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lunareths · 2 months ago

Text

Spring Water

‧₊˚✩彡 ── ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: named!MC x Caleb

‧₊˚✩彡 ── sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs: An afternoon of sweeping fallen petals is interrupted by the teasing of one childhood friend until an unexpected injury forces them closer, noticing things about the other they hadn't before.

Giselle isn't a kid anymore and neither is he...

‧₊˚✩彡 ── ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ:6,424

‧₊˚✩彡 ── 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: vanilla spice, but still 18+ mdni, cunnilingus, female orgasm.

‧₊˚✩彡 ── 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: This takes place before his 'disappearance' but not so far back that they're in high-school, MC is either almost done with the entrance exam or has just started being a hunter. I also got the idea for this during the scene in the main storyline where Caleb holds her still while treating her wound and tells the cat and the bell story, I wanted this particular event to be on his mind during that, just to make it extra tense.

*Doubly so; this is my first bit of fic for this fandom; so I try not to read too many other fics on the first pass as to not be influenced, so if there's any similarities to another work that you see here it's purely coincidental. With that said please enjoy.

It was late spring, and the first hints of summer clung to the shifting breeze as warm sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting flickering patterns across the courtyard. The branches of the surrounding trees sagged under the weight of blossoms, their petals drifting in lazy spirals to the ground. A fusion of floral fragrance and the distant hum of the forest permeated the air, imbuing the space with an almost hypnotic tranquility. Standing amidst the afternoon glow, Giselle Valentine surveyed the mess of scattered petals carpeting the courtyard of her childhood home.

With an audible sigh, she dragged her broom across the stone path, pushing yet another pile of pink and white petals aside. The trees, while undoubtedly breathtaking in their seasonal bloom, left a perpetual mess in their wake—one she was charged with managing.

Just as she cleared a section, another gust of wind swept through, undoing her efforts as fresh petals rained down. Muttering under her breath, she swept a few stray strands of hair from her face, barely suppressing her irritation.

Caleb, her childhood friend, hadn’t initially intended to stop and watch. But there he was, casually leaning against the courtyard gate, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the determined furrow of her brow as she waged an unwinnable war against nature.

She had been at it for some time, her broom scraping across the stone in rhythmic frustration. Each time she made progress, nature effortlessly countered her efforts, sending another cascade of petals to reclaim the space she had just cleared.

Caleb smirked. Some things never changed.

Giselle, ever persistent, muttered in defiance, refusing to surrender to the inevitability of the elements.

His lips twitched in amusement. He supposed he should make his presence known, but watching her battle the petals was far too entertaining to interrupt.

She let out an exasperated sigh, blowing a loose strand of hair from her face. That was his cue. Pushing off the gate, he strolled into the courtyard with deliberate ease.

"You know," he drawled, tucking his hands into his pockets, "they invented leaf blowers for this very reason."

Giselle startled, whirling around at the unexpected voice. A few petals fluttered loose from her hair, and Caleb fought to suppress his grin.

She narrowed her eyes. "Great. The peanut gallery has arrived. How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to see you struggling with inanimate objects," he responded smoothly, nodding at the ever-growing collection of petals swirling around her feet.

A faint flush crept onto her cheeks as she gripped the broom tighter. "I am not struggling. The wind is cheating."

Caleb arched a brow. "Right. And next you'll tell me the petals have formed a conspiracy against you."

“I wouldn’t put it past them," she grumbled, shoving the broom at a particularly stubborn pile. "They look delicate and harmless, but they’re relentless."

Caleb snorted, rocking back on his heels. "So, what you’re saying is, the great huntress-in-training, Giselle, has been bested by springtime flora?"

Giselle pointed the broom at him, her expression dead serious. "Say that again, and I will sweep you into next week."

He grinned, stepping just out of reach. "I’d love to see you try, Gigi."

Her eye twitched. Caleb knew exactly what he was doing.

"You know I hate that name."

"It’s either that or pipsqueak, and I know how much you love that one," he teased, his smirk unrepentant.

Giselle exhaled slowly, clearly choosing restraint—for now. Resuming her sweeping, she muttered, "So, I imagine you finally found time to visit us simple folk, Flyboy?"

Caleb smirked at the retaliatory nickname, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Here to offer moral support… and inhale some good ol childhood nostalgia."

Giselle rolled her eyes. "Yeah? Smell familiar?"

He tilted his head, inhaling dramatically. "Mmm. Smells like hard work… and failure."

She whipped around, aiming the broom at him.

Caleb dodged effortlessly, laughing.

"More like unhelpful commentary," she muttered. "A leaf blower? Seriously? Do you see an outlet anywhere in the countryside, Caleb? Or should I just conjure one from thin air?"

"You could find a battery-powered one if you really wanted to," he quipped.

She scoffed and turned back to her task. "It’s fine. It's just... annoying."

Caleb watched her, the smirk softening on his lips. The scene felt familiar—comfortably so. As if nothing had changed. He liked that.

The way the late afternoon light filtered through the branches, catching in her hair. The way her expression set with the same stubborn determination she’d had as a kid when she insisted she could beat him in races up the tallest tree.

He was struck suddenly by the memory of her younger self—wild, free, scraped knees and bright brown eyes, completely unaware of how she had embedded herself into the foundation of his life.

Now, years later, she was still here. Still stubborn. Still beautiful.

And it was getting harder to pretend that she was still just the girl he grew up with.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shaking off the thought.

"Hey, so. You’re not even sweeping right," he teased, grasping at something lighthearted to clear his mind.

"Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Expert Sweeper, would you like to take over?"

"I’m just saying—"

He didn’t get to finish. In that moment, Giselle stepped back, her foot catching on something beneath the petals.

Everything happened so fast.

Her body lurched, the broom slipping from her grasp as she stumbled over a hidden tree root. Caleb moved on instinct, his reflexes sharp. He barely had time to react before she yelped and went down, landing hard on one knee.

Caleb was beside her in an instant.

"Geez—Giselle?" The teasing edge in his voice had vanished, replaced by sharp concern as he crouched beside her.

She grimaced, shifting to sit properly. "I’m fine—" She tried to stand but inhaled sharply, her ankle buckling beneath her weight.

Caleb caught her before she could fall again, one arm looping around her waist. "Yeah, that definitely looks fine," he muttered dryly.

She groaned and sighed in irritation. "Obviously, I didn’t see the root."

"No kidding."

Without waiting for an argument, he hooked his arm under her knees and lifted her effortlessly.

"Caleb—!"

Ignoring her protests, he adjusted her weight. "If you’re going to yell directly into my ear, at least try to sound more grateful."

Carrying her to the porch, he set her down gently.

Giselle hissed, her hands gripping the edge of the porch as she tested her weight again.

Caleb exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah, okay. Stop moving,” he muttered, already lowering himself into a crouch before her.

She huffed, crossing her arms, but refrained from arguing as he positioned himself between her knees, his gaze narrowing with concentration.

His hands were steady and gentle as he carefully reached for her foot, his fingertips brushing the bare skin of her calf before they curled around her ankle.

"Just let me look at it," he said, his voice quieter now—measured, controlled. Yet something in the way he touched her—so careful, so deliberate—sent a slow, uncertain warmth coiling in her stomach.

Caleb exhaled through his nose and took his time, loosening the laces of her shoe before carefully sliding it off.

Giselle flinched, a sharp inhale slipping past her lips as a fresh wave of pain flared when he inadvertently moved her foot too much.

"Sorry," Caleb murmured, genuine in his apology, his brows knitting together as his jaw tensed slightly. He adjusted his grip with greater care.

He continued, gentler now, his fingertips grazing over her sock before slowly peeling it away, revealing the delicate curve of her ankle—already beginning to swell, the skin tinged red from the strain.

Neither of them spoke as he pressed lightly against the swelling, his touch steady and methodical. The warmth of his fingers against her skin sent a ripple of awareness through her—one she wasn’t sure she was ready to acknowledge.

He gazed over the soft slope of her foot, the warmth of her skin pressing against his palms.

For a fleeting second, he, too, became acutely aware of everything—the way her leg rested against his thigh, the subtle heat radiating from her, and a delicate scent clinging to her. It was faint but unmistakable, a blend of crushed strawberry leaves and something sun-warmed and clean, like ripe fruit kissed by the afternoon air. It lingered in the space between them, deceptively light yet impossible to ignore this close.

He shook himself out of it, forcing his focus back onto her injury.

"Well...It’s not broken," he finally said, his voice lower. "But you’re not walking on it for a while."

She shifted, leaning back slightly. “Thank you, Doctor Caleb, you’re clearly in the wrong profession.” she teased, but her voice was softer, her breathing a little shallower now.

He didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Because his hands were still on her, still resting against her skin, and she wasn’t pulling away.

Caleb exhaled slowly, trying—failing—to ignore how warm her skin felt beneath his hands. His fingers lingered, pressing lightly against the curve of her ankle, feeling the soft thrum of her pulse beneath his thumb.

“I, uh—” He cleared his throat, his hands reluctantly sliding away from her skin.

Giselle raised an eyebrow, a perplexed expression flashing across her face at his sudden hesitation.

Caleb rubbed the back of his neck, forcing out a lopsided smirk to cover whatever the hell that moment had just been. “Let’s, uh—let’s leave that career path to Zayne, shall we?”

Her lips twitched, her eyes glinting. “Caleb? Mr. Popularity, Ace Flyboy is yielding?”

Caleb scoffed, shaking his head. “Please. Patching you up was something I did all the time when we were kids. I’d be a terrible doctor for like... anybody else.”

“Mm, yeah,” she mused, leaning back onto her hands. “You did have a habit of slapping a bandage on me and calling it a day.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” he shot back, regaining his footing, slipping easily into that familiar teasing territory.

“Only because I didn’t know better,” she smirked. “Zayne would’ve had me in a full-body cast if he saw how you handled first aid.”

Caleb rolled his eyes, but the warmth clinging in his chest was undeniable. The teasing, the banter, the way she looked at him just now—it was so them, so effortlessly natural. And yet…

His gaze drifted downward again—to her leg, the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, the way her dress still rode just a little high. He forced himself to refocus.

Clearing his throat, he stood with more purpose than necessary.

“We need to get you inside,” he muttered, extending a hand toward her. “Before you do something else dumb, like try to walk on that.”

Giselle shot him a glare, crossing her arms. “Oh, come on. I’m not that stupid,” she huffed. “I wasn’t about to just stand up and start walking on a busted ankle.”

Caleb lifted his hands in mock surrender, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Okay. Okay.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “I won’t surprise you this time. Here’s me, officially asking for your consent to carry you inside to the couch, Miss.” He met her gaze, arching a brow. “Do I have it?”

Giselle blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The way he said it—half teasing, half exasperated—shouldn’t have made her stomach do a little flip. And yet, her face was flushing despite herself.

She cleared her throat, rolling her eyes for good measure. “Hmm. You do.”

Without another word, Caleb bent down and effortlessly scooped her up, hooking one arm under her legs and the other behind her back. The movement was smooth, practiced—like it took no effort at all.

Giselle stiffened slightly, caught off guard by just how easily he lifted her. He smelled nice—clean, like fresh linen, and something subtly spiced, warm, and grounding. It was a small detail, but it lingered, distracting her almost as much as the quiet strength in his arms.

She had known he was stronger now—had seen the way his frame had filled out with each visit, the way he moved with more power, more certainty—but feeling it was something else entirely. Had he always been this strong? Or had she just never noticed before?

For a moment, adult emotions complicated the familiar, simplistic image she had of him, shifting the way she saw him in a way she still wasn’t sure she was ready to face.

Before she could dwell on it, he was already lowering her onto the couch, his touch steady but brief, pulling her out of her thoughts as he straightened up.

Caleb lingered for a moment, standing over her, his gaze half-lidded as he took her in.

She was still catching her breath, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured beats. Loose strands of dark hair framed her face, a touch tousled from the movement, her skin still carrying the faintest flush—not just from exertion, but something else. His eyes drifted lower, over the way her dress settled around her thighs, the curve of her leg now resting against the couch.

There was something disarming about seeing her like this—unguarded, caught in the space between irritation and something softer. For a moment, the teasing, the familiarity, the easy banter between them faded into something quieter...heavy.

"I'll, uh, get you some ice to bring the swelling down."

Giselle hummed in acknowledgment, reclining slightly against the couch, her fingers absently toying with the hem of her dress. There was no discernible expression on her face, no teasing remark—just a quiet, unreadable stillness.

Caleb hesitated for a fraction of a second, the odd tension clinging to his skin like static. He wasn’t sure what to make of it—the silence, the way she wasn’t meeting his eyes. Brushing it off, he turned toward the kitchen, willing himself to focus on the task at hand.

As he disappeared around the corner, Giselle exhaled, releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The warmth of his hands still lingered on her skin, the ghost of his touch refusing to fade.

She glanced down at her ankle, then at the empty space where he'd stood just moments ago.

The boy she had grown up with was still there, beneath the teasing quips and exasperated sighs. But there was something else now—something unspoken, something neither of them seemed quite prepared to confront.

"Here," he said quietly, his voice steadier than he felt. "Keep this on it for a while."

"Thanks."

Her fingers brushed against his—just a second too long.

The contact was brief but charged, her gaze steady and unreadable. For a moment, something unspoken hovered between them, fragile and uncertain.

Then Caleb stepped back, clearing his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets as if that would somehow ground him.

“You’re lucky I was here,” he said, his usual smirk settling back into place, though there was a stiffness in his posture that hadn’t been there before. “Otherwise, who knows how you’d have gotten inside?”

“I would’ve managed,” Giselle countered, though her voice was softer now, almost teasing.

“Sure you would’ve,” he murmured, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. But even as his smirk remained, the playful glint in his eyes did little to disguise the way his jaw clenched—the way his gaze flickered, just briefly, back to her legs before he forced himself to look away.

Giselle shifted on the couch, reaching forward to adjust the ice pack. The strain from sweeping earlier had left her muscles tense, and even the simple movement felt more cumbersome than expected. As she leaned in, the fabric of her dress slid higher against her thigh, baring just a little more skin to the dim light of the room.

And then—for the briefest moment—Caleb saw the most precious part of her.

The faintest trace of soft, white cotton.

His breath stalled. A flicker of something unsteady passed through him, quick as a spark but impossible to ignore. He snapped his gaze away, jaw tightening as he willed himself to think about anything else—her injury, the ice pack, the fact that he really, really didn’t need to be noticing that.

Heat coiled at the base of his spine, his body betraying him in a way that was both unfamiliar and entirely unwanted. His gaze tore away instantly, his jaw tightening as though sheer willpower alone could erase the image from his memory.

But it was too late.

The imprint lingered. The way her skin looked against the fabric, the sheer intimacy of it.

This was Giselle. His Giselle.

He had no business noticing things like that—but the realization hit him all at once, crashing over him like a wave he hadn’t seen coming. For the first time, he wasn’t just seeing Giselle as his best friend.

It wasn’t as though he had never noticed her beauty before. That awareness had crept up on him gradually, in ways that were easy to dismiss—a passing thought, a flicker of admiration, something harmless and fleeting.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t distant admiration. It was a gut-punch of attraction, startling and unrelenting, settling somewhere low and dangerous in his stomach.

And he hated it.

He hated how effortless it was, how easily his body reacted before his mind could reason its way out of it.

He had to say something—anything—to shatter the thought before it took root.

“Hold on—let me help. "Geez, Giselle...” he muttered, his tone sharper than necessary, almost scolding.

Not because she had done anything wrong.

But because he needed the distraction.

She blinked, momentarily startled by his abrupt shift in demeanor, her eyes searching his face. If she had noticed why he was suddenly tense, she didn’t say so.

Still, there was that shift again—no matter how many jokes he tried to hide behind, it just kept coming back, creeping between them, demanding to be dealt with.

Before she could respond, he was kneeling before her again, reaching for the ice pack, hyper-focused on the one task that didn’t require acknowledging the torrent of emotions racing through his skull.

His fingers brushed against hers as he adjusted the pack, the cool condensation dripping against his skin, but his own body ran too warm now, his pulse unsteady, uneven.

He forced his grip to remain steady, willing his mind back to neutral territory.

This was just Gigi.

Gigi, who had scraped her knees a hundred times as a kid. Gigi, who had always been just a little reckless, a little too stubborn for her own good.

But she wasn’t just Gigi…

No.

Giselle.

An unfamiliar weight settled in his chest, the realization creeping in before he could stop it and that realization unnerved him more than anything else.

“You don’t have to—” she started.

“Gigi just-” Caleb interrupted, his focus locked onto her ankle as if it were the most critical thing in the world. “Just let me do it.”

Giselle narrowed her eyes, sensing something different in his tone. Instead, she leaned back against the couch, watching him work, noting the quiet tension in his shoulders—tight, deliberate, restrained.

“Thanks...for taking care of me Caleb,” she murmured after a moment, her voice softer now.

Caleb nodded, but he still didn’t look at her. His fingers lingered, adjusting the ice pack with meticulous care; his jaw locked tight, his movements betraying a deliberation that hinted at something simmering beneath the surface.

The room felt smaller, the silence heavier. Outside, the wind rustled faintly, a quiet whisper against the walls. The only sounds between them were the steady rhythm of their breathing; the only light was the fading glow of the setting sun, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor.

Finally, Caleb glanced up, his gaze locking onto hers.

“You’re overdoing it, Gigi,” he said, his voice low, edged with something almost scolding. “All this—pushing yourself, trying to do everything on your own—you’re going to hurt more than just your ankle if you keep this up.”

Giselle arched a brow, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips despite the unspoken tension curling between them. “Why are you wigging out, Caleb? It’s just a little sprain.”

“This time.”

Caleb exhaled sharply, frustration threading through his words. But this wasn’t really about her ankle, and he knew that.

Giselle’s smirk wavered, her expression shifting into something more uncertain.

Caleb shook his head, running a hand through his hair, tousling it further, his mind caught in the dissonance of who he was supposed to be—

The responsible Caleb. The one who looked out for his best friend.

And this Caleb—the one battling emotions that had grown too large, too real, for a friend who, somewhere along the way, had become a woman he could barely think straight around.

"Sorry. Sorry for making it weird," he muttered, his voice gruff, his gaze skittering away as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It’s hard to turn that off." It was a pitiful excuse, but she bought it.

Giselle laughed softly, leaning further into the couch. "You’re the one who came rushing back like I was dying."

"Because you’re hopeless," he shot back, the usual sarcasm returning—though his voice still carried the weight of something unsettled.

It wouldn't be for long, but his walls were back in place, yet he remained kneeling by the couch, fingers absently pressing into the edge of the ice pack, adjusting it once more. He hadn’t moved since placing it there, his hands hovering near her ankle, reluctant to let go.

The silence stretched, fragile, punctuated only by the gentle rustling of petals against the window, the distant hum of the spring breeze.

Then—

“Gigi…?”

The nickname fell from his lips with a gentleness that caught even him off guard, the sharpened edge from moments ago all but vanished. There was something else in his voice now—something hesitant, unguarded. A quiet mix of anxiety and nervousness, like he was teetering on the edge of saying something he wasn’t sure he should.

She blinked, tilting her head to look at him. “Hmm?”

He didn’t respond right away.

Instead, his hand moved—trailing up, fingers brushing lightly along her calf as he turned to face her. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he wasn’t entirely aware of what he was doing, his hand warm on her leg, his thumb tracing soft circles just above her knee. The weight of his gaze on her made Giselle’s pulse quicken, the charged silence between them thick enough to drown in.

“Can I…” His fingers flexed against her thigh, the words catching in his throat. For the first time in a long time, his nerves got the better of him. “Let me…”

He trailed off again, and Giselle’s breath hitched. She had never seen him fumble for words like this.

"Let me make you feel better."

His tone was steady now—completely fixed—but the way his fingers trembled, just slightly against her skin betrayed him. Not hesitation. Not doubt. Just the weight of this moment.

She blinked, startled by the low, almost pleading quality in his voice. “Caleb, you’ve already—”

“Just… let me,” he interrupted, his hand sliding just a little higher, his grip still sure, still confident, even as the faintest quiver ran through his fingertips. His thumb brushed along the sensitive skin above her knee, his focus utterly locked onto her, his own nerves an afterthought compared to the anticipation thrumming between them.

“You’re always trying to do everything yourself, Gigi,” he murmured. “You never let anyone… me, take care of you.”

Her heart pounded, heat curling deep in her chest at the weight of his words—the care behind them. This wasn’t about her ankle anymore.

And still, he wasn’t rushing, wasn’t pushing.

He was just waiting.

“Caleb…” she started, but the hesitation in her voice melted away when he leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss just above her knee.

Her breath stilled, her body tensing slightly at the unexpected sensation. But his touch was so gentle, so deliberate, that she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.

“Say yes,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her skin as he kissed higher, slow and reverent. “That’s all you have to do.”

She stared down at him, her chest tightening with emotion. The boy she had grown up with, the one who had teased her endlessly, climbed trees with her, and always made her feel safe, was now kneeling in front of her like she was the center of his world.

Despite the surge of so many different emotions welling inside her, one feeling cut through the rest—her trust in him.

Caleb did make her feel safe. He always had.

And though she was stumbling through this, awkward and uncertain, there was a quiet, steady comfort in the fact that it was him.

Her hand slid down to rest lightly on his shoulder, her fingers trembling just slightly as she nodded, meekly, the weight of the moment stealing her voice.

A tinge of coyness bloomed in her chest, warm and unfamiliar, leaving her unable to say yes—so instead, she let the simple movement speak for her.

Caleb exhaled, a shaky breath of relief, and for a moment, he paused, his forehead resting lightly against her thigh. Then he looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of nervousness and longing.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, his voice soft but sure.

Caleb exhaled, a shaky breath of relief, and for a moment, he paused, his forehead resting lightly against her thigh. The weight of her silent consent settled over him, grounding him, steadying him.

Then he looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of nervousness and longing

"I'll take care of you," he murmured, his voice soft but sure.

Giselle nodded again, unable to meet his gaze. She wouldn’t dare. A blush burned high on her cheeks now, making it painfully clear how out of her depth she was. And yet, her body relaxed under his touch, tension melting away with every slow, deliberate press of his lips against her skin.

He moved carefully, patiently, his warmth lingering with each reverent kiss. There was no rush, no urgency—only quiet devotion, a silent reassurance that she had every opportunity to stop him.

But she didn’t.

Because she trusted him.

His hands slid gently along her legs, parting them slightly as he shifted closer, his movements careful and deliberate. There was no urgency, no demand—just quiet intent.

Each kiss he placed on her skin felt like a promise, like something deeper than words could ever convey. Devotion. Reverence. A quiet, unspoken need. The tenderness of it made her heart ache in the best way, warmth pooling deep in her chest.

"Caleb…" she whispered, her voice trembling. She wasn’t sure what to do with it—what to do with herself.

Every sensation was new and unfamiliar in a way that left her breathless.

He paused, glancing up at her, searching her face for any sign of doubt.

"I'm okay," she breathed, her voice unsteady, laced with something soft and aching.

A stifled moan caught in her throat as her fingers—delicate, uncertain—instinctively found their way into his hair, threading through the strands as if seeking something to hold onto.

His lips curved into the faintest smile before he leaned in again, his kisses trailing higher until they reached the hem of her dress. He hesitated there, his breath warm against her skin, his fingers hovering at the edge of the fabric as if giving her a final moment to stop him.

When she didn’t, his hands moved with quiet reverence, gently sliding the fabric up just enough to continue.

What followed wasn’t rushed or clumsy. Caleb’s touch was careful, deliberate. His movements unpracticed but instinctive, guided more by the overwhelming need to make her feel good than any kind of experience.

His heart pounded in his chest, nerves fraying with every second. This wasn’t something he’d ever done before.

Wasn’t something he’d even imagined he would be doing—especially not like this.

Not with Giselle.

Not on some lazy spring afternoon, with sunlight spilling across her skin, her scent—warm, faintly sweet—wrapping around him, making it impossible to think straight.

But now that he was here, so close to her, his focus narrowed—drawn to the small, tender details he hadn’t noticed before.

The faint tremble in her thighs as his hands brushed against them. The soft, nervous rhythm of her breaths. The warmth of her skin beneath his lips.

He tilted his head slightly, the somewhat rough denim of her dress grazing his cheek as he pressed another kiss higher up her thigh. Her scent—something faintly floral, something undeniably hers—wrapped around him, pulling him deeper into the moment.

And then, just like that, the same shyness that had enveloped Giselle crept into him.

The weight of the moment settled in his chest, filling it with the flutter of something unfamiliar. Something delicate. Something real.

But it didn’t feel overwhelming.

It felt right.

He was exactly where he wanted to be.

He pressed a kiss to the soft curve of her inner thigh, his lips lingering there as he let himself breathe her in.

There was something intoxicating about the way she enveloped his senses—like warmth and something delicate, mixed with the faintest trace of spring air from being outside. It was subtle, but it wrapped around him like a thread, drawing him closer.

Then, as his lips brushed against the edge of her underwear, the cotton soft against his mouth, a breath caught in his chest.

He hesitated.

His fingers tightened slightly on her legs as he glanced up at her, something deep and searching in his gaze.

Her eyes—half-lidded, flickering, uncertain yet steady—met his. Her cheeks were flushed, warmth rising to the surface, but there was no fear there.

Only trust.

And then—her fingers, which had been hovering uncertainly at her sides, found their way into his hair again, tangling lightly as if to tell him, wordlessly, that it was okay.

That was all he needed.

Caleb slid her underwear aside carefully, his breathing going ragged despite himself. The sight of her—bare and vulnerable before him—was almost enough to make him stop, not because he didn’t want this, but because it felt like too much. Too intimate. Too important.

He took a steadying breath, his lips slowly brushing against her again, this time lower. The heat of her skin, the faint taste of her—salty, sweet, utterly unique—sent a shiver through him.

His grip on her thighs tightened slightly as he leaned in further, his tongue darting out tentatively at first, unsure but curious. The texture of her, the softness of her, the warmth—it was intense in the best way.

She gasped softly above him, her fingers tightening in his hair, and the sound sent a thrill down his spine.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the way she felt beneath him, the way her body responded to his touch. Each sigh, each subtle shift of her hips, guided him, building his confidence as he moved with more fervor.

Pulling back a bit tentatively, a deft finger slid into her wetness, yielding an arch to her back, his tongue drawing towards the bundle of nerves at her apex.

He pressed his lips against her again, this time more firmly, his tongue moving with slow, deliberate strokes that earned him another soft, breathless moan.

"Gigi... you taste so good…"

He’d whispered it, almost to himself, unsure if she’d even heard him. But it didn’t matter—this moment had consumed him, like a man lost in something he had no desire to escape from.

Just like he always had when it came to her, he subconsciously committed everything to memory—the motions that made her tremble, the rhythms that had her gasping, the way she writhed beneath him, utterly undone.

The way his fingers came away slick, drenched in her, it was hypnotically visceral.

This is Giselle, he thought, the realization hitting him with a force that almost made him falter. The girl he’d grown up with. The person he’d always cared about, always looked out for. The one he could never seem to get out of his head, no matter how hard he tried.

And now, she was here, her body trembling beneath his, her trust in him so complete that it made his heart flutter.

He lifted his gaze for a moment, watching the way her head tilted back, her lips parted as she breathed heavily. The sight of her—flushed, utterly unguarded—threatened to unravel him, the blood rushing away from his good common sense.

Then she whispered his name, her voice trembling, and something inside him shifted.

This wasn’t just about her body, her taste, her response—this was about her, about showing her how much she meant to him, even if he couldn’t quite put it into words.

His movements softened, his kisses slower, more deliberate, as if he were trying to tell her everything he couldn’t say aloud, and when she gasped again, her fingers tugging at his hair, he knew—he would give her everything.

A searing white heat tore through her.

Her body reacted instinctively, an involuntary push downward as a rhythmic climax built, crashing over her in waves.

She hadn’t known it before, had never felt anything like it, but in that moment, everything around her shut off.

Caleb followed her through it, riding each pulse, each tremor, not certain if he was doing the right thing—only knowing that he never wanted to stop.

When her body stilled, Caleb exhaled, his breath unsteady, his body still thrumming with residual heat. His pulse hadn’t quite settled, and neither had his thoughts. The familiar tension that had plagued him the whole afternoon began to rear its ugly head again now—charged with something deeper.

Giselle's chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, her skin flushed, dewy in the fading light. The tension that had once gripped her was gone, however, replaced by an almost ethereal softness. She looked utterly at peace, and for a moment, Caleb just watched her.

His gaze drifted downward, lingering over the gentle curve of her thighs, the way the last traces of her pleasure still clung to her skin. His throat tightened, that familiar trance-like state still clinging to his mind like a persistent fog. She was beautiful like this—unguarded, undone, and something deep within him ached.

He forced himself to move, to shift his focus. Slowly, with a quiet reverence, he reached for the hem of her dress, carefully pulling it back down, covering her with the same care one might handle something fragile. There was no urgency now, no teasing quip to fill the silence—only the quiet weight of the moment settling into his bones.

She needed rest.

With a reluctant sigh, Caleb pushed himself to his feet and disappeared for a moment, returning with a blanket. By the time he'd come back, she was already asleep.

His eyes welled slightly at the sight—the way she had curled into herself, her fingers lightly grazing the couch, her expression soft, peaceful.

A quiet chuckle barely left his lips as he shook his head.

“Not fair, Gigi. You’re always wandering off on your own,” he murmured, though the words held no bite. Maybe it was for the best.

Carefully, he crouched down and draped the blanket over her, his fingers brushing against her arm in the process. She barely stirred, only shifting slightly, nestling deeper into the warmth.

For what felt like an eternity, he simply stayed there, crouched beside her, taking her in.

Then, finally, he let out an exhale, rubbing a hand over his face as exhaustion began to creep into his own limbs. With a quiet sigh, he shifted back, settling onto the floor a small distance away.

Caleb exhaled slowly, leaning against the couch, but even as his eyes threatened to close, his mind refused to settle.

The weight of what had just happened began setting over him like a second skin—clinging, inescapable.

So what now? he mused inwardly.

Would they talk about this? Would they even acknowledge it?

A part of him—the part still intoxicated by the feel of her, by the way she had trusted him so completely—wanted to believe this meant something more. That it wasn’t just a passing moment, a fleeting indulgence, but something real. Something that changed things between them in a way he wasn’t sure he could come back from.

But that was selfish.

He had offered her this, and she had accepted—but she owed him nothing in return. No promises, no confessions, no neatly wrapped resolution. He wouldn’t let himself expect anything from her.

And then, there was the other part.

The rational part. The one that reminded him who they were to one another.

Giselle was still his best friend.

They had spent a lifetime in easy companionship, in teasing, in trust. They had never—not once—crossed this line before.

And now, they couldn’t uncross it.

Would she regret it? Would she pretend it never happened?

Would she want him to?

His fingers curled slightly against his knee, tension creeping back into his jaw. If she wanted to forget this, he wouldn’t fight her on it. He wouldn’t push, wouldn’t hold onto something she didn’t want to keep.

Even if he already knew—deep down—that forgetting was impossible.

But if that was what she wanted, she would have it.

And he would still be there for her.

No matter what.

Leaning his head against the couch, he let his eyes drift shut.

His resolve was absolute, as steady as the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath.

Outside, the lazy spring afternoon carried on with no care for the weight in his chest, no concern for the quiet war waging in his mind. The wind whispered against the walls, the golden light of the setting sun stretched across the floor, and beside him, Giselle slept—peaceful, untouched by the turmoil threading through him.

And so, with only the sound of their breathing and the faint rustling of the wind outside, he let himself doze off, too.

#love and deepspace #lnds caleb #lads caleb #named mc #caleb x mc #lads fanfic #「 🍎 」 ꜰʟʏʙᴏʏ » ᴄᴀʟᴇʙ #「 🪽 」 ᴀɴɢᴇʟʜᴇᴀʀᴛ » ɢɪsᴇʟʟᴇ #「 🌧️ 」 ʀᴀɪɴᴅʀᴏᴘs » ɢɪsᴇʟʟᴇ x ᴄᴀʟᴇʙ #lunareths

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devilgirlko · 2 months ago

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Giselle Valentine 💕

Everyone's posing with this dress atm but it's actually perfect so I get it.

#giselle valentine #love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lnds mc #lads mc #named mc

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n109hunter · 5 months ago

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text message (expanded) - forest maze

A follow-up scene for the text message 'Forest Maze', Vesper gets a little upset with Sylus, but she herself isn't entirely sure 'why' exactly. Introspective, muddling through hurt feelings, and some comfort and connection to top it off.

Named MC*, Sylus x MC, 1,301 words.

(*I often leave it vague, but this time around her particular trouble with dealing with her own emotions seemed more like my specific MC, so I committed to it. 😂)

Admittedly, she was a little frustrated with him, and in her frustration she did indeed clamber up the side of a tree. Which had honestly been a half-sarcastic response, but at the very least she might get a better view of the maze.

But once she got to a good branch she didn’t find the view to be particularly helpful; it was pretty, but that only made her grumpier. Such an unpleasant, nasty feeling she didn’t like at all…

Funny to think she’d been upset with him plenty of times for any number of reasons, but now that they were… ‘a thing’, it felt a million times worse. They were supposed to be on a fun date, so she really wanted to get rid of this feeling before she saw him again.

So, okay, quick self-analysis time. Was she just being petty because he got out first and she was stumped? Maybe a little, but that didn’t feel like the heart of the issue.

“You didn’t get yourself stuck up there, did you kitten?”

Tch. How did he find her so fast? She wasn’t ready for him.

“I did not.” Oh, she tried to sound neutral enough, but there was no helping how clipped her tone was. She took a breath and tried to even it out, looking out over the treetops under the purple-orange skies of the sunset. “The view up here is really nice, I’m just taking it in.”

“Is that so?”

And that was all he said. Which was strange because she definitely expected more. Some teasing remark, something to bait her into some sort of response, but after a few moments she finally had to peek down to see if he was even still there or just left her behind again.

Instead she was surprised to see his face just a few feet from her own, as he climbed up onto a branch nearby. For a split second she was taken by how handsome he was, how effortless he made it look, and yet how cute it was he’d go to the effort of actually climbing when his evol could have made it effortless.

“You’re right, it is a nice view.”

With a scowl she turned her attention away from him. Augh. She didn’t like this. She didn’t want to be mad, least of all when she couldn’t quite pinpoint why. And if she wasn’t fast, he was going to-

“What’s the matter, sweetie?”

Auuuughhhh.

His hand brushed at her hair, sweeping the strands that veiled her face from him behind her ear. Painfully aware of the sour look on her face, she turned it away - almost comically so at this point. Why did he have to sound so sweet and gentle? It was impossible to mistake for anything else coming from the leader of Onychinus.

“I don’t know.” Her answer sounded so petulant and whiny, even if technically it was pretty much the closest thing she had to the truth.

A hint of amusement colored his tone: “Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Are you upset because you’re lost?”

“I’m not lost.” She snapped back, and wanted to tell him to stop with the guessing, but apparently he sensed that it wasn’t helping and did so without her having to say so. Which she appreciated, because it was getting harder to keep the lid on her very irrational frustration.

With a quiet grunt he lifted himself up onto the branch next to her, and she became all the more aware of how tense she was.

Yes, she could be competitive, but that wasn’t it. If he ‘won’ by getting out first, she could have just been excited for him, couldn’t she? Yeah, she was pretty sure if she framed it like that, she’d have cheered him on for how cool and efficient he was. But that just wasn’t the issue.

“You have a habit of trying to figure out everything on your own… But you know you don’t have to do that with me, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve already got it all figured out, don’t you?” Ugh, she pissed her own self off. Honestly she wasn’t used to these sorts of feelings at all, but that wasn’t any excuse for lashing out at him when he was just trying to help.

“Hmm, I’m not sure.”

She rolled her eyes and looked at him - his gaze was focused entirely on her, deep and thoughtful as if he was truly trying to dissect each minute detail in her facial expressions. For a moment she felt helpless, like she truly couldn’t have hoped to hide anything from him if she wanted to.

“It’s just my bad mood, it has nothing to do with you, so I’ll sort it out on my own.”

“That’s your other bad habit.” He gave a small shake of his head. “You don’t want to cause trouble with the people close to you, so you circle around yourself and find ways to pin the blame at your own feet.”

She blinked, just staring at him as she tried to make sense of his words. Just as it was starting to click though, he set his gaze on her once again, a painfully soft and sincere look around his eyes, with a wry sort of sadness to them.

“I’m sorry I left you behind, Vesper.”

Oh.

“It’s… my fault for charging off on my own…” She turned her eyes away from him again, feeling an irritating mistiness in them.

“I should have just followed your lead.”

She pursed her lips. “...Yeah, you should have.” With a small huff she reached her hand over to his. “I wanted to do this with you.”

“Yeah, I know that now. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

No, he wouldn’t, would he?

The gross, icky feelings had begun to dissolve, but not without leaving an aftereffect of wibbly weepy feelings. But there was also just… a tender warmth, that they could sit and talk these things out like this.

“I’m sorry for being so snappy.”

“Aheh. I’ll admit… I’m used to you being feisty, but it was more unpleasant this time around.”

“I didn’t like it either. I felt like I was going to be sick…” She still did, a little bit. But the tension in her shoulders was gone now, and with a small sigh she leaned over to rest her head against his shoulder as he twined their fingers together.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

She shook her head, caressing his knuckles with her fingertips. “It’s all right, I’m just… happy you came back. Happy you didn’t leave me behind because I was being unreasonable.”

She heard him sigh, and noted the hint of fond exasperation. “You weren’t being unreasonable, sweetie. And I’ll always come back for you.”

#crow's writing.#love and deepspace #sylus #sylus x mc #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus fic #lads mc #love and deepspace fic #lads fic #named mc #journal: vesper & sylus

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diaphanouswings · 1 month ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 恋与深空 | Love and Deepspace (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Main Character/Xia Yizhou | Caleb Characters: Main Character (Love and Deepspace), Xia Yizhou | Caleb, Tara (Love and Deepspace) Additional Tags: Named Main Character (Love and Deepspace), POV Third Person, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, Possessive Behavior, Sex, Vaginal Sex, Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Lemon, spicy fic, Oneshot, mild jealousy, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Oral Sex, Explicit Language, No beta we die like mne Series: Part 3 of Named MC Fics

Summary:

Tilly had tried everything to get Caleb to notice her as more than just the girl he grew up with, his childhood best friend. But it was too much after so many years of yearning. So she decided to give up. Maybe this was how it was meant to be, huh? Fine.

When Tara suggested a new kind of outing with her during their lunch break at the Association, Tilly agreed in the hopes it would help her forget. She just needed to cancel the usual weekend visit from Caleb. Too bad for her, Caleb wasn't going to accept any brush offs, even all the way up in Skyhaven. And he wasn't in the mood to play games either.

#my fic #my writing #fanfic #Love and Deepspace #LaDS #LaDS Caleb #Named MC #LaDS MC #Caleb/Named!MC #Caleb/MC #smut #lemon #spicy fic #smut fic #mind the rating and tags #pining

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kitsune-oji · 2 years ago

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I HAVE ARRIVED WITH A STIM BOARD/MOOD BOARD REQUEST

May I please have either a stimboard or moodboard for my mc with celestial vibes please? I am interested to see what you come up with :3 <3 Thank you Oji!

🪽, 🦋, 🌊

📙, ❤️, 🎻

🌤️, ✨, 🌩️

Little disclaimer that I will only do my friends' MCs cuz otherwise I'd spend hours researching MCs and I just don't have the time or energy for that /nm, info

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str1wberry7thyme · 4 months ago

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His tie isn’t even on correctly, Mumbo’s never going to see the light of day ever again

#thoughts and prayers because he’s seriously going to need them #hermitcraft #name mc spoilers #mcyt #hermitblr #goodtimeswithscar #Mumbo jumbo

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gingerlegacy07 · 1 year ago

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For those rare people that like Leander, I wrote a smut with him for a Discord event!

#hogwarts legacy #leander prewett #named mc #smut

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star-crossed-fates · 7 days ago

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Even My Damnation Spells Your Name

Chapter 3: What Remains

Synopsis: In a city of steel and stars, you fall in love with a man the world calls a monster. He looks at you like you’ve haunted every life he’s ever lived. Sylus is danger wrapped in silk, secrets stitched into every glance, every touch, every word spoken like a spell. He’s yours before you even realize what you’re remembering.

Because this isn’t the first time.

Dreams unravel you. Memories not your own. A dragon’s death cry. A kiss beneath bloodied skies. A love too eternal to stay buried. As the past bleeds into the present, you begin to piece together the truth. Some memories burn brighter than the stars, others wound deeper than any blade.

And love, no matter how timeless, always demands a price.

Pairing: Female! MC [Named] x Sylus

Rating: Explicit 18+ [MDNI]

Spoilers: Sylus's myth cards/memories. Please note: memories might be a little different than from game for story purposes.

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit smut, including various kinks: Praise, degradation talk, first time, CP, DP, anal sex/play, probably some Dragon!Sylus smut, maybe a lot of it. Many, many more that I'm forgetting to list. Consider yourself warned. - Unlikely to be completely canon. - MC is named. Her personality is darker than in the game, far more morally grey. - Switching between MC's memories/dreams/flashbacks and current timeline. - Other love interests will not show up in this. - Some plot, but not super planned out. Basically, this is a "what if the closer they became, the more MC remembers her life with him on Philos.

The shadows melt along the walls of the bedroom, stitched into the corners like they stain the silence. You close the door behind you and lean against it, fingers splayed wide like you might hold the moment back from closing in too fast. There is a sense of feeling split, like something opened and forgot to close, and now your soul is bleeding somewhere behind your ribcage.

The robe hangs loosely off your shoulders as you settle on the edge of the bed, damp hair clinging to your back. You close your eyes and blink once. Twice. Three times, seeking the echoes.

The vision doesn’t come again, but memory hums like static just beneath your skin. You chase it, stubborn and dogged, reaching into the fog with hands that can still feel the phantom sear branded along your palm, like you tried to hold lightning and mistook it for light.

Your mind stalks the carnage of a memory that should not exist. Part of you wants to tear your throat open in a scream loud enough to split the sky. Another part wants to fold inward, a question mark of nerve and bone.

Neither impulse wins.

You open your eyes, stare at the pale web of moonlight on the floor, and begin sorting the pieces like bones in the dust.

The dragon. Again. You were the dragon in the other dream. Winged, weeping fire, ancient and angry. This time, it curled its body around yours as if to protect you from the sky itself. As if it loved you. Like a promise made beneath stars or a vow before war.

You’d begged—not for your life, but for its.

Your fingers twitch against the edge of your robe as you try to make sense of it. You draw in a deep breath. The kind of breath you take before dissection, before battle, before heartbreak. You close your eyes and try to lift the shroud of oblivion.

The feelings are easier to recognize than the fragments. You feel it in your bones: a grief too ancient to belong to you. Pain, but not yours alone. The dragon’s, too. You felt it leach into you, an ache so vast you almost sank beneath it.

Your hand trembles slightly as it brushes your thigh, but you ignore it. Catalogue it. Another data point. Another tremor in the map of your mind.

In the mirror across the room, your reflection stares back when you open your eyes—wide-eyed, haunted, searching. You tilt your head, studying yourself like an artifact in a forgotten ruin. For a second, you swear it stares back like it knows something you don’t. Like the girl blinking at you has seen centuries you’ve only brushed.

The ache in your chest doesn’t recede, but you’re no stranger to hurting. It’s just unusual to hurt like this, without a wound or a reason.

The kiss stirred what has long slept in silence. The knowledge lives in your bones. It is only waiting for you to remember. You feel it in the stillness between each pulse, in the ghost of fire at the edge of your fingertips. A past pressed its lips to yours and begged not to be forgotten.

You’re going to pry meaning from it, even if it takes digging through the marrow of your soul.

You gather yourself. It’s not that the memory has faded; if anything, it clings tighter now, clearer in its grief, but you smooth it behind your eyes anyway. One breath. Then another. Fingers comb through damp hair as you rise, ghosting past the mirror one last time before you pull open the bedroom door.

He startles you. Sylus leans a few paces down the corridor, arms folded, head tilted slightly like he’s been waiting. A sentinel with too-red eyes and the calm of someone who already knew what you needed before you did.

You pause mid-step, pulse skipping.

Because you’re you, and emotion is easiest when wrapped in irony, you blurt, “Well. That’s one way to ruin a first kiss. Should’ve just sneezed in your face to complete the mood.”

It’s a weak joke, but you commit to it. Smirk and all.

He doesn’t take the bait, unfolding his arms and walking toward you with the patience of dusk dripping into night. “You didn’t ruin it,” he disputes, voice deep and certain, the syllables brushing across your skin like fleece and flint.

You try for a smirk. “You’re only saying that because I didn’t actually sneeze.”

He stops in front of you and tips your chin up with the back of his fingers. “I’ve waited a long time for that kiss,” he cuts in gently. “That’s not a ruin, Anira. That’s a beginning.”

There’s something in his gaze that roots you in place and makes your throat tighten. A refusal to let you turn this into a punchline. He won’t let you offer pieces of yourself wrapped in jokes and expect him not to notice the cracks beneath.

His thumb grazes along the edge of your jaw. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “I will be.”

The hush between you lingers for a breath longer, then two. His hand, still at your jaw, slips away with a pledge tucked in the slow drag of his fingers.

Sylus leans in, voice a murmur pitched just above a purr. “For what it’s worth… I had a very different kind of scream in mind.”

You blink, eyes darting toward him to make sure you heard that right, and then uncontainable laughter. A crack of startled delight that tumbles into a giggling fit so sudden you have to grip his arm to steady yourself. He watches you with the pleased smirk of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

“Was that flirting?” You shoot him a look. “Did you just weaponize my trauma and your voice at the same time?”

He hums. “Technically, I weaponized your imagination. I just provided… sound design.”

You place a hand over your heart, feigning a swoon. “Criminal and poet. How do I stand a chance?”

“You don’t,” he replies without missing a beat. “But I like watching you try.”

You laugh again and lean a little closer as you walk. “You know, if I scream for real next time, I’m taking you down with me.”

There’s a dangerous, enthralled glint in his eyes. “I’m counting on it, kitten.” He guides you down the hall, the shift in mood effortless. “Come on. The movie’s waiting, and I promise I won’t judge you for falling asleep in the first ten minutes.”

“That was one time,” you protest, bumping your shoulder into his.

“It was three,” he corrects.

“What can I say? Your presence makes me feel… safe.”

He falters for half a step, and your inner self pirouettes triumphantly. It’s no easy task to trip up the leader of Onychinus.

In a voice just soft enough to slip under your skin, he says, “Good.”

By the time you reach the main room, the shadows feel lighter. You sink into the cushions, and Sylus queues up a film with all the ceremony of a king presenting treasure. He sits beside you, warm and solid, one arm draped casually along the back of the couch.

You tell yourself you’ll stay awake, but the glow of the screen, the soft hum of the speakers, and Sylus’s quiet breathing beside you pull you under like a tide.

This time, you finally touch a sliver of peace.

The sun hasn’t even warmed the marble floors yet, but you’re already on a mission. A holy quest. A noble journey.

For eggs.

Maybe toast. If you can figure out where the bread lives in this labyrinth of polished metal and concealed panels that probably open via blood sacrifice or biometrics.

You tug open yet another drawer, hoping for salvation, only to find… coasters. Dozens of them in neat stacks. Who the hell needs this many coasters?

With a dramatic sigh, you shut it and move on. You’re in a tank top, some very scandalous shorts that could pass as underwear any day, and socks, which are your only armour against the castle’s unreasonably sexy kitchen floors that are far too slippery for your own good.

Music blasts softly from your phone on the counter. Just enough volume to make the place feel alive without waking your sleeping villain upstairs.

In the name of keeping things quiet and not withering away from starvation, you slide across the floor like a gremlin on ice, twirling toward the fridge with jazz hands and full-body commitment.

You pull open the next drawer: plates.

And another one after that: napkins.

Yet another: a spatula.

You gasp like you’ve just discovered buried treasure. “HOLY SHIT,” you announce to absolutely no one, snatching it up with the reverence of someone cradling Excalibur pulled from a particularly judgmental stone.

Naturally, you raise it to your mouth like a microphone, music swelling behind you as you spin dramatically on your heel and launch straight into the chorus of whatever guilty pleasure is currently playing.

You belt it like your life depends on it. You are thriving. You are unhinged. You are absolutely about to give yourself a hernia trying to hit a high note while executing a spin move with a spatula.

You’re on a roll now. Bowl—check. Whisk—found it hiding behind a weirdly ornate jar of cinnamon sticks. Mixing spoon—sweet stars above, you’ve got options.

Every successful find is punctuated by a victory shimmy that has your socks squeaking against the polished floors like your own private applause. If domestic bliss were feral and slightly sleep-deprived, you would be the picture of it.

The song hits a peak, the beat climbs, and so do you as you swing around the island looking for the pièce de résistance.

A pan.

You spot them gleaming above the kitchen island like some kind of industrial-chic art installation. Copper-bottomed, perfectly polished. Honestly, they look more like props than actual cookware.

“Of course,” you mutter, squinting up at them with the kind of betrayal usually reserved for villains in third-act plot twists. “You live in the ceiling.”

You stretch and reach. Nope. Bounce. Nothing. You make some very dignified grunting noises. Still too far.

Fuck.

With all the determination of a short queen in survival mode, you swing yourself up onto the marble counter. It’s surprisingly smooth, and your socks are not helping, but you make it up there with the grace of a tipsy cat burglar.

The chorus drops.

You ascend. Not metaphorically. Physically. Standing, arms in the air, hips moving, your whole body grooving atop the counter like the spirit of brunch has possessed you. The kitchen becomes your stadium. Your audience of one is currently unconscious and probably missing the best show in the castle.

You twirl. You shimmy. You throw your head back and sing. It is not elegant, but it is glorious.

You’re living your best life.

You’re mid-hip-roll, full dramatic flair, belting out the chorus like you’re performing live at Castlepalooza. You throw your head back, do the patented over-the-shoulder hair toss—you know, the one that looks smoking hot in your imagination—and swing it back around with a smirk that screams main character energy.

Which is precisely when you hear the telltale shift of weight on tile and feel the very specific presence of a six-foot-something criminal overlord standing silently in a doorway.

You freeze like a deer caught in the most mortifying headlights imaginable.

Slowly, you look over. Sylus stands just inside the kitchen, bare chest on full display, sleep-ruffled hair an elegant mess of moonlight and defiance. He has one brow raised with the kind of amused incredulity that probably haunts lesser people in their dreams.

You, meanwhile, are on the counter in obscenely short shorts, mid-dance.

It’s not your finest hour.

His ruby eyes trace the scene like he’s committing it to memory with painstaking clarity. “Don’t stop on my account.”

You want the ground to open and swallow you, preferably after handing you a pan.

Do you:

A) Leap off in shame and pretend this never happened?

B) Double down and finish the dance with the grim determination of someone who’s already lost everything?

C) Throw a smoke bomb and flee like the unhinged kitchen nightmare you are?

Unfortunately, your ability to think flees somewhere between options A and B, leaving you frozen in place, cheeks flushed, mouth halfway open in a noise you cannot commit to.

Sylus tilts his head. “Should I clap or call an exorcist?”

“…You weren’t supposed to be awake.”

He just smiles unreasonably fond, and then he says, “Breakfast and a show. You really are trying to ruin me, aren’t you?”

Your cheeks are warm—okay, fine, burning—but hell if you’re going to give him the satisfaction of seeing you crumble. You deliberately give your hips one last roll out of pure defiance and raise your chin like a woman absolutely not caught mid-countertop concert.

You snatch the pan and sit on the edge, about to jump down when Sylus draws close enough that your knees almost touch him where they dangle off the counter.

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting such a passionate… performance.”

You lean forward slightly, giving him a slow blink and the cheekiest grin you can manage while pretending you’re not actively dying inside. “Jealous you missed the opening number?”

He leans in, bracing one hand beside you on the counter, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Only if you promise there’s an encore.”

You almost melt off the damn counter.

Before you can protest, Sylus wraps an arm around your waist like he’s done this a thousand times in a thousand different lives and guides you off the countertop. It’s a slow glide, body grazing against his in far too many infuriatingly delicious places. You land with a soft thud, toes curling against the cool tile, the weight of his hands still lingering at your waist. When he lets you go, you pivot toward the fridge, hips swaying, because hell yes, you’re leaning into this now.

“Maybe, but only if breakfast comes with a standing ovation.”

You return to the stove with what you hope is the poise of someone who has not just been plucked off a counter like a misbehaving cat. “If you plan on keeping me around, you’re going to have to make the pans accessible for the less vertically gifted.”

Sylus, already mid-sip of his coffee, pauses with his red eyes gleaming over the rim. He sets the mug down with theatrical gravity. “So, it’s a hostage situation now?”

“Damn right it is. Do you want breakfast or not?”

He rests his chin in one hand, smiling like you’ve just made his entire morning. “I could install a retractable pan retrieval system, voice-activated, of course. Or perhaps a drone-assisted delivery mechanism?”

“Or,” you say, dragging out the word like you’re explaining rocket science to a particularly beautiful idiot, “you just move the pans down. Like a normal person.”

He pretends to mull it over like he’s reviewing a classified mission file. “You want me to displace the ornamental pans?”

You give him a long look, utterly unimpressed. “Sylus.”

“Yes?”

“The pans. Lower.”

He leans back, arms crossed. “Noted, my vertically oppressed breakfast champion.”

You turn back to the stove with a huff that doesn’t quite cover your smile. “Can you please get the plates?”

He doesn’t move right away, but you feel the air shift behind you as he crosses the room, invading your space without ever really invading it.

“Only if I get another dance later,” he purrs low in your ear.

You clack the spatula against the pan, pretending it doesn’t send a shiver straight down your spine. “Depends on if you do the dishes.”

There’s something weirdly comforting about this. The air feels lighter than it has any right to after everything. You haven’t had a morning like this in… maybe ever.

He seems to sense it too, because his voice comes a bit quieter, more thoughtful. “What would you like to do today?”

“We could… do something normal.”

Sylus hums. “Normal is a little out of my wheelhouse.”

You plate the eggs, slide a plate across the island to him, then gesture with the spatula. “Then… show me what is in your wheelhouse?”

He studies you for a moment, then nods once. You nudge your plate next to his and sit beside him. The silence stretches, warm and companionable now, your socks brushing against his bare feet beneath the counter.

“…Sylus?”

“Mm?”

You poke your fork into your eggs aggressively, almost a threat. “If you ever bring up the countertop dance again, I will end you.”

The air tastes like rust and neon. You’re standing in the kind of place that hemorrhages attitude—graffiti on every metal panel, flickering lights overhead like they’re trying to blink out of existence, and music pulsing from the walls as if the whole building has a heartbeat. You and Sylus are shoulder-to-shoulder in the crowd, pressed in near the front of a brutalist fighting pit—circular, walled in by mesh and reinforced glass, lit from above by harsh white beams that make every bead of blood glint like wet ink.

It’s not the kind of place you expect someone like him to bring you, which is exactly why it makes perfect sense.

“Neutral zone,” he offers as an explanation, voice velvet and voltage in your ear.

You swirl the drink in your hand and glance sideways at him. “What, bringing me here to see if I spook easy?”

He hums, low and amused. “Something like that.”

You sip, letting the burn lace your grin. “You mean if I can run in your circles without tripping over my halo?”

That earns you a look. A real one. Amusement tempered by interest. “Most people don’t even notice I’m testing them,” he remarks idly.

“I’m not most people,” you counter, tipping your glass to him.

He watches you over the rim of his drink, that carmine stare catching all the low light like he’s storing it just to burn you later. The crowd screams as an arm crashes into someone’s jaw, but all you can hear is the static pull between you.

“I thought I’d enjoy seeing you in your element,” he murmurs.

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “Are you saying I look like I belong in the underworld?”

“No. I’m saying it’s lucky the underworld gets to belong to you.”

Your heart cartwheels over your ribs before settling back into place. You try to cover it with a scoff and take another sip, but the heat blooming in your chest has nothing to do with the alcohol. Before you can deliver a biting comeback, a loudspeaker crackles above, distorted and sharp:

“Next up—champion’s challenge match. Sylus. Get your ass in the pit.”

You choke on your drink. “What,” you sputter, whipping your head toward him, “the hell did they just say?”

He smiles with all the grace of a panther stretching before the kill. “Guess that’s my cue.”

“You’re fighting?” Your voice hits an octave higher than you’d like. “Since when do you do underground cage matches?! You’re not even wearing gear!”

He pauses at the edge of the pit, turns to you, and that look in his eyes—igneous, amused, sure—just wrecks you.

“Don’t worry, kitten. I’m the one they call when they need someone to bleed the other guy,” he winks.

With that, he drops into the ring like a god descending. You stand there, drink forgotten, stomach twisted into some unholy combination of dread, awe, and what might be attraction-induced rage.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m in love with a lunatic.”

The gate slams shut behind Sylus with a clang that vibrates through your bones. You’re already at the edge of the pit, hands gripping the rusted rail. The announcer bellows something about undefeated streaks and high-stakes bets—you don’t hear a word of it. All you see is Sylus. Coat off, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

There’s no theatrics in his entrance. He just is, like he always is—calm, dark, terrifying in the way still water hides the deepest drop.

Across from him is a brute of a man, all muscle and scars, with fists the size of your head. He’s grinning like he already smells victory on his knuckles.

You bristle as soon as the buzzer goes off.

It’s not boxing. It’s not martial arts. It’s a brawl. No rules, no ref, just pain and power, and a crowd howling for it like wolves. The opponent lunges first, fast for his size, and you don’t even have time to scream before Sylus ducks low, pivots, and slams his fist into the man’s gut so hard it echoes.

You go absolutely feral. “YES!”

You’re pacing the rail, shoes hitting hard on metal, adrenaline spitting fire through your blood. When the other guy grabs Sylus and throws him across the pit like a sack of bricks, you nearly vault the rail right then and there.

Sylus hits the wall hard with a grunt ripping from him. You suck in a breath, eyes wide, one foot already up on the railing before he’s back on his feet, shaking it off with a roll of his shoulders.

You throw both hands in the air when he dodges a swing and lands a vicious uppercut that snaps the other guy’s head back. He follows it up with a combo—fist, elbow, knee—pure violence in a tailored shirt, and you scream yourself hoarse.

“Fuck yes! SEND HIM HOME IN PIECES!”

The other guy rallies and lands a brutal hit to Sylus’s ribs. You swear your own chest folds in sympathy.

He staggers, but only for a second, and then he… smiles? Smiles! Blood on his teeth and wildness in his eyes. Like he’s enjoying this. No, more than that—testing himself.

His opponent charges again, overconfident now, and Sylus just waits. Calm. Coiled. When the swing comes, he catches it. You gasp, half horror, half delight.

The final hit comes with a spinning elbow that drops the brute like gravity just remembered him. The man’s body slumps to the mat, and Sylus straightens, blood-slick knuckles flexing once before he runs a hand through his hair like this was a minor inconvenience and not an entire man trying to tear his head off.

The arena erupts, but your voice is lost in your throat somewhere between a scream and a laugh. He turns slowly, eyes sweeping the crowd until they find you.

You don’t know what kind of look you’re giving him, but it makes the corner of his mouth twitch like he’s already planning his next immoral act, and stars help you, you want to be part of it. You’re halfway down the steps before the gate even groans open. Still high off the fight, your body thrums like it’s trying to crawl out of your skin. You have every intention of throwing yourself at him, maybe even dragging him into the nearest dark corner just to feel the aftermath of what he just did.

Some tall, leggy thing in a cropped jacket slides into his path. Her hair is slicked back like she walked out of an edgy magazine spread. Her hand lands on Sylus’s arm like it’s hers, lips already curled into a purr of a smile.

“Well, well. That was impressive,” she says, fingers skating along his bicep like she’s picking her favourite cut of meat. “Didn’t know someone like you came with all that muscle under the suit.”

You stop mid-step. Blink. Tilt your head.

Excuse the fuck out of me?

To his credit, and thank every dark star in the sky for it, Sylus doesn’t even glance at her. His eyes are scanning past her, around her, through her, looking for you.

She doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she takes it as a hint she should try harder.

Wrong move.

Your jealousy snaps like a trap. You descend the rest of the stairs, one brow arched and murder already dancing behind your teeth. She turns when she sees you coming, clearly sizing you up.

Mistake number two.

You offer a smile. All teeth. No warmth. “You know, it’s cute,” you begin, voice dipping into mock sympathy. “Watching you try so hard. Like a pigeon peacocking. But here’s the thing—” you reach out and very gently move her hand off Sylus’s arm, “—if you touch him again, I’ll snap your fingers.”

The woman stiffens, surprise flaring in her eyes, but you’re already done with her. Your eyes are on Sylus now. His attention is still fixed on you with something that makes your stomach flip. Not surprise or amusement. Something hotter, darker.

Possession. Affection. Maybe even pride.

You’re not even sure how you get there. One second, you’re threatening to break some random woman’s fingers for breathing in Sylus’s direction, and the next, he’s got you pinned to the wall just outside the pit’s corridor.

His knuckles graze your waist while his breath ghosts the shell of your ear. “You are going to get me into trouble.”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline or the jealousy still scraping its claws through your ribs. Or perhaps it’s the fact that his shirt is sticking to his chest, but your fingers fist in his collar, and you pull him down like you’ve been starving for him all your life.

The kiss is hungry and reckless. It doesn’t start soft. There’s no teasing build, no tender brush of lips before the storm. It’s teeth and tongue and something unhinged clawing to the surface.

Your hands tangle in his hair, nails dragging along his scalp, and he groans—a sound ripped right from his throat as his body crushes into yours, mouth slanting over yours with dizzying heat. You gasp, and he takes it as permission, deepening the kiss like he’s claiming you from the inside out.

You’re aware of things only in fragments. The cool metal wall at your back. The weight of his hips pressing yours. The flex of his hands as one settles against your waist. He’s not touching you in any indecent way, and yet you feel like you’re being unravelled molecule by molecule.

You’re on fire, and holy shit, you yearn to burn. You need more pressure. More heat. More of his mouth, his hands, his everything. The way you grind up into him shocks you, a sound like a whimper catching in your throat.

This is raw need.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only a few inches, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing like you’ve just run through hell. His fingers slide up your spine in a slow, grounding drag, allowing oxygen and sanity to crawl in again.

You don’t speak for a moment. You just stare. Both of you are wrecked, waiting for the next time to hit like a freight train, and you’re already achingly wet for it.

Chapter Masterlist A03 [Cross-posted] Taglist: @mcdepressed290 As always, thank you for reading, and I hope it's enjoyable. Please feel free to comment and tell me what you think ❤️ MC isn't the only one with a praise kink.

#dragon sylus #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus smut #sylus x mc #named mc #love and deepspace

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gravity-between-us · 1 month ago

Text

Gravity Between Us

Chapter 1: Redshift

Summary: Caleb and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. We were once childhood friends, our bond as natural as the stars in the sky. But now, everything has changed. What used to feel like a safe, familiar orbit between us now pulses with unspoken desire.

Our friendship is no longer enough to keep the tension at bay, and the distance between us feels unbearable. Secrets, lies, and unhealed wounds stand in our way. I don’t know if we can survive this new gravity pulling us together... but I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to try.

Pairing: Female! MC x Caleb

Spoilers: Spoilers for Caleb's Myth's as well as memories. Read at your own risk for these. Lore spoilers.

WARNINGS:

Unlikely to be completely canon. The other love interests will not be likely to appear in this fic.

MC is named. MC is socially awkward. MC can be depressed at times.

Very? Slow Burn.

Very explicit smut (Chapter 12 onward): PiV/oral (male and female receiving)/anal sex. Fingering. First time. Pet names (angel, babe, baby, pip-squeak). Kinks: Praise, breeding, creampie, light dom/sub. Rough. Some consensual degradation talk (MC is into it). Probably many, many more that I am forgetting to name. If you see one that should be listed that isn't, feel free to let me know. (MC is a repressed deviant, and so is Caleb.)

Awkward blend of darker moments, angst, fluff, and humour.

Drinking. Questionable life decisions. MC spirals.

Protective Caleb. Both MC and Caleb are a little obsessive and overly protective of each other, which could be considered an unhealthy relationship.

We will revisit memory scenes, but they will be different from the memories in-game.

As proofread as I can get it, but not beta read, so probably some mistakes.

Limited plot - most focus is just on their relationship and interactions.

More warnings could be applied, but as a general rule of thumb, please read at your own risk and do not continue if you find the content triggering.

I lurch awake in a cold sweat, kicking at the tangle of sheets constricting my legs like the hands of a Wanderer trying to subdue me. I want to scream, but the noise gets lost in the half-sob that erupts in its place. Another dream of the explosion lingers at the edges of my consciousness. I can still feel the heat flaring against my face, the terrifying weightlessness as my body is flung back like a ragdoll, and the acrid scent of burnt paint and pressure-treated wood filling my lungs.

That was the day I lost everything, and nothing has felt the same since. I haven’t felt the same since. Slipping off the bed, I pad toward the window. Below, the clouds stretch endlessly, shimmering like spun silver in the moon’s glow.

Skyhaven is a city above the clouds—a place I never thought I’d find myself living in. But after Caleb returned from the dead, I couldn’t find the strength to leave his side, as if he might disappear like an apparition if I weren’t here to watch him. It’s a silly thought, a childish fear, and yet I can’t shake it.

Leaning my forehead against the glass, I try to steady my ragged breathing, to corral my thoughts before they spiral further. My breath fogs against the windowpane, but the chill of the glass does little to ease the trembling in my frame.

With a sigh, I push away and make my way to the bedroom door.

The hallway is still and quiet, save for the muted hum of appliances. Folding my arms over myself, I shiver—more from unease than cold. Normally, when I can’t sleep, which is more often than not lately, I sit on the couch and watch TV until the sun rises. Tonight, though, something pulls me in another direction. I glance over my shoulder at Caleb’s bedroom door.

When I was a kid, I used to sneak into his room at night when I couldn’t sleep. We would make a fort out of sheets, and he always told me that with him there, it was an impenetrable fortress—no one could hurt me. We often fell asleep together inside that fort.

I miss those easier times—when things weren't so complicated and I didn’t have to think twice about running to him like I do now. He has changed—that much I am certain of. But I still can’t tell if my Caleb is alive beneath that uniform, beneath whatever the Toring Chip has done, or if he is truly gone.

He isn’t completely different, and maybe that’s what makes me the most uneasy. There are moments when I catch glimpses of him, like he is reaching out to me, asking me to help him find his way back. But they disappear as quickly as they come, leaving me to wonder if they were ever truly there in the first place—or just wishful thinking.

Caleb and I have come to an understanding, however unsteady it is. I can’t bear to lose him again, so accepting this new version of him has become my only option.

My feet carry me toward his door without my consent, and I reach out to knock but hesitate. I shouldn’t be doing this. Whatever was between me and Caleb, it’s different now. Gone are the days of innocent childhood. Now, we are adults, trying to navigate a friendship that, somewhere along the way, has evolved into something more.

Just what it has evolved into, I’m still uncertain. He has never voiced any feelings for me, but there are moments when I am sure there is something else hidden behind those violet eyes.

I rap my knuckles lightly against the door, push it open a crack, and step halfway inside. When he doesn’t stir, I tap a little harder.

“Caleb?” I whisper.

No answer.

Taking a few more steps inside, I try again. My face heats as I realize how awkward this will be if he wakes up to find me standing in the middle of his room at this hour.

Steeling my nerves, I walk to his bedside and sit on the edge of the bed opposite him. Reaching out, I gently brush my fingers over his cheek, careful not to startle him. His eyelashes flutter slightly, and I just make out the violet sparkle in the dim light as his eyes crack open.

“Pip-squeak?” He rasps, his voice heavy with sleep. Propping himself up slightly, he looks around as if scanning for danger. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m sorry to wake you,” I murmur, suddenly feeling shy and regretting this. “I had a nightmare.”

“You can wake me anytime,” he assures me quickly, reaching out to pat my forearm. His hand stays there, warm against my cold skin. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” I confess, my eyes dropping to his hand as his thumb strokes comfortingly across my arm. “Can I sleep with you tonight, or is that too weird?”

He laughs lightly, catching me off guard and flashing me that boyish, lopsided smile. “Well, what are you waiting for?” He gestures to his bed, holding the sheet up. “Get in here before you catch a chill and get sick.”

Relief floods me as I slip under the covers with him. He reaches over and tucks the comforter in like he used to when I was young. When he flops back down onto his pillow, I smile, reaching over to brush the hair back from his eyes.

He catches my hand in his. “Holy fuck, Inara. Your hand is freezin’”

Caleb rolls onto his back and tucks our hands under the blanket, continuing to hold his wrapped around mine. “Better give me the other one too,” he mumbles, deep and rough, reaching out with his free hand.

I place my other hand in his and giggle when he groans dramatically. He peeks over at me, smirking. “I bet your toes are cold too, huh? You never could keep your extremities warm.”

“Don’t tempt me,” I warn, trying to stifle my laughter. “I might just cling to you like a barnacle all night to steal all your body heat.”

He chuckles with a slight shake of his head, letting his eyes slip closed. “I don’t think I would mind much.”

It’s said so softly; it’s almost nothing more than a sigh, and I almost miss it entirely. I’m taken aback for a moment, unsure what to do or make of the comment. It could just be an innocent remark, but what if it’s not?

“Ah, shit. I’ve gone and made things weird, haven’t I? I didn’t mean anythin’ by it.”

For some reason, my stomach twists, and my heart feels like it's falling. Do I actually want it to mean something?

“No,” I reassure him. “No, you didn’t make anything weird. Can’t two friends cuddle without it being weird?”

“I don’t know. Can they?” He says, almost like a challenge.

I wish I could say it was the challenge that possessed me or that my half-asleep mind made the choice for me, but I would be lying. In truth, I made the choice myself. Slowly, I shuffle closer to him, meeting his steady gaze with my own. He watches me intensely, lifting his arm when I get near enough that it’s clear what my intention is. I mould my body to his, resting my head on his chest, my palm flat over the rhythm of his heart. It beats faster than it usually does, mirroring my own, and I wonder if he can tell.

His arm wraps around me, tightening and pulling me even closer into him. I was worried this would feel weird, but maybe I’m more worried that it doesn’t feel weird at all.

Caleb takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, as if to calm his nerves. “Comfy?” he asks.

I nod, nuzzling into his chest. “Very. You make a good pillow.” I flex my fingers into him slightly, then sigh theatrically. “Though you’re not very soft.”

“Well, sorry, princess,” he chuckles softly.

We’re pushing the boundaries, and I know it. Still, my fingers flex into him, as if I might be able to hold us both here, in this quiet moment, where everything doesn’t feel like it’s spinning out of control. My eyes fall shut, and I melt into the secure warmth of him.

Sometimes I wonder if things would be different if the explosion had never happened. Would we still be as close as we were? Would Caleb still be the boy I grew up with? Would whatever horrors have been done to him never have happened?

Useless questions—all of them.

Caleb’s delicate voice breaks me from my thoughts. “Was it the explosion again?”

He reads me like an open book still, and I’m not sure whether I find it comforting or disconcerting.

“Yes,” I admit.

His arm holds me just a little firmer, and he rests his cheek on my head. “I’m not going anywhere, pip-squeak. I’ll never leave you alone again.”

The determination in Caleb’s voice is like steel, and I have no doubt he means it with every atom in his body, but he’s not immune to the forces outside of these walls that want to tear us apart.

There is something at play larger than both of us, and I don’t know how to save him from whatever is lurking in the shadows.

But I will.

The sun streams in through the windows, splashing the chrome accents of the room in golden brilliance. I squint against the light as my eyes peek open. Where I expect to see Caleb, the bed is empty, the comforter pulled up around my shoulders. Propping myself up, I comb my fingers through my unruly hair to get it out of my eyes, then glance at the holographic clock.

6 a.m.

I flop back down onto the mattress and pull the comforter over my head with a groan. There isn’t a bone in my body that could be considered a morning person. I prefer the solitude of night, the velvet embrace of darkness. Caleb has always been my opposite in this regard. You know those people who are too cheerful in the morning, with so much energy that it’s nearly infuriating? Yeah. That’s Caleb.

Despite my personal distaste for mornings, it seems this one has decided to taunt me. With an irritated flail of my limbs, I toss the blankets aside unceremoniously. Cursing under my breath, I slip off the bed and shamble toward the kitchen.

Coffee. I must get coffee.

The clink of weights echoes from the gym’s open door, and I can’t help but glance inside. Caleb is so focused on the bench press that he doesn’t notice me right away. I don’t mean to linger, but I can’t pull my gaze away.

He’s shirtless, his muscles rippling with every rep. This time, as I stare at him—gawk, really—something shifts inside me. I’m no longer just seeing Caleb, my best friend. I’m seeing Caleb, the man. It’s as if the lens through which I’ve always viewed him shatters, replaced by something new that excites and terrifies me.

I never expected this. It’s not like I’ve never noticed how attractive he is before, but today feels different. Maybe it’s the way the light makes the sweat on his skin shimmer, or how the tension in his muscles hints at strength beyond the physical. There’s something magnetic about him now that I can’t ignore. The air in the room feels thicker, heavier, as if the space between us has expanded. My heart races faster than it should, and I wonder if he can hear it.

For a moment, the world tilts. The sky turns green, the grass turns blue, and birds sprout fins. I blink, trying to shake off the sense that everything has shifted, but I can’t. I realize that the boy I’ve always known isn’t just that. He’s something more. And I have no idea how to process it.

“Whatcha doin’ hidin’ over there, pip-squeak?” Caleb lilts in that easy-going, smooth timbre that I know so well. “I didn’t expect you to be up at this hour.”

I mentally shake my head, only to realize I’m still partly hidden by the doorframe, spying around it… like a creep. Heat rises to my face, and I try to recover by nonchalantly emerging, crossing my arms over my chest, and leaning against the frame with a yawn.

“Coffee,” I blurt, because my brain hasn’t recovered its ability to form coherent sentences or come up with a better excuse.

Caleb arches a brow at me, standing and slinging a towel over his shoulder. “Oh, ye of few words,” he smirks. “Coffee is in the kitchen, where it usually resides. Help yourself.”

“…Yes.” I nod. Why am I still staring at him? I should stop. Why can’t I stop? “I will go do that.”

I manage to pry my eyes away and turn on my heel rigidly. Fighting the urge to sprint away from the awkward encounter, I focus on taking methodically slow steps. For some reason, I cannot quite figure out at what pace I usually walk at.

“If you can wait two minutes, I’ll make it for you,” Caleb calls after me.

“No, no! That’s okay. I can manage to put a mug under the machine.”

I’m pretty sure I can hear him laughing, even as I round the corner and quicken my steps. If I jump off the side of this little floating landmass, will the clouds swallow me whole?

The kitchen greets me. Sleek, clean, and oblivious to my embarrassment. Even though I know my way around, I still open every cupboard in search of a mug in my panic. When I do finally find it, my fingers fumble on the handle, and I nearly drop it.

Popping a pod in the machine, I turn it on and breathe a sigh of relief when I am finally able to sit at the island, a steaming cup cradled in my hands. Grumbling, I rest my forehead on the cool countertop and try to collect myself. What has gotten into me? I am not the most socially adept person on the planet, but my awkwardness doesn’t usually extend to Caleb. Or maybe it does, but I don’t need to think about it with him.

I straighten up when I hear his footsteps approaching and pretend to sip my coffee while scrolling through my phone. He strolls in and grabs some orange juice from the fridge without saying anything, but I can feel his eyes on me.

Should I apologize for my earlier behaviour? Try to explain myself? Would that make it more awkward? My thoughts spiral, like leaves caught in a gust of wind. I imagine all the things I might say to explain and how the conversation might go.

“I had an out-of-body experience.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. For a solid five seconds, I was just a sentient gasp floating through the universe.”

“And why exactly?”

“…Muscles.”

... Nope. That’s not a contender.

“I wasn’t staring at you; I was staring past you.”

“At what?”

“…A ghost.”

“A ghost.”

“Yeah, super spooky. You should probably be careful.”

Fuck. Not that one either! I can feel my face flushing at the mere notion of it.

“I wasn’t gawking! I was making sure you weren’t overheating!”

“Overheating?”

“Yeah! You were sweating, and I thought, ‘Wow, he might be at risk for dehydration.’ I was just being a responsible friend.”

“A responsible friend who was staring so hard they forgot how to use words?”

“It was… an intense health inspection.”

Oh, god, Inara, just keep your mouth shut. Caleb braces his forearms on the counter and leans against it. Either by pure luck or a miracle, he saves me from myself.

“So, I was thinking,” he starts and waits until I look up at him to continue. “Why don’t I make you some breakfast, and then we go out and buy some things for the place? You know, since you’re stayin’ here and all, maybe you should make it more your own so it feels like home.”

“Aren’t you going to work today?” I ask, canting my head a little.

“Nah,” he shakes his head, making the light play across his features. “I can give orders from afar if I need to. The Fleet will last one day without me.”

Caleb’s house has always been a little bare for my taste, but I never really meant to stay here permanently. It’s just that each time I think about going home and being alone, it’s like my heart seizes in my chest.

“Your place is fine, Caleb,” I mutter, looking askance to avoid his intense violet stare. “There’s really no need to buy anything for it.”

“Aww, come on, pip-squeak,” he amusedly scolds. “Every time you walk in here, you scowl like the furniture has personally offended you. Let’s just go out and look around and see if anything catches your eye. This is your home, too, you know.”

“No, it’s not,” I snap back, a little too aggressively.

He sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. “I know, but maybe it could be, one day. I just want you to feel comfortable here, Inara. That’s all.”

This place will never be my home, because I feel like this place is the physical representation of the wedge that’s grown between Caleb and me. The secrets, the lies, the bitter truths—I feel like they all coalesce here.

A part of me wants to ask him to move to Linkon, and I think he would do it to please me, but I know that would be selfish. His work is here, and no matter how much I loathe it, he is the Fleet’s Colonel… for now, at least.

My leave from the Hunter’s Association won’t last forever. Sooner or later, I’ll have to return to Linkon and my duties, and I won’t be able to stay here anymore. My breath stutters at the thought.

I don’t want to leave him, but this is our reality now. Whether I like it or not.

Plastering on the most genuine smile I can muster, I nod. “Sure, we can go out and look around. I’m sure Skyhaven has some interesting shops.”

Caleb’s smile lights up the room. I would do anything to see him smile like that more often. If that means suffering through a shopping trip, then I will gladly suffer.

Chapter Masterlist So, yeah... started this for fun, decided it might be something silly other people might possibly enjoy. If you do, leave a comment, or don't, or you know, do whatever you're comfortable with!

More chapters will likely follow.

Take care everyone!

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