ŕšŕŁ ââ I'm Valyn - ËË ę° âĄ ęą ËËË 23 , She / her
This is a self-indulgent writing blog LnDs for now (multifandom later maybe?). Will feature NSFW content so under 18 do not interact with mature works.
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got really into reading item descriptions on this playthrough. anyway did you know the silent princess is one of the only raw materials with a cooking effect to not explicitly list that effect in its description
it's been just a few days - he has painting to finish, deadlines he can't put off more unless he really wants thomas to quit (which he doesn't). you're busy with your stuff too, and he gets it. he really does. of course, your life doesn't revolve solely around rafayel and you can't physically be in his studio 24/7.
still, he misses you. terribly so. so much he thinks he's going to be sick.
perhaps, rafayel already is sick from yearning for any semblance of your touch.
his lips burn from your mouth, his hands remember the shape of yours in his. with his eyes closed, he can still see your face. your eyes crinkle in the corners when you smile at him, your hair are a bit messy - but he loves you in all forms, even when you think you're not looking your best. he loves staring at you, nonetheless.
even more so, rafayel wants to be next to you. toy with your fingers, let his hands ghost your side and press lazy open-mouthed kisses onto your bare shoulder while telling you stories from lemuria nobody but you will ever hear. you're the one who will ever have rafayel's heart, after all.
a heavy sigh escpes his lips. here he is - daydreaming about you again.
the maroon bitemark on his collarbone is still visible, the only proof he didn't imagine it all - he didn't imagine you all over him like you crave to take a bite of his heart and make it yours.
it's moments like that, rafayel thinks, that make him want to be greedier with you.
but... would it be so bad if he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you back into the bed when you'd try to leave in the morning? would it be too clingy if he confessed that feeling the shape of your body - so warm and soft, and tempting - under his palms is enough to make his chest ache with need he can't quite explain with words?
so rafayel presses his lips against your neck, feeling the way your pulse spikes when his tongue peeks out to glide over your sensitive skin just to hear you moan out his name. he pulls your body closer against his, noses against the hollow of your throat and allows his mouth to slide over the curve of your jaw. he murmurs soft love oaths between the kisses and tightens his hold on you until you grow breathless and pliant under his touch. your hips twitch then, seeking his touch because your whole body is burning and he's the only one who can make you tremble with sheer desireâ
the sound of text message brings rafayel out of his thoughts.
he peeks at the screen and lets out a shaky exhale. his fingers itch so much he has to curl them into fists.
you'll finally have time to see him again tonight.
anticipation runs wild in his veins, his heartbeat speeding up at the idea of holding you in his arms again and keep you there throughout the night. just you, rafayel, some tasty food - your favourites, he'll prepare it for you - and lazy cuddles in the moonlight.
that's all he needs - just you, by his side, right where he yearns for you to be the most.
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pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader
summary: heâs soft. earnest. 6â4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. youâre fine. everythingâs fine. itâs just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenlyâheâs not. listen to the playlist here!
word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry)
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesnât start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolisâs biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like âgoshâ and âwhat the hayâ without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just âlooked so hopeful.â
You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.
He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediatelyârushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the wordsâthen offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. âAre you okay?â you asked, because someone had to.
He noddedâtoo fastâthen proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.
Youâve been friends ever since.
Itâs not the cleanest origin story.
But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.
Not in the âcall-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbingâ kind of way (thatâs Jimmy), or the âbring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-exâ kind of way (also Jimmy).Â
But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like itâs trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like youâre doing Godâs work even when you're calling the mayor a âpower-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.â
Heâs your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.
Which is exactly why it doesnât make sense.
Why, one night, it all⌠shifts.
.
Youâre soaked.
Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.
Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.
The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from âwater-resistantâ to a really bad âSwamp Thing cosplay,â and your toteâhome to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscousâis dripping like itâs auditioning for a plumbing ad.
So when Clark offers his placeâsoft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energyâyou say yes.
Not because youâre weak. Please.
Because he lives closer.
Logistically. Geographically.
(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but youâll unpack that when your socks arenât squelching like a really bad porno.)
So now youâre in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, âYouâre going to catch a cold if you donât change out of those clothes.â
And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, âThank you, Mom.â
Clark blushes.
Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that youâve seen the size of his arms.Â
âSorry,â he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. âI just meant⌠yeah. Youâre soaked.â
His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. Thereâs a candle burning on the kitchen counterâone of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.
The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.
Instead, you look at him.
And heâs looking back.
Not like most men doânot the bar-stool inventory of what you are and arenât. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like heâs already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and heâs just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.
You donât think. You donât make a plan. You just move.
Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.
Itâs not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like youâre trying to stun him. Like youâre trying to win a fight.
But then, he exhales.
And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just⌠fully.
Like this is the thing heâs been waiting on for months, and now that itâs finally happening, heâs scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like heâs making sure itâs real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waistâtentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.
You break the kiss first, of course.
Because you always break things first.
When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesnât know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.
Which is when the panic crashes in.
Heâs not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.
Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, heâll stop.
They always stop.
People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.Â
You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.
And they get bored.
Youâve never wanted to risk that with Clark. Heâs been yoursâjust yours, in the safe wayâfor too long.
You step back like the floor might collapse under you.Â
Put space. Just⌠anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. âShitâuh. You donât have to say anything,â you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. âWe can pretend it didnât happen. Go back to normal. Thatâs fine.â
Clarkâs brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesnât look hurt. He looks⌠steady. Like he expected this part. âAre you sure?â
The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like itâs not some ultimatum. Like itâs okay if you're not sure.
You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.
âI justââ You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. âYou know I donât do relationships.â
âI know,â he says, without hesitation.
You study himâreally study himâlike youâre trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isnât there.
He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. âYou donât have to do anything youâre not ready for.â
You blink. âEven if Iâm the one who kissed you?â
Clark smiles, just barely. âEspecially then.â
His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesnât push. Heâs patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.
âWhatever you want,â he says again, quiet. âIâm good with that.â
You stare at him. âYouâre really not gonna argue?â
âNope.â
âNot gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me Iâm avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?â
He huffs a small laugh. âAlready did. Long time ago.â
Your lips twitch despite yourself. âAnd?â
He shrugs, like itâs the easiest truth in the world. âYouâre complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.â
And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that heâs always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hateâmore than anything, more than all of thatâhow badly you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because youâre already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending youâre not.
You didnât plan for it to go further. You didnât plan anything, really.Â
But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like theyâre the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.
His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like thisâflushed, breathless, undoneâyou think, mine.
And itâs terrifying.
Because it means itâs real.
It happened.
God.
It happened.
.
You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something youâd been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.
His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.
Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Thenâquietly, like he wasnât sure if it was okay to want anythingâhe says, âYou⌠you donât have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.â
But you are. Because he is.Â
Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than youâd give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.
He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.
His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.
Lord have mercy.
You ride him like your life depends on it.
You get a thigh cramp halfway throughâlet out an annoyed groan and tried to keep goingâand he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.
Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.
âClark,â you hissed. âChill. I'm okay, dude. Iâm fine.â
âOkay,â he said, dazed, grinning. âJustâdidnât want you to get hurt. I mean. Youâre, uh. You were very intense. Just now.â
âYeah, well, youâre the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,â you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.
And worseâgoddamn it, worseâhe looks at you the whole time.
No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those handsâgod, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steadyâand looking up at you like he meant it.
Youâd told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didnât trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.Â
âLike theyâre trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking itâs love,â youâd scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.
So of courseâof courseâwhen you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you meltâ
He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:
âDo you want me to close my eyes?â
You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.
And you say no.
"No."
Never.
He nods. âOkay.â
Then he kissed the inside of your wristâjust because it was thereâand you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.
You come so hard you forgot your name.Â
Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie youâve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.
It was insane. Deranged.
(Perfect.)
Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.
And he whispered something into your hairâsomething low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.
Then he hums.
You donât recognize it at firstâjust the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. Youâre half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.
But you listen.
âYou humming Dolly right now?â you murmur, voice hoarse.
Clark hums a little louder. ââHere You Come Again.ââ Then, almost shy, âSheâs good. What?â
You groan into his chest. âYou absolute dork.â
âI like her,â he says, defensive. âSheâs smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books toâwait, are you laughing?â
You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.
.
And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.
Truly.Â
You're just trying to get clean.Â
Wash off the evidence of the night beforeâsweat and come and a whole lifeâs worth of repressed emotional distressâbut then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.Â
And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.
He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadnât just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. âJust to save water,â he says. â'Cause of the environment⌠and all that.â
And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.
Except the second he steps in behind youânaked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckableâyour resolve crumples like wet newspaper.
He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, âThis one okay?â
Like you're supposed to justâwhat? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?
But then his hands are on your hipsâsteady, reverent, hugeâand you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.
âOkay?â he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.
You nod. âYeah. Justâdonât be sweet about it.â
âBut I'm always sweet about it,â he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.
He moves inside you slow.Â
Like he means it. Like he thinks heâd scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.
Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.
(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)
When it was overâwhen your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thingâyou turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just⌠helped. Without you even having to say anything.
He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.
But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didnât speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.
So, you just let him wash your back.
He didnât ask you to stay.
You didnât ask if he wanted you to.
But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes laterâhalf-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadnât just been folded neatly in a drawerâyou find him in the kitchen, humming again.Â
Making pancakes.
âYou want blueberries in yours?â he asks, like he didnât have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.
And youâtraumatized, horny, emotionally compromisedâyou say, âSure."
Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:
âAlso, we need to talk.â
Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. âOkay,â he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didnât almost combust from having maybe, fourâno, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.
You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. âLast nightâand this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.â
He looks amused. âOnly eight?â
âIâm leaving room for improvement,â you say, defensive. âBut I just want to be clear again that this isnât⌠this isnât a thing.â
Clark nods slowly. âOkay.â
You squint at him. âYouâre not going to ask what I mean by that?â
âWell,â he says, lips twitching, âIâuh, I figured Iâd let you finish your prepared statement first.â
You gape at him. âI knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.â
âYouâre even holding your coffee like a mic.â
You glance down. You are. Damn it.
He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.
You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. âSo. Ground rules.â
He raises his brows. âRules?â
âYes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this⌠goes.â
Clark tilts his head. âYou mean for⌠us?â
âNo, for NATO,â you deadpan. âYes, us.â
He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.
You forge ahead. âOkay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like⌠like âyou can sleep with other peopleâ casual.â
Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. âDo you want to sleep with other people?â
âNo,â you admit. Then scowl. âBut I want to have the option.â
âRight,â he says, nodding. âThe illusion of freedom.â
âExactly. Waitâ"
Heâs smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.
You plow on. âWhatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. NoâlikeâValentineâs Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.â
âYouâre really against foot rubs?â
âI just think they set a tone.â
Clark looks at his plate. âWhat if I just make you pancakes sometimes?â
You narrow your eyes. âPancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."
âNoted.â
You tuck your feet under you. âRule three: no falling in love.â
He looks up.
Thereâs a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.
You add, quickly, âI know that sounds dramatic, but Iâve seen what love does to people, and itâs terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like âmy foreverâ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each otherâs heads. I canât be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."
Clarkâs smiling again. Not in the ha ha youâre sooooo funny way. In the I think youâre the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.
âAre you even taking this seriously?â you demand.
âI am,â he says, clearly lying. âYouâre very intimidating.â
You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. âIâm just saying! I donât want this to become something that implodes because IâGod, because I canât remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly weâreâwe're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.â
Clark chuckles. A pause. âwell, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.â
You wrinkle your nose. âThatâs a red flag.â
âYouâre the one writing up a treaty before brunch.â
âExactly,â you say, triumphant. âSee? Weâre incompatible.â
Clark leans forward slightly.Â
The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like youâre the only person in Metropolis who matters. âI think youâre scared,â he says gently. âWhich is okay. I just want you to know⌠Iâm not going anywhere. Rules or not.â
And thatâ
God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.
You shake your head, fast. âDonât say stuff like that. Itâs dangerous. Youâll trick me into liking you more.â
âIâm just being honest.â
âWell, stop.â
He raises a brow. âWhat do I do if I want to kiss you?â
You freeze.
Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.
â...well, that's allowed,â you mutter.
He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.
And then, because heâs a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.
You meet him halfway.
And itâs soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like youâre trying to anchor yourself to something real.
.
It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.
Not because heâs touched you yet. Not really. Heâs just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like youâre something delicate. Something precious.
Which is so fucked. You are not precious.
You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.
He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, âOkay.â
And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, âYouâre still allowed to want things, you know.â
Which isâgod, so not fair.Â
Now heâs between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like heâs praying. Heâs been taking his time. Like the goal isnât to get you off, but to study you. Like heâs memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.
Youâre panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard youâre pretty sure you taste blood.
And heâs grinning. Not cockyâjust happy. Which is so much, so much worse.
âYouâre staring at me again,â you breathe.
Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. âI just like looking at you.â
âThatâs crazy,â you whisper. âYouâre crazy.â
âProbably.â He kisses your navel. âDo you want me to stop?â
You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. âNo.â
âDidnât think so,â he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because heâs the devil in a button-up: âYou know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. Iâm not just aâjust a piece of meat, you know.â
You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. âSo bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.â
âSee? Objectified.â He presses a kiss just below your ribs. âReduced to myââkissââridiculous shouldersââkissââand tragic dimplesââkissââand stupidly proportionate thighsââ
âI didnât say anything about your thighsââ
âOh, but I think you were thinking it.â
You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. âGod, shut up and fuck me.â
Clark goes still.
Not awkwardlyâthis isnât early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.Â
This Clarkâthe one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like itâs the only thing keeping him from rising into the skyâthis Clark is different. Â
Heâs grown into himself. Into this. Into you.
Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. Youâve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunriseâyou didnât notice until the whole room was full of it.
This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesnât panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just⌠waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like youâre made of something precious.
Still, he doesnât move.
And thatâs what sets you off.
You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. âWhat?â
He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesnât know whether to hold on or let go. Thereâs something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.
âYou really want that?â he asks, voice low.
You roll your eyes. âYou think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?â
âThatâs not what I asked.â
Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while youâre flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chestâpetulant, defensive. âClark.â
âYou say stuff like that,â he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, âbut then you pull back like Iâve asked for your soul.â
You glare at him. âIâm not pulling back.â
He lifts a brow. âYou havenât even kissed me yet.â
You scowl. âI was about to, but youâre being annoying.â
His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. âYeah? Gonna punish me for it?â
Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that heâs rightâthat youâre the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you donât care when he steps over them.
You lean down, hover over his mouth. âI swear to god, if you donât do something soon, Iâm walking out that door.â
He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. âYou wonât.â
âWatch me.â
His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. âYou always say that. You never do.â
Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that heâs always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when heâs calling you out.
âIâm not just a warm body, you know,â he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. âIf thatâs what you wanted, you shouldâve picked someone who doesnât look at you like I do.â
You blink. âAnd how is that?â
Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. âLike I actually see you.â
You hate him for that. A little.
But you kiss him anyway.
Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.
And then he flips youâeffortless, smooth, like it doesnât take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gaspânot in surprise, but because itâs too much. Heâs too much.
âYou keep asking me to take you apart,â he murmurs against your skin, âbut you never let me show you what it actually means.â
âOh my god,â you groan, shivering under him. âYou are so fuckingââ
âWhat?â he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. âSoft? Serious? A buzzkill?â
You donât respond. Youâre too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because heâs right. Again.
âToo bad,â he murmurs, smiling like a secret. âYou donât get to run the show tonight.â
And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, itâsâ
Heâs so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.
You make a soundâsomething small, strangled, "Clark."âand he doesnât shush you this time.
He smiles.
âThere it is,â he murmurs. âNow weâre being honest.â
.
Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.
Thatâs it. Thatâs all. Not the end of the world.
He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and âIâll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.â He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.
You text back something breezy. Casual. âYouâre the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.â
He doesnât respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.
You tell yourself itâs fine. You tell yourself you donât care.
.
Then it happens again.
This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. Itâs another Superman PSAâthird this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His capeâs caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his postureâit looks almost familiar.
Your phone rings.
Clark.
You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. âShould I be worried youâve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me youâre not selling supplements.â
Thereâs a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: âIâm so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?â
You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, âNo worries,â even as your stomach twists.
He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. Youâre the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. Heâs the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.
But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like heâs trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.
âAre you okay?â you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Another pause. âYeah,â he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. âI will be.â
.
By week three, heâs dodging plans like itâs his new hobby. Youâre not hurt, obviously. Youâre busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders youâll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.
Itâs not a relationship. Itâs just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.
Thatâs all.
But still, thereâs this night.
Youâre at your apartment. Thereâs an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.
Youâd ordered his favorite takeout. Youâd even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.
He doesnât show.
No call. No text.
You sit through the entire movie. Alone.
And when your phone finally buzzesâclose to midnight, just his name and a short, âIâm so sorry. Can we talk soon?ââ you stare at it for a long moment.
Then you flip your phone over, face-down.
And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.
Youâve done it to people before.
You just never thought youâd be on the receiving end.
Not from him.
Not from Clark.
.
Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You donât cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. Youâre not. Obviously.
Youâre just a little annoyed.
And maybe, just mayb, youâre thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.
And now heâs something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.
Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes youâre already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or âdelightfully optimistic.â
Then: a video clip.
No sound. Just shaky phone footage.
A blur of red and blue moving fastâstreaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.
You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.
BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.
Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.
.
The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.
Hey. You free tonight?
You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.
Then:
yeah. yours?
A pause.
If you want.
God, heâs infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like youâre made of something breakable. Like you havenât already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.
Still, you go.
.
Itâs not tense at first. Itâs easy. Familiar.
Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hairâs damp. Thereâs flour on his cheek.
âYou baked?â you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.
He shrugs. âFelt like it.â
Thereâs banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. Heâs already sliced yours and left the end pieceâyour favoriteâon the left, like always.
You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But itâs hard to keep your footing when heâs being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didnât flake three times last month. Like you hadnât spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor
But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.
So maybe itâs no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lampâs still on. Your mouths are moving like theyâve done this a hundred timesâbecause you have, but it's not enough, will never be enoughâand youâre both pretending itâs still casual. Still nothing.
Except it doesnât feel like nothing.
And then Clark pulls back.
Not sharply. Not like heâs been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. Youâve seen that look before. That oh shit look.
But tonight, he doesnât immediately jump up.Â
He doesnât mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.
He just⌠stares at you.
And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like youâre something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looksâserious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesnât know what to do with itself.
âWe need to talk,â he says.
You still have one shoe on. You donât even remember kicking the other off.
You blink at him. âIâwhat?â
He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesnât take them off.
âSomethingâs beenâthereâs something that I need to tell you,â he says, slower now, like heâs rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.
And thatâthat is when your stomach drops.
Because you know this script. Youâve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he âneeds to talk,â and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.
You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. âWait. Just⌠donât. Yet.â
Clark pauses. He blinks at you.
âLook,â you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like youâre looking for your dignity. âIf this is about how Iâve been kind of, I donât know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say â I know. Okay? You donât have to do this so gently.â
His face twists. âWhat?â
âYouâre trying to break things off,â you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. âAnd I get it. I do. Youâve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you donât sleep anymore, you look like youâve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe itâs metaphorical.â
Clark tries again. âIâm notââ
âItâs fine,â you say, voice louder now. âItâs fine if you met someone. You donât have to pretend itâs not happening.â
âI didnâtââ
âYouâre allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.â
Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like itâs armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.
âI shouldâve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you donât stick around for girls like me.â
âHey,â he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.
âDonât,â you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. âDonât be nice to me about it.â
Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like heâs short-circuiting. âYouâre not even letting meâIâm not trying to end this with you.â
You stare at him, lips parted.
Heâs breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirtâs wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like heâs holding something back with both hands.
âI was going to tell you something,â he says, voice raw. âSomething real. Something Iâve never told anyone who didnât already know.â
You freeze.
Because that doesnât sound like cheating.
That sounds like confession.
âWhat,â you whisper, suddenly breathless. âLike a dark secret? You have a kid? Youâre actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are youâOh my God. Are you a stripper?â
âWhat?â he blurts, completely thrown.
âI donât know, Clark!â your voice spikes, hands flying up. âWhat the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with âwe need to talkâ and isnât a relationship guillotine?â
His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.
And for the first time, you see it.
The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.
Like heâs not scared of you. Heâs scared for you.
But itâs too late. Youâve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.
You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise heâs afraid to touch. You ignore it.
Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.
Becauseâand this is humiliatingâyouâve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not âhey, should we get you some keys?â But enough that the signs are there.Â
Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.
You grab the mug with the faded âCentral City Gazette Student Press 2013â logo you refuse to drink out of at home because itâs chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way â hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he âforgotâ you left here, that you âforgotâ he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.
You jam it all into your work tote like itâs a goddamn body bag.
Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.
The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville â the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.
And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.
Clarkâs still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and canât tell who started the fire.
âWaitâare you leaving? You donât have toâjustâcan we talk? Please?â
You donât look at him.
Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. âThis is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Donât mind me.â
âCan you stop for two seconds and just let meââ
âClark,â you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. âItâs okay.â
It isnât. But youâre trying to win the emotional Olympics in the âcool and detachedâ category, and youâre not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.Â
You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. Youâve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.
âNo harm, no foul,â you say. âTell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.â
And then you leave.
.
You are, in every measurable way, unwell.
You donât call it a breakup.
That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit theyâd already crossed it.
So, no. Not a breakup.
Justâa recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.
You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, âYouâre holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so Iâm gonna circle back on the âhotâ part of that minute.â
You even say it to the woman at the corner bodegaâthe one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.
She glances up from restocking the gum and says, âHeâs okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?â
You blink. âSorry, what?â
âHe always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.â She squints at you. âYou were good together.â
You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)
You take your PTO. Two weeks. You donât tell anyone where youâre going, mostly because youâre not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, âWe tried our best, but it wasnât enough.â
You don't let yourself think about that⌠that stupid drawer by Clarkâs bed.
Or the banana bread.
Because there is banana bread.
It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm mustâve rested on the foil, like he wasnât sure if he should knock. You donât bring it inside right away.
You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.
Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you donât trust yourself to not drop it.
He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope youâre doing okay.
You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.
You donât answer.
He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because youâre angryâokay, maybe you are, a littleâbut because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, youâll crack like a fucking fault line.
He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.
(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like itâs a life raft.)
You tell yourself this is temporary. Youâll get it together tomorrow.
And then tomorrow happens.
And then the next day.
And thenâon the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.
Kind of.
You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you havenât worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:
Hotdog.
.
Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houstonâs I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.
You stare off into the distance.
Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.
You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.
âNo,â you say, out loud. âNo. No. Absolutely not.â
Clark stops short. âHi,â he says, voice soft. A little nervous.
You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. âTurn around.â
âIââ
âI swear to god, Clark.â You donât even look at him. âI am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.â
He nods. Raises both hands. âOkay. Not saying anything.â
You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hairâs sticking up at the back. Thereâs a scuff on his glasses like heâs been rubbing at them all day.
Goddammit. He looks like home.
You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.
âWhy are you here,â you say finally, flat.
He swallows. âBecause I needed to see you. Because Iâve been calling, andââ
âRight,â you cut in. âThe calls. That I didnât answer. On purpose.â
âI know.â
âAnd you took that as a challenge?â
Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.
âIâve tried everything else,â he says.
You roll your eyes. âMaybe thatâs because youâre not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.â
âThatâs not what I want.â
You shrug. âAnd? Sometimes we donât get what we want. Thatâs life. Welcome.â
Heâs quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you canât name. Doesnât defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And youâre just about to tell him to cut it outâwhatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing isâwhen he steps forward.
One arm wraps around your waist.
And thenâ
You are no longer on the ground.
You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. âWHAT THE FUCK,â you yell. âWHATâARE YOU KIDDING MEâWHAT IS HAPPENING.â
âIâm sorry!â Clark yells over the wind.
âARE YOUâIS THIS YOU?! ARE YOUââ
âYeah!â he shouts. âHi! Surprise!â
âSUPERMAN?!â
ââŚYes!â he calls back, cringing midair.
âYOUâRE SUPERMAN?!â
Clark doesnât answer that. Just⌠grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like heâs half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.
You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. Youâre only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.
âMy toothbrush is still at your apartment!â you shriek.
âI know!â
âI HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMANâS APARTMENT!â
âI know! Thatâs why Iâlisten, I panicked! You werenât picking up! You blocked me on like, four platformsââ
âI BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.â
The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. Youâre barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clarkâno, Superman, apparentlyâheâs not even breaking a sweat.
âYou couldnât have called?â you snap.
âI did!â
âWITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?â
âI showed up at your apartment!â
âWith a cape, Kent?!â
âNo! No, the capeâs newâlook, I didnât know what else to do. You wouldnât talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and havenât left your apartment in four days and I justâI needed you to see me. To listen.â
You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. âSo your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!â
âI checked to make sure no one was looking!â
âYOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.â
âI swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.â
You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. Thereâs an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.
ââŚOkay,â you breathe. âOkay, so this is real.â
âItâs real,â he says.
âLike, capital-R Real.â
âYeah.â
You shake your head once, sharp. âJesus Christ.â
And then something in you quiets. Something thatâs been vibrating with panic for daysâfor weeksâsputters out like the end of a bad engine. Youâre too tired to scream again. Youâre too wrung-out to cry.
So you just say, quietly: âI'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.â
Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nodsâonce.
âI didnât want to lie to you,â he says again, quieter now. âI hated it. Every second of it.â
His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still wonât quite meet your eyes.
âI thought I could keep it separate. You and⌠that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, itâd be enough.â
He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. âBut then it wasnât. Because I started⌠I donât know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when youâre scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but youâll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your faceâI wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.â
His voice cracks a little. Heâs still not looking at you.
âI kept thinking, if I say it out loud, youâll leave. Or worseâyouâll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I donât want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like Iâm just⌠Clark.â
He laughs, sudden and shaky. âGod, I sound insane.â
You say nothing. Youâre not breathing very well.
And then, softly, finally, like heâs pushing it out before he loses the nerve: âI love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. JustâI love you. I think Iâve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.â
He swallows. âI donât need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.â
The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.Â
Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like heâs afraid youâll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.
Heâs flushed. Nervous. He looks like heâs trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.
You lean back a little to look at him.
And then, honestly, you just kiss him.
Because itâs easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment thatâs led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.Â
The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.Â
The fact that he never interrupts when youâre spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.Â
The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.
 The banana bread.Â
âI love you too, you idiot.â
His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasnât expecting you to say it back. Like he wasnât hoping.
âYou do?â
You nod, eyes stinging. âYeah. In every kind of way.â
And Clarkânot Superman, Clark Kent, the worldâs most ridiculous man, the guy youâve known and kissed and run from and found againâleans in and kisses you silly again.
.
Youâre still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.
Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction âmore like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything thatâs been boiling under your skin for months.
Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.
âSorry,â he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. âIâllâclean that upâlaterââ
You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.
Itâs not like you didnât know he was strong.Â
Youâve seen his biceps. Youâve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. Youâve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.
But this is different.
This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.
âClark,â you gasp, because you donât know what else to say. Your hoodieâs already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like heâs staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. âYouâreâfuckââ
âI know,â he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like heâs starving for it. âI know, baby. YouâreâGod, youâre actually killing me.â
He lifts youâactually lifts youâlike youâre nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.Â
You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.
He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like heâs being hunted for it.Â
"Fuck, fuckâtake this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasnât had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.
His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.Â
Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. Heâs making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like heâs surprised every time you let him touch you again.
Youâre squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.
âI am gonna ruin you,â you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."
Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like heâs tracing poetry there.
âOh yeah?â he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. âGet in line, pretty girl.â
He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.
âI love you.â
Your breath stutters.
He doesnât give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesnât let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.
You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.Â
But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. âWait,â he murmurs, and you freeze. Youâre still so full of him you can barely think. âJust let meâcan I justââ
He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. Youâve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it â but open.
âI love you when youâre mean,â he pants, voice fraying around the edges. âI love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "âwhen you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend youâre not soft.â
You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. âClarkââ
He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.
âI love you when youâre being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you donât care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.â
âStopââ
âI love you,â he says again, brokenly this time, like itâs being torn out of him. âI love you even when Iâm scared youâll leave. Even if this is all I get.â
You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.
And you kiss him.
Hard.
Hungry.
Grateful.
âI love you,â you whisper against his mouth. âI love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.â
Clark lets out a sound thatâs not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
Then he flips you under him and fucks you like itâs a promise.
You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like heâs got nowhere else heâd rather be.
.
The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clarkâs got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like itâs always been there. Which, lately, it has.
Youâre about halfway to Smallville.
âSo,â you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. âHow many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.â
Clark chuckles. His dimples show. âOh, uh⌠probably all of them. Again."
You groan. âEven the corn maze one?â
âThere are multiple corn maze ones,â he corrects gently. âThereâs one where Iâm dressed as a scarecrow.â
You stare at him.
He nods solemnly. âWith face paint.â
âOh my God,â you wheeze, turning toward the window. âI donât know if Iâm emotionally prepared for that.â
âDonât worry,â he says, squeezing your hand. âMa loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and sheâd ask if you wanted seconds.â
You snort. âThatâs very comforting.â
He shrugs, smiling again. âItâs true. She already set up the guest room.â
You blink at him.
ââŚThe guest room?â
A pause. Clark glances over. âWell, I didnât want to assume weâdâuhâshare a bed. With my parents in the house.â
You raise a brow. âClark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.â
âThat wasâokay, yesâbut that was under different circumstances.â
âWe are dating.â
âI know.â
You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. âYouâre so weird.â
âYou love it,â he mutters, cheeks pink.
You do.
God, you do. You love him.
It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who neverânot onceâlooked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.
And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.
Officially.
Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who wonât stop pretending she doesnât care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.
No. Now, youâre his girlfriend.
Which means this is real. Which means youâre going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clarkâs fifth grade spelling bee trophy like itâs the most precious thing in the world.
Which should terrify you.
(And maybe it does, a little.)
But mostlyâmostly it feels like the best thing youâve ever said yes to.
Clark clears his throat. âHey.â
You turn.
Heâs watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still canât believe youâre real. Itâs so sincere it nearly undoes you.
âIâm really glad youâre coming,â he says. Quietly.
You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.
âMe too, Michigan.â
His ears go a little red. âDonât call me that.â
âOh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.â
âI like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while youâre holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."
You smirk. âNot my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.â
Clark coughs through a laugh. âGod help me.â
He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.
âWake me when weâre ten minutes out?â
âYou sure?â he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.
âMhm.â You close your eyes. âI gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.â
You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.
âYouâre gonna be fine,â he says. âThey love you, you know that. I do too."
Rafayel was lounging sideways on the sunroom sofa, sketchbook balanced on his knees, blue-pink eyes narrowed in sleepy concentration. He had a brush between his teeth, hair messily piled up with a seashell clip you left lying around. Every so often, he dipped the brush in water and swirled in pinks and blues like he was dreaming them onto the page.
You walked in with absolutely no intention of letting him finish whatever masterpiece he was working on. Wearing your tiny frilly shorts and one of his oversized shirts that barely clung to your shoulders, you leaned on the doorframe dramatically like a princess burdened by too much free time.
âRaf,â you said, blinking slowly.
He hummed a distracted, âMm?â without looking up.
âWanna make out?â
The brush dropped. Literally. Fell from his mouth and onto the page.
He blinked at you. âWhat?â
âIâm bored,â you said simply, strolling over like a cat with nothing to do. âYouâve been ignoring me for like⌠hours.â
âPearlie,â he muttered, setting the sketchbook aside with a thud. âIâm painting you a seascape for the bathroom wall. A gift. From my heart.â
âOkay,â you said, plopping right onto his lap, straddling him. âWanna make out?â
His fingers curled at your hips like he physically couldnât say no, even if he had a sliver of resolve left.
ââŚYou canât just weaponize your boredom like this,â he whispered, voice low, eyes fluttering down to your lips.
You leaned forward until your nose brushed his. âMmhm, I can. And I do. Because Iâm spoiled.â
He groaned under his breath, head falling back against the couch. âGod, I hate you. Youâre evil.â
âIs that a yes?â
Instead of answering, Rafayel grabbed your face with both hands and kissed you like youâd just rescued him from a shipwreck. Messy, deep, possessive, the way he always kissed when you initiated things, like he wanted to remind you who you belonged to even though youâd been married for ages.
His sketchbook slid off the couch and landed with a quiet thud.
You were too busy giggling into his mouth to care.
Zayne was at his desk in the home office, pristine white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, fingers gliding across his tablet as he reviewed post-op notes and signed off on casework. He looked so serious, brows drawn, jaw tight, the pale glow of his screen lighting up those sharp hazel-green eyes.
You stood in the doorway in your plush slippers and soft silk robe (the one he bought you after you whined about wanting to feel like âa princess on vacation all the timeâ), clutching a smoothie you didnât even want.
âZaynieeeeeee,â you sing-songed.
He didnât look up. âSweetheart, give me twenty minutes, Iâm almost done.â
âI donât have twenty minutes,â you said, stepping into the room with a dramatic sigh. âIâm bored.â
âI told you to rest, remember? You said your stomach was hurtingââ
âIâm healed now,â you declared, crossing the room until you were behind his chair. You looped your arms around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder. âWanna make out?â
He paused. Stylus still. Head slowly turned toward you.
âYouâre unbelievable,â he muttered.
You smiled sweetly. âAnd you love me.â
âIâm in the middle of reviewing a cardiothoracic surgery.â
âAnd Iâm in the middle of a crisis.â You leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. âOf boredom.â
He stared ahead for a second like he was weighing the cost-benefit ratio of kissing his wife vs finishing work.
Then, with a soft sigh, he set the stylus down and tugged you around to sit in his lap.
âYouâre incorrigible,â he murmured against your lips as he leaned in. âCompletely shameless.â
You beamed. âWell, you made me quit my job. What else am I supposed to do?â
His kiss was slow and steady, like he was savoring every second. One hand cradled your jaw, the other wrapped firmly around your waist. And the way he kissed⌠like he was re-centering himself. Like you were the only break he needed.
Eventually, you pulled back, breathless. âStill mad I interrupted your notes?â
Zayne ran his thumb across your bottom lip, eyes dark and fond. âAsk me again in twenty minutes. We might not get any work done today.â
Xavier was curled up in the reading nook again, barefoot and soft-faced in a loose ivory shirt and grey linen pants, knees drawn up while he scrolled lazily through data logs on a holographic screen. He looked like some divine painting, silvery hair falling in strands across his eyes, cheek resting against the cushioned wall, expression unreadable.
You padded over silently, your frilly babydoll dress swishing with each step, arms folded as you watched him from across the room.
He didnât even glance up. âWhatâs wrong, bunny?â
âHow do you know somethingâs wrong?â
He flicked his gaze toward you, soft and slow. âYouâre standing like a neglected cat. The dramatic kind.â
You squinted at him. ââŚIâm not neglected.â
âYouâre pouting.â
âIâm bored.â
âI told you to nap.â
âI donât want to nap.â You walked over, crouched by the edge of the cushion. âWanna make out?â
He blinked.
Paused.
Then gave the faintest smile, the kind that made his lips tilt, barely visible unless you knew what to look for.
âYou do look kissable,â he murmured, like he was weighing a moral decision. âBut youâll distract me. I was decoding Farsector coordinates.â
âIâm literally your wife,â you said, crawling up onto the cushion beside him, legs swinging over his lap. âYou should be honored that I want to make out with you.â
He set the screen aside with a flick of his fingers and cupped your jaw with one hand, thumb tracing over your cheek slowly like he was making a decision in real time.
Then he pulled you in.
Xavier kissed you with the calm intensity of someone who wasnât in any rush. Deep and unhurried, one arm around your waist, the other buried in your hair. He kissed like he was tasting starlight. Like he was grounding himself back to reality after floating somewhere too far off.
You pulled back with a dreamy sigh, sprawled half-across his lap. âBetter than Farsector coordinates?â
He pressed a kiss to your temple. âInfinitely.â
ââŚWanna do it again?â
A pause. Then:
âIâll pretend Iâm weak to your charms,â he murmured, already kissing your jaw, âif it makes you feel powerful.â
đđŽđĄđŞđ¨ ⎠â Ë・đ ¨â・°âŠ
Sylus was in his sleek office upstairs, lounging behind the glass desk in his black-on-black designer shirt, sleeves pushed up, red eyes flicking over security reports and quarterly projections like he was skimming a childrenâs book. His silver hair was tousled from how often he ran a hand through it while deep in thought. His legs were up on the desk, fingers twirling a platinum pen.
He didnât look up when you entered, too engrossed in reading.
âYouâre quiet,â he said dryly, sensing your presence. âWhat did you break?â
You stepped around the desk slowly, fingers trailing the edge, silk robe dragging behind you like a little train. âNothing,â you chirped sweetly. âJust bored.â
âHmm.â He tapped his pen twice on the desk. âDidnât you just buy twelve new perfumes to play with?â
âAlready sniffed them all. And the tiara you ordered me came in two days early, so I already did my princess strut through the halls.â
âI saw. The staff almost bowed.â
You reached him, sliding onto his lap without asking, like you always did. His arm instinctively curled around your waist, keeping you there.
âWanna make out?â you asked innocently.
That got his attention. He tilted his head slightly, sharp red eyes narrowing with slow amusement.
âExcuse me?â
âI said Iâm bored,â you repeated, curling your fingers into his collar. âSo. Wanna make out?â
He smirked. The slow, dangerous kind, like youâd just challenged him to something he already planned to win.
âYou are so inconveniently irresistible,â he muttered. âYou know I have meetings in.â
âDonât care,â you said, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He pulled back just slightly, watching you with that glittering, calculating look. âAre you seducing me because youâre bored? Or because you know Iâll drop everything the second you ask?â
âYes.â
âMm.â He set the pen down. âManipulative little thing.â
Then he kissed you, rougher than the others, a little indulgent, a little possessive. His hand gripped the back of your neck, the other cupping your thigh like he had no plans of letting you move for the rest of the day. His kiss tasted like control and submission all tangled up, because he knew exactly who had the power in this moment.
When you pulled back, dazed and flushed, he ran his thumb along your lip, amused.
âGo on then,â he murmured, âask me again, kitty.â
ââŚWanna make out?â
His laugh was quiet, dark, and indulgent. âKeep asking and Iâll cancel the rest of the week.â
Caleb was seated on the couch in your penthouseâs main living space, still half in uniform, jacket unzipped, dog tags clinking softly against his chest as he typed out reports on his holopad. The sun was setting behind him, casting a warm orange glow on the glass walls. His brow was furrowed, jaw tense, purple eyes locked in deep concentration as he worked through mission debriefs.
You were sprawled across the ridiculously plush daybed in front of him, wearing one of his shirts and nothing underneath, flipping lazily through a fashion catalog without really absorbing anything.
Eventually, you sighed dramatically.
No response.
You tried again, a little louder. âUghhh. Iâm dying of boredom.â
He didnât even look up. âI told you not to drink three espressos back-to-back.â
You rolled onto your stomach and stared at him. âCaleb.â
Still typing. âPips.â
You narrowed your eyes. âWanna make out?â
That got his attention.
He looked up so fast it was like someone yanked a string in his spine. âWhat?â
You blinked at him innocently. âIâm bored. Fix it.â
He gave you that look, the one that flickered between exasperation and adoration, like he knew he was being manipulated and couldnât bring himself to care.
âYouâre unbelievable,â he said, setting the holopad aside with a sigh.
You grinned. âYou love me.â
âUnfortunately for the state of my productivityâŚâ He rose from the couch and stalked toward you, eyes dark with something hungry and amused. âI do.â
You let out a little squeak as he bent over you, caging you in with his arms.
âSo this is what happens when I let you live the pampered life,â he murmured, brushing his nose against yours. âYou get clingy. Demanding. Spoiled.â
You tugged him down by the collar. âAnd you like it.â
His lips were on yours before you could say another word, deep, hot, utterly consuming. He kissed you like heâd been waiting for you to interrupt him all day. His dog tags clinked against your chest as he pressed his body flush to yours, one hand cradling your cheek, the other sliding under your borrowed shirt like he owned every inch of you.
When he finally pulled back, breathless, he hovered over you with flushed cheeks and a crooked smirk.
âStill bored?â
ââŚA little.â
He grinned, wicked and boyish all at once. âLetâs see if I can fix that.â
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tags : porn with plot, porn with feelings, starts out with somewhat ambiguous relationship territory, developing relationship, Talking Things Out TM (communication is key!), kissing and making out, heavy petting, dry humping, couch sex, riding, missionary, creampie, use of "pip-squeak"/"pips" "baby" "princess". lmk if i missed any tags!
wc : 8.9k ((unedited))
an : IT'S 3 DAYS LATE⌠PLEASE PRETEND IT'S STILL JUNE 13 YES? YES. AKJDHGLHSDF i made the last-minute decision to keep youtiful for next week (or soâŚ) when it's less of a focus for caleb's birthday, since i did want to write a proper birthday fic this timeâŚâŚ but also. this outline. underwent SEVERAL changes bc i had its first outline done before the trailer release, and it ended up being quite similar to his birthday card and i had to make adjustments somehow T^T SO this is kind of,,, i guess,,, has its similarities to no-return night, but they're not related at all, so please take this separately!
i had a lot of trepidations writing this, but nevertheless i love caleb with all of my heart and soul and he's really really so very precious to me. i hope that you can feel that through this little fic too, it's a happy birthday week to the both of us. <3 (p.s. i love this song dearly, and ever since i heard it back in january i've wanted to write a fic with it for caleb! so this was also my excuse <3 go give olivia marsh some love <3)
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ko-fi jar / commissions
What does it take to spell out eternity? Every summer you'd fall together, and maybe that was all it wasâjust you, and him, and the words you'd let your bodies speak instead. So tonight, in the summer heat of early June, words turned to touch; grief to grace; time-lost notes proceeded rewritten. And maybe, then, forever felt a little bit more achievable than you'd thought.
The air was thick with the scent of June.
Even the bustling streets of Linkon couldn't distract you from itâaround you stood patches of freshly-mowed grass, trees standing tall along sidewalks. This month, spring would fold itself into summer. And the warm breeze that passedâcurled itself through the branches, tugged playfully at loose strands of your hairâfelt proof of it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Casual footsteps.
Heels on the pavement, arms swinging at your sideâyou walked, and you could fall into sync with the person beside you in a heartbeat.
A familiar rhythm.
It settled between you, a quiet moment amidst the small crowd surrounding. Something like an old melody; one you'd already engraved into your heart for years back.
And above you, the sky seemed to smear with orange and roseâpurples, and pinks, and tangerines⌠The sun began to set beneath the horizon, rosy-golden hue overcast around the street you walked.
Immediately you were drawn back to look at him.
That everlasting melody that your heart murmured.
You caught the light as it reflected briefly in his eyes, the saturated speckles of sunlight dabbling in his hair. He was looking ahead, still, but those colorsâin his eyes, they swirled like the sunset itself, that same warm glow. Looking at him like this, you'd think to yourself, that often the sky would come alive in them.
The sky could come alive in him.
That maybe he had become the sky itself.
Those very same colors that painted the evening would spill from his gaze, and the more you looked at him, the more you thought that you could drownâthey just held so much.
So much that still, even now, you couldn't quite reach it at all.
Just like the faint sunlight slipping away at sundown; something beautiful left just out of grasp.
Lingering.
And even though you walked beside him now, you could remember that it hadn't always been that way. Now, Caleb was a lot taller. His broad shoulders cast a long shadow across the sidewalk, and youâ
You remembered.
For years you'd walked behind him, head tilted up, following his lead. Watching, as he moved through the world with a quiet confidence that you'd once lacked the ability to mirror at all.
Now, the roles felt different.
You felt different, and he felt different.
And you could feel, even in this moment, beside him, the weight of this space that existed between you.
You didn't like that space.
Your fingers curled instinctively around the hem of his shirt.
No, you wanted himâŚ
Closer.
You tugged, and he looked at you.
Eyes softened, lips curled slightly upwards.
Caleb let out an easy chuckle. "It's nice, huh?" he hummed. Whether or not he'd truly noticed the meaning behind your gesture remained unaddressed in the air around you, but you were sure he noticed. He always did. He was likely just choosing not to speak of it. "Walkin' around Linkon like this⌠It's like it's been forever since we've last done it. But it almost feels like nothin's changed."
Like nothing's changed.
You could feel the wry smile forming on your lips, an almost bitter laugh bubbling at your throat.
How ironic.
Certainly, both of you felt that things had changedâ
Didn't you?
"You can't be serious," you huffed. "I mean, thatâ that movie theater we used to go to isn't even there anymore. The older one, that refused to jump on the OTTO bot train when everyone else did?"
"Oh? Yeah? Well, we haven't visited it in forever, either, y'know. Guess we couldn't have known how long it's been outta business."
"And! And, the one bakery down the block! That one's changed, too. Owner's different, and everything. And they sell, like, gluten-free donuts and more boring things nowâŚ"
He raised a brow, "What, no more of those chocolate croissants you liked so much?"
"They're different now! Changed recipe and all, you know? Changed the baker, too, probably⌠They never taste the same as the last time I had them⌠with you."
Caleb's laughter came out light and easy, and for a moment, the gap between you felt smaller.
Progress was progress.
Oftentimes spending time with him felt like a ticking time bomb; you'd never know when it would end all of a sudden, nor could you guess when he'd suddenly pull away again. Todayâtonightâit was one of the very first times that hadn't happened just yet.
There had been small steps.
More of them.
The gap between you didn't feel so big anymore.
And almost as if in an attempt to finally bridge it, you continuedââOh! And the playground? The old swings are completely gone. Replaced with those weird plastic dome things that look like modern art sculptures.â
âYou mean the new climbing domes, right? They've been poppin' up in a lot of playgrounds recently. I'll say⌠They are a bit⌠odd-lookin'âŚâ
"Exactly, right?!" You huffed, rolling your eyes. "The swings looked better. Friendlier, too! Now the playground looks all bland and devoid of life that those plastic things try to fill in with colorsâŚ"
"Aw, the kids don't like 'em? They're good for climbin'!"
"Some do⌠If they're like you, I guessâŚ"
Your voice softened when you looked at him.
"âŚAnd the tree," you murmured. "The one in our backyard. You know, back⌠home. It would've been blooming with lots of fruit by now, ifâŚ"
Your gaze moved down.
If it were still around.
Your voice faltered, and you trailed offâthe words remained hanging in the air; instead of catching them, you could only let them go in a quiet, almost embarrassed motion.
Too soon.
You didn't need to bring that up.
With a light smile, you cleared your throat, and slipped your hand out away from where you had been clinging to his sleeve.
"But, uhm⌠sure. Nothing's changed."
Some attempt at damage control.
You couldn't dare look up at him now, and the silence that settled now felt heavierâat least, to you.
You'd gone just another step backward.
Your hands settled in front of you, playing instead with the ribbon on your dress. It was different, from clutching at his sleeve. Already a thing you'd gotten used to, even though you'd been walking without it just a couple of minutes prior. Certainly a thing you had gotten used to, in easier years where you were always with him.
So, so many things you would get used to around him.
And now that split-second letting go of his sleeve had you trying to pretend that nothing was wrong, but how could you ever dream of hiding anything from him?
Even without a glance, you felt the pace of his footsteps beside you change slightly.
A shift, and thenâ
"Hey."
A gentle nudge.
He bumped your shoulder with his, like a little poke as if to get you back onto your feet. When you gathered enough courage even just to peek back at him, the warmth in his gaze seemed to curl around you like the summer breeze that sifted over you.
"'m glad you spent the day with me, pips," he said, soft and sincere. "It means a lot, y'know? Spendin' my birthday with you again."
"âŚWell, yeah. Again, right?"
You did gather the courage to turn.
In that moment a car passed on the other side of the street, headlights catching in the sheen of the sidewalk. A sprinkler ticked to life somewhere in the next yard overâcloser, now, to the residential areas than the busier life of the heart of Linkon. Here, right now, everything smelled faintly of earth, and evening grass. There was that breeze again; picking up with a carried scent of wood.
Like a normal day.
Like an everyday sort of day.
Perhaps to anyone else, it was a day that meant very little.
Not to you.
Not to him, either.
"It's⌠well, not the first time. We always spend today together." You kicked at a pebble with the toe of your shoe, watching as it skittered on ahead of you.
"No," he chuckled. "It's not."
"But it feels like it."
Your voice went quieter.
A couple of steps before you paused.
He'd moved a little on aheadâcaught on to the way you'd stopped walking, and turned around.
Another car.
This time it passed over on your side of the street, andâ you remembered looking at him like this once, on that day.
That day.
With the unset glow; darker this time, instead illuminated extra by the headlights of the car that seemed to paint him in a cooler, more silvery glow.
You were used to seeing him in warmer colors. The sun had that very effect; oranges and reds and occasionally saturated pinks. But now he was dressed in blueâthe type to wear cooler greys as to warmer browns, platinum whites to beige and cream. Sometimes his voice felt colder; sometimes that uniform on his person drowned his light into a liquid pearl you weren't used to.
The sun was also a starâbut the sun was not quite the moon.
And like daytime settling into night, things could change.
You were reminded.
Things have changed.
Caleb looked at you in that moment. Falling silent, still; choosing to let your words pass.
"âŚIt feels like it," you murmured again, quieter this time. "The first time."
Again, but the first time.
Like a culmination of years of knowing each other, and then⌠months of not quite.
All day, you'd moved together; two people remembering how to be near one another. Slowly, carefully. Down the street, places you used to visit, things you used to see. Laughter that felt a little bit out of practice. Laughter that had slowly begun to blend from forced, back to natural.
Things have changed, and perhaps that was the very reason you needed to relearn it.
Study the moon.
Fall into its orbit.
Again, and again, and again. As many times as it would take you.
ââŚI had fun,â he said after a pause, quiet and earnest. His voice was gentle, eyes melted softly.
Those strange, sunset-colored eyes of hisâthey caught the last of the sunlight; reminded you, achingly, of a version of him that you used to know better. But, this Calebâdressed up in blue, standing right in front of you, one pace away out of this stupid respect for your supposed personal spaceâ
He was still someone you wanted to learn, too.
You smiled. âYeah. Me too.â
Above you, a streetlight buzzed quietly to life. It was back, again. Albeit artificial, there was that amber glow now on the pavementâon youâon him.
And then he tapped your forehead, took a step closer, and nudged his head in the direction beside you.
"Pip-squeak," he grinned, "look. Your gluten-free donut bakery."
Your head turned.
It was trueâyou hadn't realized it, but you'd stopped right in front of the bakery in question. It sat quietly on the corner, windows warm with lightâŚ
You realized, then, that though you passed this place all the time still, you'd never quite⌠visited. Less, since he'd started going to Skyhaven, and definitely not since what had happened at Bloomshore District.
So how long had it been, really?
You were right to think that it had changed.
The awning had gone from striped red to a soft sage green; handwritten signs replaced by sleek, branded typography.
But the bones of it were still there.
The door was still painted that dusty white; those little flowerpots still hung under the front windows.
And then, taped to the glass, was a posterâTyped out in playful print, with a little cartoon apple pie in the corner.
Apple Crumble Brioche. This weekend only!
Your eyes caught on it without realizing.
They had one on displayâit was smaller, now, and not quite the kind you used to eat during summer break.
But the word apple lingered in your head like a ghost.
That was Caleb's favoriteâŚ
You heard a laugh beside you.
"Maann," he hummed, dragging the word out, "I haven't had any of their pastries in so long."
A smile tugged at your lips.
"Not that you're missing much," you rolled your eyes.
But already your smile was widening.
"M'kay, but it's still my birthday. So aren't I supposed to be spoiled a little?"
"You wouldn't be spoiled by anything from this bakery nowâŚ"
"Nuh-uh. Would be, 'cause you're right here with me, pip-squeak."
You laughed, then. Shoved his shoulder in a playful manner, before going ahead and pushing at the door. "So Colonel Caleb can be a baby, after all!"
The door gave way with a soft ring.
It quieted the banner, despite the playful looks you'd shown each other.
The bell above still had the same tinkling chime you used to knowâimpressive, after all these years.
And there it was again. That warmth. Fresh bread, cinnamon, sugar melting into butter... Even now it smelled like a memory that hadnât quite forgotten you yet.
Like stepping into a well-loved painting; a well-loved book.
Something to welcome you home.
Behind the counter stood someone you didnât recognizeâyoung, cheerful, and definitely not the older woman with the cloud of white hair who used to sneak you extra apple pockets on rainy days. But the smile they gave was kind.
âEvening!â They said. âLet me know if you need anything!â
Everything looked cleaner now. Neater.
Even as you moved towards the counter, you took in the sight of the more professionally decorated displayâelaborate presentations of cakes, and pastries, and dessertsâŚ
Behind you, you felt Caleb moving around to take in everything that he could, too.
The shelves in the back had packed croissants, cardamom buns, muffins.
You knew that despite your mourning for the more homely bakery you were used to, in the end it was still a bakery of good standard.
It still smelled a little bit like home.
With a warmth curling in your heart, you smiled at the cashier. "Two apple brioches, please," you gestured, before taking out your walled to fish for a bill.
Behind you, Caleb had pausedâsomething on the side wall caught his eyeâa corkboard tucked between the napkin station and the drink menu. A little handwritten sign above it read: Take a leaf, leave a leaf.
Papers in the shape of different colored leaves rested in a tray below, colored pens lined neatly in a box. The board itself was dotted with pinned-up notes: doodles, quotes, confessions half-lost to time.
And while you counted the change, he'd stepped over, pulled a leaf from the tray.
Quick scribbles.
When you'd turned, then, he was just straightening and pinning the note to the board with a casual flick of his hand.
You raised an eyebrowâshow off.
âWhat was that?â You stepped closer to peer at his note, but he held his arm out and steered you out the door. "Hey!"
"Shhhh, that was my birthday wish."
"But a wish is made with candles. You made a wish today! And anyway, you're not supposed to write those downâ"
With a grin, he flicked your forehead. "Eeexactly. No peekin', pips."
Perhaps he knew how to silence you.
In the next moment his hand reached down to find yours, gave it a little squeezeâ
"Let's go home, pip-squeak."
You thought to yourself that you hadn't quite held him like this, not for a long, long while.
When you stepped back out onto the street, the bakery door tingled shut behind the both of you. Now, even standing out under the awning, you could see that the sky had darkened while you'd been inside. The sun was well below the horizonâdusk had given way to the evening, and in the distance, if you squinted, low clouds seemed to roll in slowly.
"OhâŚ" you murmured. "Do you think it's going to rain? I don't think I brought an umbrella with meâŚ" You shifted around and rummaged through your bag, only to no avail.
The first drops hit before you'd gotten a reply.
Soft, still. Cautious, almostâas if testing the ground.
And as you peeked out from under the awning, little, sporadic drops fell on your head, dotting your hair with light greetings.
Beside you, Caleb shrugged. "We're not too far. It's probably just a drizzle."
"Guess the birthday boy gets a little bit of rain," you laughed then.
You took the pastries back from him and stuffed the little brown paper bag into your own bagâfor safekeeping.
And you could pretend the drizzles weren't there.
Could still walk ahead, a few steps, cross over to the next block as the pedestrian signal turned green.
âŚBut then the drizzle turned bolder.
A sudden scatter of drops soaked into your dress, and you let out a gasp.
"Oh, noâŚ!"
The sky gave in completely.
Thick, heavy rain fell in sheets the next second. Testing period was overâthe sky doused the pavement, and you were soaking almost immediately.
Hair, clothesâquickly they began to stick to your skin, both his and yours, andâGod forbidâCaleb laughed.
"Caleb! Don'tâugh, come on! We've got to getâ"
Despite your obvious indignation, he only reached over to grip your hand in his.
One more time, he seemed to say.
He had that knowing little look on his face, one that slowly, slowly turned into one with mischief and pure joy.
"Race you!"
With an aghast cry of disbelief, you allowed yourself to be dragged along with himârace, he said, yet here he was gripping your hand like a promise not to let go this time.
And you could only laugh.
He always knew how to make you laugh.
"Hey! Caleb, you dummy!"
You would shout through the rain, wet droplets splashing on at the two of you. Caleb was fast, and you were more of stumbling alongthan running. Water, puddles, flared up in arcs from your feet. It soaked through the fabric of your skirt, your socks, your collarâbut you thought, nonetheless, that it felt so suddenly free.
You couldnât remember the last time you'd run like this.
Carelessly.
Breathlessly.
Like it didnât even matter that the two of you were drenched by now.
Caleb knew how to make you laugh.
Caleb knew how to make you feel at ease.
It was his birthday, and yet, he would still be like this with you.
Shoes slapped against wet pavement, rain streaked down your faces as you rounded the block and skidded into the shade of your apartment complex.
"S- seriously!" You half-laughed, half-panted, resting your hands on your knees as you caught your breath.
You offered a playful glare, "Warn me next time you take me for a ride, captain, geez!"
He ducked under with you, water dripping from the tip of his nose.
And all around you, the rain never seemed once to let up. It only got louder, enough to almost drown out your laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of itâ
It settled again, and that giddiness bubbled.
"Ugh, justâ YouâŚ!" You hunched over with laughter this time, only managing to straighten just to wring out your hair. "It's like you even remember the way here better than I do!"
"Pshhh. What do you take me for, pips? 'Course I'll remember!"
He shook his hair, grinning at the incredulous squeal you'd let out at the droplets that went flicking around from him.
Wet dog, you stuck out your tongue at him.
But he followed your actions after another grinâwringing out bits of his blazer, his tie; untucked his shirt just to do the same.
And then he chuckled.
"Well, it's where you are, so I'll never forget. Even through all that downpour⌠I'll always know the way home, pip-squeak."
The way he said it felt warm despite the cold beginning to seep through your clothes. But, as if afraid it might once again bring you a step away from him like you had beenâyou didn't address it.
Instead, you responded with a playful scoff.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Colonel."
With a wave of your hand, you walked rain-soaked steps up to your door, eagerly pushing your thumb to the fingerprint system in way of getting out of your wet clothes and hopefully into much drier ones.
Indeed when the door clicked open, Caleb shouldered it wider, allowing you to step inside first. âGeez,â he muttered, still scrubbing a hand through his wet hair. âI can feel my socks squish.â
You rolled your eyes, "Yeah, and you're the one who decided to drag us through the downpour. Which, happy birthday, by the way."
âAaand, I regret nothing! 'cept maybe not waterproofing my shoes well enough. But that's another conversation.â
He moved to toe them off to the side, and you hovered by the light switch.
Ah, well, this you'd forgotten.
A second of hesitation.
You took a deep breath, and thenâwith fingers still a little wet against the plastic panelâyou clicked it on.
Warm light spilled into the room.
Not just your living room lights, but soft string lights blinked to life. As the area lit up bathed in that amber light, it revealed strings of lights draped across windows and walls, something like lazy stars, gentle and gold, dancing almost delicately along the blankets stacked on the couch.
Balloons floated near the ceiling. Some were clustered in little groups around the corners of the room; blue, and orange, and red, and purpleâSunny Apple balloons, Sunny Apple plushies, even little Sunny Apple paper cutouts were there, too. The cutouts hung like ornamentsâhand drawn, made with care⌠allowed a little glimpse into the innocence of childhood that you'd both spent together, all these years.
Caleb had stopped.
He'd paused, halfway through peeling off his blazer, jaw going slack. "WhatâŚ"
A hint of red crept up your cheeks.
With a clear of your throat you padded barefoot across the floor, not even caring anymore as the rain still dripped from the ends of your hair. You could still feel the dress fabric clinging to your skin⌠but now, you couldn't care less. You barely even felt the cold anymore. Instead, your heart was beating far too loudly in your chest, and you crouched beside the couch, andâ
There it was.
The real present.
A small, pearly-white box tucked carefully in the corner, wrapped up in a purple ribbon.
The color of his eyes.
"I⌠I know," you began, picking up the box and standing still. You couldn't dare back look at himânot now, not just yet. "I know I spent the day with you already⌠And, I know, that maybe IâI made it seem like that was the present."
Silence.
Not even a shuffle.
When you did turn, Caleb hadn't moved at all. Instead his eyes were fixed on you, watching you carefully, a waver of emotion in those sunset eyes of his that you found that you didn't know how to read.
Slowly you walked the few paces back to him, holding the box between your hands. "It's⌠I mean, that's not enough of a present. Neither is this, really. But⌠I wanted to give you something, even if it's small, and nothing compared to⌠uhâŚ"
A wry smile; you swallowed.
The irony of being nervous in front of someone you'd known for more than half your life.
âYouâve⌠You've always taken care of me, Caleb. Even when you didnât have to. Even now, after all this time. Even⌠Even in spite of everything. You've always been here. And you've said that you don't know, anymore, how to to take care of me like you used to, but you⌠You still do. You still try.â
The words trembled slightly as you spoke. And then you placed the box in his hands.
"âŚThere's still so much you don't tell me," you said quietly, your expression softening. You watched as Caleb looked down, silently slipping the ribbon loose. "I don't know much about your missions, or the things that you have to do⌠Or what it's really like, out there in deepspace; even what it's really like when you fly."
The lid came off.
Inside, nestled in dark velvet, was a compass. Its face gleamed slightly in the lightâsimple, elegant, its needle already settling.
Caleb didnât speak right away.
Instead he stared; a few beats. A couple moments with his gaze studying the eight-point star, before flitting back up to you.
You couldn't read him.
Even now, you thought, there was just so much you didn't know about him anymore, either.
YetâŚ
ââŚYou always said I knew the way,â he murmured.
And you nodded, almost too afraid to speak in return.
He traced the needles with his thumb, carefully, gently.
"When we were kids, you⌠You always said you'd thought I was invincible. I had you relyin' on me the whole way, trailin' after me with those stars in your eyes. So, I'd lead the way when I could. As much as I could. I didn't⌠ever want those stars to go away."
The compass settled down as he reached over to rest it on a little table.
"You don't do that anymore, pips," he said softly.
And you stayed silent, allowed yourself to be gently drawn into him. Again, like always. Again, like he'd make you do.
In the back of your mind, you'd think that Caleb didn't even need his Evol, not when he was with you.
"Now you're thisâthis diligent, hard-workin' Hunter, best rookie Hunter of the year, and all those fancy achievements... Even made it into UNICORNS, yeah? I couldn't be more proud of you. JustâŚ"
He rest his hands on your waist, pulled you closer just to rest his forehead against yours.
"You're right," he whispered. "Things're different now. All these things keep pullin' us further and further apart⌠It's like today's the only day we got to be like this. Where things felt like they used to. So when did heaven, and earth start⌠feelin' so far? When did you become someone I don't have to take care of anymore? When did you become someone I had to let go?"
The weight of his words settled.
In the end, he'd been feeling the same things you did.
"'m not as invincible as you think I am. I can't even accept that you don't look at me like you used to⌠Isn't that pathetic? Those stars in your eyes were ones I couldn't protect, and I keep messin' up, havin' toâto try to make things right again. But⌠how am I supposed to do that? I don't know a lot of things either, pip-squeak⌠All I want is to be by your side."
"CalebâŚ"
"Only reason I don't drift off into space is 'cause the only home I have's with you. Only reason I come back is 'cause I know you're waitin' for me back on the ground."
Your eyes closed.
Well, through the downpour and morning dew⌠you're the one I don't want to lose.
"âŚI'm still here, CalebâŚ" you murmured. "I'm not going to go flying off without you. I don't want to."
It wasn't even that the hug was particularly comfortable.
Wet fabric against wet skinâhe felt cold. Cold, and wet, andâyou could pull away.
But he rest his chin on the top of your head, and it was the warmest that you'd ever been.
"You're my home, too, you know." You nuzzled against him, smiled softly even though he wouldn't see it. "So this compass⌠was me hoping that I'd be yours. If navigation knows only forward motionâŚ"
"âŚWhen I'm by you side, I just want to stay still."
You laughed, muffled against his chest. "Yeah. One of your silly quotes."
"Well⌠When you think about it, you're the only compass I'd ever need anyway, guidin' me back home the way you do." He smiled into your hairâyou felt itâbefore he pulled back a little.
Looked at you properly.
Sunset eyes locked onto your own.
And slowly he reachedâbrought the necklace back up between your lips, leaned in to share a chaste kiss.
"Maybe this is just a promise," he murmured. "You ground me, pip-squeak. And fate has always guided me back to you⌠So maybe, yours is the gravity I can never resist. One that I never even plan to."
"My sun?" you laughed softly, "pulled into my orbit?"
"Mm, welll, I think I've only ever reflected the light you shine. Soooo maybe you're the sun. Or the earth. My world, isn't it? That'll fit, too."
"âŚYou're silly."
"Heh. Don't like it?"
"Mn, I've never not liked it."
The necklace fell as you giggled, and your lips brushed together gently.
"You know⌠I don't know if I can believe in forever," he said, then. "But⌠Just this moment, here, with you⌠I want to believe in an eternity with you."
"So let's call it." Your eyelashes fluttered against his. "From this day onward⌠Caleb, you are my eternity."
And this time, this promise was sealed with a kiss.
Warm.
Steady.
So achingly gentle, it made your breath catch.
And it was a kiss that cradled the very weight of everything you'd shared before this, and everything else that you hadn't dared to speak out loud until this moment. It was a kiss that spoke for you. A kiss that saidâthank you. I promise that, too.
So you kissed him back, leaned into him. You felt the way your breath trembled as you didâyour hands rose, shaking, pressing lightly into his chest. And it was like breaking the surface, after holding your breath for all these years.
Your fingers fisted, curled, into the fabric of his shirt. Your own anchor. Something to steady you, keep you grounded, remind you no less that despite the weightlessness of this moment, it was still real.
The room faded.
The lights, the windows, the rainâŚ
In this moment, it was just you, and him, and a shared sense of a promised beginning.
When he pulled back, his hands still remained curled at your waist. You noticed the flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes had gone all liddedâglassy, a little bit dazed. And despite the soft, breathless laugh that spilled from your lips, you didn't want to pull away.
You didn't even dare to.
Instead your gaze flitted back down to his lips, watched as the corner of his mouth twitched into a little hint of a smirk.
Caleb tilted his head.
Testing.
And his nose brushed once again against yours, andâ
"Mmphâ!"
He swallowed your gasp with yet another kiss; this time not as soft, not as sweet.
Hungry.
As if that moment had given him all he'd needed to let loose.
Despite your widened eyes, you willed yourself to breathe, melting like putty immediately in his arms. They'd flutter closed as he pulled you tighter, closer. And your hands slid up his chest, over the soaked fabric of his shirt, clutched at the fabric for yet another reminder of the reality of what was happening.
It was wet, and messy.
Open-mouthed, breathlessâyou made a noise at the back of your throat, something like a whimper, something like relief, something likeâyes, this. More of this.
You felt your heart pounding in your chest.
What had started with a simple kiss had escalated into the intensity he'd pour into youâan intensity you reciprocated; an intensity you dared give back to him, so much so that you couldn't ever think to protest when his hand came up to cup your jaw.
His lips moved fiercely; he continued to press into you.
One step back.
Then another.
Not away from each other, butâtowards.
And as the kiss deepened, the backs of your knees hit the couch. It was the only thing that could have made you partâyou both toppled over in a tangle of limbs and damp clothing, couch cushions giving beneath you. He landed beneath youâblinking up with a startled look that shone through despite the redness that had reached his cheeks, a little huff of laughter falling at your own lips.
"GeezâŚ" you breathed, one palm flat again on his chest, the other bracing yourself beside his head. âThat was graceful.â
Not necessarily addressing the kiss; not necessarily rejecting it.
Instead, you watched as his hands slid along your hips, that smirk of his returning to his features. "Fate ordained it," he hummed. "But I feel like I want to be the greedy birthday celebrant that I am this time."
"Good."
You leaned back down, took a moment to caress his cheek. "You should be greedier with me, Caleb."
His lips against yours were searing.
That hunger was still there.
Fast, and deep, and passionateâŚ
It turned heedy. Open mouths crashing together, again and again.
Soft groans built between sharp breaths and wet noises; there was no need for air, not when you could breathe him instead.
And instinctively, needyâyour hips shifted, the gasp between you swallowed into another kiss.
Caleb's hold on your waist tightened. Not to stop you, but to guide.
And that was all the mutual invitation that both of you needed.
Slowly, teasingly, rocking stillâyou felt him hardening beneath you, felt your own body pulsing in response. You felt a tingle down at your core, already sensitive from the friction of your wet clothes and all this pent-up tension between you. The fabric felt hot, and soaked, and maddeningâand even pulling away from him just to breathe took all your effort, and even then you couldn't stop.
âShit,â he muttered, voice rough and buried against your shoulder. âYou canât move like that and expect me to stay sane, pip-squeak...â
âOh?â You deliberately moved, eyebrow raised, letting the friction drag right across your clit through the thin, soaked fabric of your panties. A smirk was laced in your voice. âBut I thought you liked this?"
His only answer was a strangled soundâhalf laugh, half moan.
And then he bucked up into you.
Retaliation, perhaps.
Your head tipped back at the sensation, hips meeting his in a frantic rhythm that neither of you were controlling anymore. Your breath hitched each time the ridge of his cock rubbed against you, perfectly caught between the angle of his body and the damp cling of your pantiesâIt was raw.
Desperate.
Each roll of your hips sparked heat in your belly that coiled tighter, and tighter, and tighter, and tighterâŚ
âP-pip-squeak,â he groaned, breath catching against your neck. "Youâre damn wet, h-holy...â
You rest your forehead against his, breath coming out in tiny puffs from exertion. "âŚSo are you," you laughed. "We were⌠ah⌠We were out in the raiânnhâŚ"
âNot what I meant.â
Immediately your rhythm grew frantic. Slow grinding turned into more abrupt, hard rolls, the shape of his cock slotting nicely between the outline of your cunt. Your thighs tightened around his waist; his hands slid eagerly down to cup your ass and press you closer.
Caleb had never held you like this becore.
But even now, you looked at himâviolet-orange eyes turned a darker twilight from sundown⌠and he had so much desire in him that you could simply melt.
Sparks shot up through your spine.
Your moans grew louder; swallowed either by his mouth that demanded more, or left completely to echo in your room as you arched your back.
"God, you're so fucking hot, pips," he murmured. This was a lower tone you were far less used to hearing, but it wasn't condescending. It wasn't cold.
It was hot, and searing, and you could only let out a groan of your own.
And eventually your soaked dress became far too muchâ
You sat up slightly, panting, straddling him still with your own flushed cheeks and unsteady hands.
You lifted your hipsâstarted with the hem of your dress, slowly peeled it upwards.
And then off.
Immediately, Caleb's hands followed.
In heated silence his gaze trained over your body, thumbs brushing reverently along the skin as your dress was thrown haphazardly somewhere in the room. In the next second your bra unclasped, and your panties kicked off, both to join your dress without any more care for being organized.
Because none of that mattered.
Not at all mattered.
What mattered, now, was what was in front of youâ all manner of love, and desire, and reverence, all in one gaze. All in the way he would linger, taking in every inch of you with a sweep of his eyes.
All in the way he would speak. Barely a whisper.
But still, enough to make you clench almost pathetically over nothing.
"I wish you could see yourself the way I do right now,â he murmured. âYouâre⌠stunning.â
You felt your heart skip a beatâa couple, before accelerating, bringing an undeniable heat rushing all throughout your body in that moment.
"Then⌠let me see you, too."
You tugged at his wet shirt, nails scraping lightly at his chest. The motion had him groaning, bucking his hipsâhis cock strained hard through his pants, grinding against the damp press of your now-bare pussy. The friction of his clothing hitting directly on your folds and had your thighs shaking, Caleb's hands moving up and down over them, eyes now glued to your breasts that hung right in front of him.
It was a reverent sort of scramble.
A struggle to stop, if only for a moment, just to bare your bodies to one another, just to finally, finally be free and vulnerable and real.
Wet fabric slapped to the floor.
No more barriers.
Full of desire.
You pushed him back against the couch cushions, climbed into his lap with slow, sure movements. Immediately your pussy slid over the heavy bulge of his cock, bare, and raw, and skin-to-skin, a place where it belonged and simply felt oh-so-fucking-good.
You gripped his jaw, kissed him hard, and then began to grindâslow, and hard, and so sweetly filthy.
But never as delicious as the sound of his own moans.
"Ah-shitâah! Y-you're killin' me, babyâ"
The new nickname had you jolting.
And he would pull you back down into another kissâhe rocked back against you, groaned into your mouth, hands rubbing over from your ass, to your hips, to the sides of your chests, and back down againâ
So delicious.
Your clit caught every motion. The air was thick with the sound of wet skin, of uneven breathing, of whimpers and his whispered curses. His cock throbbed desperately, trapped against your heat, teased by the plush drag of your weeping cunt.
It wasn't enough.
âFuck,â he hissed. âM'gonna lose it like this, you're so damn perfectâŚ"
You shook your head. "No⌠Not yet," you panted. You leaned in, teeth teeth grazing that tender spot just below his ear. âI want you inside.â
He didn't speak, then.
Just a flash of something darker in his eyes, and then he lifted you slightlyâ
Flushed and heavy, your eyes were drawn to his length, watching with a wildly beating heart as he guided you over the head of it.
No rush.
Just the tip, first.
You couldn't resist swirling your hips a little, easing the red tip right into your holeâ
"Fuckkkk, yesâ Take it deeper, babyâŚ"
Your eyes shot up to meet Caleb's, your own lips parted in disbelief.
His moans were so fucking pretty.
You didn't want to wait any more, either.
The stretch made you moan.
Slowly you sank down, pussy fluttering as you took him inch, by inch, every vein and every ridge burning itself into your memory. Your thighs trembled against his hipsâhe buried his face into your shoulder, breathing hotly against your skin, fingers grapsing at your ass as he fought to stay still.
"Mmnh⌠CalebâŚ" you moaned. Your hands gripped his shoulders then, nails practically digging in enough to earn a moan of his own.
He was just so big.
The fullness of him made your hips stutter. Your eyes rolled back into your head.
âShit, shit,â you grit your teeth. âYouâre⌠fuck, youâre stretching me so muchââ
âI know, pips,â he breathed, shaky. âAnd youâre doin so, so good. You feelâfuck, you feel like heaven.â
He was throbbing inside you, pulsing against your most sensitive places. You felt every twitch. Every heartbeat.
And then your hips met.
You were shakingâhe was all the way in.
Your hands trembled, chest rising and falling in strained breath, trying to adjust to his fill.
It burned, but it felt heavenly.
He was right.
âYou okay?â he murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek, your temple, your jaw.
You nodded, swallowed hard. âI just⌠didnât know I could feel this full,â you laughed, a little breathlessly. âItâs a lot.â
"But not too much, right, princess? I mean, look at you, so full of meâŚ"
A lazy grin formed on his face, then.
He'd nudged you a little, all so his eyes could rake over you seated over his cock like this. A low whistle escaped from his lips, and his hand snaked over to rest on your stomach. "So, so full of me."
He leaned back up for a momentâ
"Move for me, baby."
And it was as if you'd been waiting for such a command.
So you did as he'd asked.
A gentle roll of your hips, first.
"Fuckâ! Nghâ!"
The first movement had him falling back to the cushions, giving you more of that delicious delicious moan, and your breath hitched.
There was a light whimper on your lips; the stretch of him still sent aftershocks down your spine, every inch of him rubbing places inside you that made your toes curlâ
But you needed more. You really, really needed more.
Again.
And again.
Andâ
You rocked against him in a slow, tender rhythm; every downward push a sigh, every lift of your hips a gasp. His hands moved to your waist again, holding you steady, guiding youâŚ
And he wouldn't look away from you.
Dizzy eyes, brows furrowed in pleasureâhis hair, wet from the rain and from sweat, stuck to his hair, and the way he gazed at you was so lustful and so loving all at once that the coil in your stomach stirred.
"So fuckin' pretty," he drawled, soothingly rubbing into your waist. "Look at you go, pips⌠Takin' my cock so damn wellâŚ"
The slick sound of your bodies filled the space between you. Your arousal coated his length, clenching with every curse that spilled from his lips. You moaned, helplessly, almost, as your hips began to pick up the pace.
"Caleb⌠Caleb, feels s'goodâŚ!"
"Mhm⌠Yeah, you like it, baby? Feels good, huh? You're damn perfect, princess, made for me."
You near-collapsed. Palms on either side of his body, breath coming out in pants, hips moving up, and down, and up, and downâ
His lips found your neck. Your jaw, your cheek.
âDrivin' me insane, pretty babyâ he groaned. âEvery fuckin' move you makeâŚ"
He thrust up into you.
"Calebâ!"
You cried out in pleasure, your movements syncing with the pace of his thrusts.
You moaned into his mouth, and your rhythm stuttered, but didnât stop. You moved above him, caught in that rising, desperate tide, the drag of him hit right where you needed, feeling cock along all your tender places with every rollâ
His head tipped back against the couch cushion.
His throat bared; a broken moan escaped him so wonderfully.
âGodâfuck, Iâm close!" he gasped. His fingers trembled where they held you. âI canâtâbaby, I canât hold it back anymore, I need⌠fuckâneed more than this⌠Please, lemme have all of youâ"
His voice cracked with it, the need, the want.
And you could tell that there was more.
This wasn't about just sexâthe way he looked at you held something deep something intense; he wanted you.
And you felt wanted.
You leaned forward, flushed and panting, lips brushing the shell of his ear. âThen donât hold back,â you whispered. âTake all of it. All of me. Use me."
In that moment, you felt it.
He didn't lunge.
Instead, his body froze. A slight, strangled sound escaped his throatâ
"Don't⌠don't say thatâŚ"
You paused.
A frown.
His eyesâthose bruised-purple, tangerine-flecked eyesâmet yours with a kind of haunted sorrow that you wouldn't have expected out of him.
"CalebâŚ?" you reached a hand out to push his bangs out of his face. "That's notâ I didn't meanâŚ"
âNo, I⌠I donât ever want you to feel like Iâm takin' somethin' from you,â he shook his head. Whispered, pleadingly.
And still your bodies were joined, throbbing, waitingâbut his hands had gentled, and his gaze searched yours like it ached to be understood.
"Caleb⌠You're not using me⌠IâŚ"
"âŚBut how do you know?" he frowned. "If you say it like that, pips, I⌠I've already taken so much from you."
"What? No, you haven'tâ"
"Do you really think so? All this time? I told you, I don't know how to take care of you anymore. All these wrong things I keep throwin' around, and you'd still fall back into my arms after a few coddles 'cause that's what I know to do to bring you backâŚ"
"Stop! That's notâ"
"I need you so badly, and I keep givin' in to that, pips. Keep thinkin' what if Iâm only hurting you by loving you like this? Do you think I don't know? You're just too used to me toâ"
"Caleb!"
You shouted his name, frowning, looming over him as your hands gripped his shoulders.
He'd stopped his rambling, but he still spoke.
Again.
A quieter voice.
"âŚDo I even deserve you, pip-squeak?" he murmured.
And that was the last straw.
You reached for his face, palms warm and trembling where they cupped his cheeks. His lashes were wet. He looked undone.
And you wanted him to stop saying those things.
âShut up, birthday boy,â you hissed. "And let me fucking love you."
Fiercer.
Your mouth crashed against his for the nth time that day, willing, insisting, to press your answer into him without needing to speak it. Your hands framed his face gripping something so precious, so preciousâ
And when you pulled away, you glared determinedly as you touched your forehead to his.
Your breaths mingled.
His lips were wetâkiss-swollen.
And your hips moved once, twice⌠Slow and grounding, and he groaned.
Your hands down to his wrists. Guided them back to your hips.
"âŚDon't say such things," you murmured. "I mean it, Caleb. You can do with me whatever you want. But youâre not taking anything Iâm not already giving you.â
He stared at you, lips parted, half in sheer disbelief.
"âŚI've been too much," he frowned.
"No, you haven't. You're not."
"âŚAnd this is⌠really what you want?"
"It's always been."
A pause, and your eyes softened. "Do you trust me?" you whispered.
A nod.
âThen I want you to take me, Caleb. I am yours. It's my choice to give you this much. I choose you."
And you watched as he swallowed, looked into your eyes one last timeâ
He flipped you.
Your back hit the cushions with a soft thump and he settled between your legs, the tip of his cock swollen and poised back at your folds.
His chest heaved.
His hands, placed on either side of your head to brace himself, were gripping the couch so tightly.
His control was slipping, yet he would fight so hard to keep it in.
"Aren't you scared of me?" he said quietly.
And you smiled.
You reached up, brushing damp hair from his forehead, cupped his face again.
He needed an anchor.
You would be one, for him.
"You're too high up in the sky, Caleb," you shook your head gently. "You need to come back down⌠to me. Me, who's always been waiting for you. Me, who's always loved you. All this time, every moment. I could never be scared of you, Caleb."
Your hands moved, wrapped around his neck, tugged him down closer.
"So fuck me."
And the strings snapped loose.
One thrustâyour body had gotten used to him, welcomed him greedily as he sank his length deep inside you.
"Ohâfffuuuckkâpips, baby, shitâ"
The angle was different like this.
More curses and moans strung from Caleb's lips as he buried himself to the hilt, and you yourself groaned from the intrusion, eyes immediately rolling back into your head just like earlier.
You could get addicted to this.
"Yes⌠Yes! Just like that, CalebâŚ!"
You clung to him, nails scraping lightly down his back.
And this time, you knew he wasn't holding back at all.
Low grunts were punctuated by sharp, harsh thrusts, driving you into the cushions, echoing the obscene sounds of his cock dragging in and out of your dripping hole.
You could feel itâevery vein along his length, burning into you like homeâthe twitch, of his need, pulsing inside you enough to make you dizzy.
Your walls clenchedâpulling him deeper, deeper.
It was driving you insane.
"G-godâŚ!" He choked, moaning against your lips as your foreheads pressed together.
The pace of his hips didn't relent.
"You feel soâhaahâso fuckin' good, n'wet, youâreâ you're pullin' me inâ! Fuck, baby, youâre made for thisâ!â
"Mmh'all yours, Caleb, was made just for yoâuughâhaah! H-harderâ!"
Absolutely insane.
Your thighs trembled around his hips, as he held you open, begging, writhing, under the force of how well he'd ruin you.
And you would let him.
You did let him.
"Harder, harderâ!"
Caleb hissed as he pushed deeper, driving his cock into you with a wet, thick sound that made both of you moan.
His pace builtâwhatever you wishedâand his hips slapped against you needy rhythm, your body bouncing slightly beneath him with each thrust.
Frantic, your hands gripped his back, then slid upward to tangle in his hair, then down againâonce more, your nails raking hard enough to leave proof of everything.
"H-hnghhâahâ! Cal-eâ C-Calâ!"
"Mmm, that's a good, good girl f'meâhaahâsuch a good princess, fuckâ pussy's milkin' me, baby, you're gonna make me cum like this!â
Moaning loudly, you arched into him. "Yes, yes! Wanna feel it! Wanna feel you so deepâ" With his hips angled perfectly, you felt the tip of his cock nudge your g-spot, and you cried out. "Caleb!"
âFuckin' hell, say my name like that again, pip-squeak."
And he slammed into you, taking the way you desperately continued to claw at his back.
Just one more thrust, and then you caved.
"Caleb! CalebâŚ!"
Crying out his name in messy sobs, your back arched, and you trembledâspasmedâgripped him for all that you could. "I'm⌠c-cummingâŚ!"
His hips stuttered, moans getting higher, the sound of your own cries like a catalyst to his release.
You wept, drawing him in, begging for him. "Cum in me. Please, please, I need itâneed you toâ!"
He crashed into you, burying his face into your neck with a loud cry.
"F-fuck! Baby, princessâŚ!"
Nicknames, pet names, words blurred into sounds of your name.
His cock pulsed hard inside you as he emptied himself, long hot ropes of cum and every twitch and throb leaving you shaking.
"C-CalebâŚ" you gasped, crying still, tears stinging your eyes from the intensity of your coupling. "Caleb, Caleb, Caleb, CalebâŚ"
His whole body trembled above you, his back taut under your hands, his face pressed hard into the crook of your neck like he could disappear inside you.
"M'here, pips," be mumbled. "I'm right here. Right here⌠Attagirl, nowâŚ"
So gentle, his words, and yet the slick between you was so filthy.
That slick wet noise of your joined bodies, your pussy fluttering around his cock as you clenched him in deeper, holding every drop⌠This way, his cum stayed in deep. Thick, and warm... Like it belonged there.
Like he belonged there.
In your heart, you knew that he did.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, that stupid, stupid grin on his face that made you pout. "I think you just entirely rewired me," he laughed breathlessly.
You made a face, smacked his arm lightly. "Well, good."
And your eyes softened. Took in the sight of him, wet with sweat and water, and all these messy things⌠Yet still, he smelled like rain, and skin, and a heat that was entirely just him.
He smelled like home.
And you loved himâGod, you loved him.
He caught your gaze, and smiled.
"âŚHey, pips?" he murmured.
"Mh?"
"D'you believe in forever?"
You shifted, tilting your head to look at him properly. "Well⌠you don't, right?" you said slowly.
"âŚI want to, though."
So you chuckled."Then, I want to, too."
"So⌠we do, then."
"We do."
You nodded, snuggled into him, kissed his chest. "Maybe, we just⌠have to be the authors of our own story. Say that we will have forever. And things, like⌠how forever feels like⌠this. In your arms. Here."
You heard a quiet yawn.
"Forever must be perfect then, huh?" he sighed.
"Mn⌠I think that it could be."
You poked him lightly. "So what'd you wish for?"
Caleb didn't answer immediately. For a moment there was a silence, and then came a soft laugh.
"You, 'course. And that no matter what happens, I'll always know my way back home to you, pip-squeak."
The thunder outside was as loud as this moment with him was quiet.
"âŚHappy birthday, Caleb."
an : i know the moon imagery might be like. a stretch. but oh my god. like. i find it so interesting the possible analogies that could be used to describe it and settled on the moon wkjhkghkdjfg something something how the moon falls into the earth's gravity? something something the light of the moon is only reflected from the sun??? like it FEELS so caleb to me ok WKJHKJGDS
anyway i hope if you've read this far that you've enjoyed it! <3 not as much of a caleb character study as i wanted it to be, but i guess it's as close as i could count without going insane- at 9k this was already a lot im CRYING.... caleb i hope you know that you are so loved... and i hope that for any of you reading this you can feel that he's loved through this as well <3
once again !! happy birth week to us <3 and happy gemini season!
Š solifloris. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.
(++ extra tags for @starmocha and @deepspacenova... I HOPE U DONT MIND... this is me saying i love u ty for getting me through this fic via moral support LMAOOO)