and cinnamon hits her nose.

Holy shit, she blinks, inhaling as deeply as she can without looking odd and/or slightly off-putting, Someone smells like a damn bakery.

She dares to spare a darting glance sideways at the person standing next to her … then a second, then a third. There was no doubt in Ellie’s mind that the girl who stood there, leaning into the condensation-riddled window of the bus and gazing down at the small, tattered paperback book in her hands with her old-school wired earbuds in, was the person who smelled so divine. She looked just like she smelled, nice and warm and pretty and yummy and —

Ellie inhales sharply, looking away and biting the inside of her cheek. Her hand comes up to tuck a loose, damp strand of her choppy, auburn hair behind her ear, gaze trained on the view outside through the foggy glass bus door that was right across from where she stood. The sight of the rain pouring down onto the dark, dampened streets of her little college town distracts her for a while. She waits for a few moments before stealing a longer glance at the girl and taking her in — from her long, perfectly manicured fingernails and mixture of dainty and chunky rings to the bootcut jeans she wore that somehow managed to hug her in all the right places.

Ellie feels a bit intimidated by how put-together the girl looks, by how different the two of them are appearance-wise. Her own nails are short and blunt from her nervous habit of chewing on them, and her clothes are baggy — wide legged jeans that are soaked at the bottom hems from walking through puddles all day and a zip-up hoodie with rolled up sleeves to show off her sick new tattoo. But Ellie really, really, really wanted to talk to the girl. She wanted to ask her about what she was reading, about what she was listening to, about what perfume she was wearing and about how the hell she managed to look so pretty after being out in a rainstorm.

She’s definitely straight, Ellie deflates slightly, pressing her teeth into her chapped bottom lip and furrowing her eyebrows, deep in thought.

Ellie doesn’t even realize that she’s still staring at the pretty, nice smelling girl until she’s met with a pair of eyes and a small, confused smile. She freezes up, enthralled by the new angle of the girl’s face.

She’s looking at you …

She’s looking at you! Look away, dumbass!

Ellie clears her throat and whips her head back to face the door of the bus in front of her, blinking fervently and internally cursing herself as she tries to play off her staring. It’s too late, for sure. She’s already made herself look like a creep, watching the girl while she minded her own business.

Damn it. Way to play it cool.. She squeezes the handrail a little tighter as the bus turns, trying her best not to sway in the girl’s direction as the vehicle lurches sideways. She didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself.

Ellie’s internally pouring over that slightest, faintest smile that the girl had given her when a voice breaks through her thoughts, soft and mellow.

“I like your tattoo.”

Ellie’s mind doesn’t even have the time to process the fact that it’s her, it’s the girl, and that she’s talking to Ellie and she’s complimenting Ellie and that Ellie should reply and say something and —

She turns her head a little too quickly, gaze flickering over to the girl at her side. Sure enough, she’s smiling again. She’s waiting for a response.

“Oh, uh,” Ellie spurts, tucking that damn strand that kept spilling back into her eyes back behind her ear, “Thanks. Just got it a few weeks ago.”

She takes in the girl’s silent nod of acknowledgment, heart pounding in her ear. They just look at each other for a moment. Then, the girl slowly turns back to her book, lowering her gaze and tentatively flipping a page. Her lashes fan out against her cheeks in a way that makes Ellie sure she’s some goddess in disguise sent down to earth to bait a poor mortal like herself.

“I like your smell,” Ellie blurts before her mind catches up, watching as the girl turns back towards her with a small, amused smile forming on her face. “I mean, I like the way you smell. Like, your perfume. It’s nice.”

Ellie winces internally, wanting more than anything to kick open the emergency exit and run back to her dorm and crawl under her covers and die. But the girl laughs — she laughs — and Ellie’s scuffed up boots stay planted firmly on the floor, so she doesn’t move.

“Thank you,” the girl replies, warm gaze sweeping over Ellie’s burning, freckled face. It’s obvious that her laugh wasn’t meant to be a mean one.

Ellie feels heat gather in her face and turns to look at the handrail she’s squeezing, studying it as if it were the most interesting thing on the bus. But it wasn’t. It definitely wasn’t, not with that pretty girl standing so close to her. But she can’t find it in herself to say anything else, so she just keeps staring at the handrail until the bus comes to a screeching halt.

It’s her stop.

Ellie hesitates for a fleeting moment, wanting more than anything to ask for her name or something. Instead, she lets go of the handrail and picks up her umbrella, sparing one last look at the girl — who’s too caught up in her novel to notice — before stepping off the bus into the biting wind and pouring rain.