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fatesundress · 2 months ago

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☆ END OF BEGINNING.

summary: the world’s ending, the air is toxic, and here you are, sitting on the floor of your childhood room, contemplating a heist.

pairing: caleb xia x fem!reader contains: romance, angst, smut (breast play, oral sex, fingering, unprotected sex (please stay safe irl!)), childhood friends to lovers!au, apocalypse!au, hurt/comfort. inspired by djo’s end of beginning and iu’s love wins all music video. word count: 6.8k

The world is about to end, and you’re eating instant noodles on the living room floor when he tells you.

“The government fucked up,” Caleb says. He’s sprawled on the carpet next to you, his thigh pressing against your knee and his arms crossed behind his head. He hasn’t gone to work in weeks—and it’s a pity, you think, because he’s the best pilot they had.

But then again, you suppose, what use would a pilot be when the skies themselves are poisoned?

You slurp a noodle, unbothered. The taste is bland, and you wish you’d sprung for the spicy kind last time you went to the store. It’s too late now.

Caleb exhales a long, slow breath through his nose, eyes tracing lazy circles across the ceiling like he’s looking for constellations that aren’t there anymore. His hair is too long, curling over his forehead, a leftover from the time when days still mattered.

“They tried to fix it,” he says. “But it just made everything worse.”

You swirl your fork through the soggy mess in your bowl. “Of course they did.”

It comes out sharper than you mean it to, but he doesn’t flinch. Caleb never flinches. Not even when the emergency sirens first started going off. Not even when the newsfeeds turned to static.

Outside, the sky is the colour of an old bruise—yellow, purple, sickly green at the edges. You stopped checking the forecasts. They always said the same thing anyways: hazardous, do not breathe, shelter indoors.

“How long?” you ask after a while, setting your bowl aside. It doesn’t matter, really, but you want to hear him say it.

Caleb tilts his head towards you, just slightly. His eyes catch the dim light. “A few weeks. A month, tops.”

You hum, as if he had told you it might rain tomorrow. The silence stretches out between you, heavy and companionable. He shifts closer, his ankle pressing against your calf, and you don’t move away. You wonder if he’s scared. You wonder if you should be. Instead, you glance at him, at the grim set of his jaw, the lazy sprawl of him on the floor like he’s sunbathing in a world that’s already gone cold.

“Guess we picked a good last meal,” you say dryly.

He laughs, and it’s the best sound you’ve heard in days.

“Wanna do something stupid?” Caleb turns his head, resting his cheek against the carpet so he can look at you properly. He grins at you like you’re kids again, like you’ve got all the time in the world.

“What kind of stupid?” you ask.

“Does it matter?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think it over, but the truth is you’d say yes to anything right now. “What do you have in mind?”

Caleb sits up, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in soft, messy tufts. He looks like a boy again—trouble and charm and wild ideas stitched into his bones.

“There’s a museum downtown,” he says. “The one with all the… old stuff. Paintings, sculptures. They abandoned it when the first evacuation orders went out. Bet no one even bothered locking the doors.”

“You want to steal art?”

“Why not? It’s not like anyone’s going to miss it.”

Well. That is kind of true.

You sit back on your heels, eyes narrowing in thought. It’s absurd, but then again, everything feels absurd these days. The world’s ending, the air is toxic, and here you are, sitting on the floor of your childhood room, contemplating a heist.

“You’re serious?” you ask, half-laughing, half-asking for reassurance.

Caleb grins, leaning forward to push himself up to a sitting position. His hair falls messily over his forehead as he straightens his back, giving you a look of fond exasperation. “Who else is going to do it?”

The idea starts to settle in, like it’s meant to be this way. A last hurrah, the sort of thing you’d see in movies before the credits roll. Except this isn’t a movie, and you know it. This world is real, and it’s dying. But somehow, it still feels like you’ve got a chance at doing something ridiculous.

“And you think there’ll still be something worth taking?” you ask.

“Maybe not. But I bet it’ll still be beautiful. Art’s supposed to last forever, right? Guess we’ll see if it actually does.” His voice softens at the last bit, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

You nod, almost absentmindedly. “Alright. Sure. Let’s go steal some art.”

Outside, the air burns the back of your throat, thick and metallic, but you don’t care. The streets are empty, ghost-town still, your footsteps the only sound as you walk side by side towards the heart of the city. The asphalt sticks to your shoes, tacky from the heat, but you keep moving. Caleb matches your pace, close enough that your sleeves brush every few steps. He hums a low, tuneless song under his breath.

You turn a corner. The skyline, once proud and glittering, leans crooked now, buildings half-shrouded in the jaundiced haze. Billboards flap limply in the dead air, advertising a future that never showed up.

“Feels like we’re walking through the end of a movie,” Caleb says.

You glance at him. His face is set in a strange kind of calm, the kind people wear when they’re past fear and deep into acceptance. His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders loose.

“Except no dramatic soundtrack,” you mutter.

He huffs a laugh. “Guess we’ll make our own.”

You let the quiet settle between you again, breathing shallowly through your mouth. Every now and then, a birdcall splits the thick air—sharp, jarring against the hush—and it makes you both flinch, just a little.

You pass by a coffee shop you used to go to sometimes, back when things were still normal. The door hangs open. Someone left a cup on the table inside, a ring of brown staining the paper lid. You wonder, absently, if they ever got to finish it.

Caleb bumps your shoulder with his, pulling your attention back. He’s smiling at you—small, lopsided, a little tired.

“We’re almost there,” he says, nodding up ahead.

The museum looms ahead, its glass façade cracked, vines curling hungrily up the walls. The banners that used to advertise new exhibits hang shredded from the columns, fluttering lazily in the poisoned breeze. You stop at the bottom of the steps, tipping your head back to look up at the building properly. It’s massive and empty, the kind of thing you used to call haunted before everything turned into a shell of itself.

“Ready?” Caleb asks.

You swallow past the dryness in your throat and nod. “Yeah.”

Caleb grabs your hand and starts up the steps two at a time, dragging you along. You let him. At the top, he kicks the door open with a flourish, bowing low.

“After you, milady,” he says, with a wink.

You roll your eyes but smile, stepping past him into the dim, echoing coolness of the museum. It smells like dust and old paper and metal. Inside, the marble floors stretch out in wide, empty corridors. The exhibits are still there: paintings, sculptures, relics from a thousand different lives that had nothing to do with yours.

It’s so quiet that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

Caleb whistles low. “Whole place is ours,” he says, voice bouncing off the cavernous walls.

“What do we even take?” you ask, almost to yourself.

He swings his arms out wide, spinning in a slow circle, loose and child-like.

“Anything you want,” he says, grinning. “Steal the Mona Lisa for all I care.”

“That’s in Paris, dumbass.”

He shrugs, unbothered, and ambles towards a nearby painting: a silhouette of a woman, painted in bruised blues and splashes of red. He tilts his head at it. “She looks kind of pissed.”

“That’s because it’s a landscape,” you say, and he lets out a bark of laughter that echoes all the way up into the broken rafters.

You drift through the museum together, your steps turning lighter with every ridiculous comment Caleb tosses over his shoulder. He narrates the paintings in stupid voices, poses beside marble statues, pulls a face and says, “That’s the face you make when you’re judging me for my driving skills.�� You’re laughing before you can stop yourself, covering your mouth with your sleeve.

At some point, you wander into one of the grander halls, where the skylight above is cracked like a spiderweb, letting in a sickly light that pools across the floor. Dust floats through the air in thick, lazy motes.

Caleb stops at a sculpture of two dancers frozen mid-twirl, their hands barely touching. He looks at it for a long moment; then says, “I bet we could do that better.”

“You don’t know how to dance,” you remind him.

“It can’t be that hard.” He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers. “C’mon, pipsqueak. One last dance.”

You hesitate, then laugh and place your hand in his. His palm is warm, a little calloused, and he gives you a clumsy twirl that nearly knocks you over. You’re giggling helplessly by the time he dips you, exaggerated and wobbly, and he’s laughing too, bright and breathless, his forehead falling against yours for just a second.

You stay like that—forehead to forehead, hands tangled together—for a moment more, breathing in the same thin, dusty air. Caleb’s laugh dies into a smile, and for a second, you can almost forget the world crumbling outside.

“You’re terrible at this,” you mumble.

“I’m incredible,” he corrects, not moving away.

You give him a gentle shove on the chest and he finally moves back, albeit reluctantly. His hands catch on your elbows like he doesn’t want to let you go.

“At least you didn’t drop me on the marble,” you say, but you’re smiling too, and he beams like he’s won something anyway.

The museum stretches endlessly in every direction: gold-framed portraits, ancient jewelry, fossilised bones arranged in careful displays. Caleb pauses here and there to point out something absurd—a crown so heavy, it looks like it could crush someone’s neck; a medieval tapestry that, upon closer inspection, includes a diagram about medieval-era contraceptive measures. It’s stupid, and a little reckless, but for the first time in weeks, you feel something like lightness thread through your chest.

You slow near the entrance to a small gallery tucked into a corner. It looks emptier than the others, the walls bare except for a few faded posters peeling at the corners. On the floor, near the cracked tile, something catches your eye.

A crumpled ticket stub.

You crouch down, brushing your fingers over it gently. The print is worn and the edges are curled, but you can still make out the faded words: A Night at the Museum – Summer Gala. There’s even a little gold star printed beside the date.

You could take anything here—paintings worth millions, artifacts that only belong in textbooks—but somehow, this feels more important. A piece of someone’s normal night, a memory left behind like a breadcrumb trail.

“What’d you find?” Caleb asks, crouching beside you.

You hold the stub up between two fingers. “This.”

He studies it, then you, and a smile curves slowly at the corner of his mouth. “Good choice,” he says. “It’s beautiful, too.”

You slip it into your jacket pocket, smoothing it flat with careful fingers. Caleb bumps your shoulder lightly with his again.

“Sentimental,” he teases, but there’s no heat to it; only something fond and quiet.

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

He stands first, offering you a hand. You take it without thinking, letting him pull you to your feet.

You take a detour on the way home, because Caleb says he wants to cook you a meal. A proper one, he’d said. Not one of those stupid instant noodles packets you like.

Instead of the community centre he usually breaks into, he steers you towards the old supermarket on the Fifth, the one with the dilapidated sign and boarded-up windows. You shoot him a look as you approach, but he simply nudges you forward with his elbow.

“Trust me,” he says. “We’ll eat like kings tonight.”

You roll your eyes but follow him anyway, your footsteps crunching over broken glass and gravel. The front doors are still stuck half-open, warped with heat and time. Caleb slips through the gap. You duck in after him.

Inside, it’s dark and humid, the air thick with the smell of rot and old paper. A few broken fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting the aisles in feeble strips of greenish light. You can hear the slow drip of water somewhere in the back, as if the building is still trying to bleed itself dry.

“Alright, shopping list,” Caleb says, clapping his hands together. “Pasta, sauce, anything that looks even remotely edible.”

“And a can opener,” you add. “I lost the one at home.”

He nods and gives you a sloppy salute before disappearing down an aisle, the sound of his sneakers scuffing against the sticky floor fading as he goes.

You wander in the opposite direction, picking through the remains. Most of the fresh stuff is long gone, spoiled and soupy in abandoned carts or smeared across the floor. But in the canned food aisle, you strike gold: tomatoes, corn, beans—stuff that’s probably still edible if you squint and don’t think about it too hard.

Caleb jogs back into view, his arms overloaded with supplies: a bag of rice, a half-smashed box of cereal, two grimy jars of pasta sauce.

“You’re hoarding,” you point out.

He shrugs, unrepentant. “It’s the apocalypse. Finders, keepers.”

You stuff your finds into a battered plastic basket and follow him to the front of the store. Every once in a while, he tosses something in: a packet of gummy worms, a bottle of some bright blue sports drink, a tin of instant coffee with the label half peeled off.

“For morale,” he says, dead serious, when you give him a skeptical look.

It’s dumb, the way he says it, but for reasons you don’t want to look at too closely, your chest aches with it.

By the time you’re done, you’ve amassed a dragon’s hoard of nearly-expired groceries piled high in a stolen shopping cart. Caleb steers like a drunkard, ramming into shelves and cackling like a maniac when you shush him.

“Stop it, Caleb,” you hiss, ducking low out of instinct, even though you know no one’s going to come yelling at you.

He only grins wider, pushing the cart through the broken doors.

Outside, the sun has almost fully collapsed behind the ruined skyline, leaving the streets bathed in a blemished orange-coloured sunlight. You grab one side of the cart to help him steer, wheels rattling unevenly over the cracked asphalt.

Neither of you says it out loud, but you’re both thinking it: this haul will keep you fed for weeks. It’s an idiotic, lucky victory.

You stop at the old playground one street away from your house before heading home. Caleb says it’s because you’re already outside, anyway, so what’s a few minutes more?

You let him pull you towards the rusted swing set after hiding your stolen cart behind a cluster of metal sheets, and ignore the way your throat itches and your lungs burn because of the poisoned sky.

The swing groans under your weight when you drop onto it, the chains shuddering like they might snap if you so much as breathe too hard. Caleb claims the one next to you, giving himself a running push so he rocks back and forth, shoes kicking up dust from the cracked ground. You hook your fingers around the chains, scuffing the toe of your sneaker against the dirt.

The sky above is smothered, thick with the smoke and haze that never really clears anymore, but here, tucked away in the hollowed-out bones of the world, it almost feels like time has paused. Like if you just sit still enough, you could almost trick yourself into thinking you’re just two kids killing time before curfew.

Caleb leans back so far, the chains creak in protest, tipping his head toward the sky like it could swallow him. His hands are loose around the rusted metal, and when he speaks, it’s almost too soft to hear over the sigh of the wind.

“If the sky wasn’t poisoned,” he says, “I’d take you flying.”

You glance over at him and he’s still looking up, like he’s imagining it—a world where the clouds are white instead of ash-grey, where the stars are something you can actually see and not just rely on childhood memories to remember.

“I’d take you so high, you’d forget the ground ever existed,” Caleb goes on, voice low and far away. “I’d show you the stars. All of ‘em. I’d fly us so far out, the city lights wouldn’t drown them anymore.”

Your chest aches in that familiar, hollow way it always does whenever he talks about the sky. Caleb used to dream about it out loud when you were kids, lying side by side on your driveways in the summer, naming constellations you could barely spot through the streetlights.

He was always the one who believed there was more waiting for you, just past the horizon.

“You’re still a show-off,” you say, a little hoarsely, trying to smile.

He cuts his gaze towards you then, his smile lazy and warm despite everything. “Yeah, well. Some things survive the end of the world.”

You duck your head, hiding your grin. Your fingers tighten around the swing’s chain. For a second, you can almost feel it—the slipstream pulling at your hair, the stars crowding in close like they belong to you. Almost.

You want to tell him you’d go anywhere with him. That you’d climb into whatever battered plane he dragged out of a hangar and not even ask where you were headed. That it doesn’t matter if the sky’s poisoned or the stars are gone—you’d follow him anyway.

But instead, you just scuff your shoe harder into the dirt, stirring up little spirals of ash, and hope somehow he already knows.

The swing chains clink together lightly, the sound as delicate as wind chimes. You look up at the sky, at the thick clouds smearing the sun into that disgusting blur, and wonder how long it’s been since you’ve seen a real sunset. You wonder how nice it’d feel to sit here with him and watch the sky turn pink and purple instead of this endless, brassy gold.

Your throat feels tight.

“I think…” you start, then falter, twisting the frayed edge of your sleeve around your finger. You can feel Caleb’s gaze on you, steady and patient.

“I think I would’ve liked it,” you say a little too fast. You swallow and force yourself to keep going, even as the words stick to the back of your dry throat. “If things were normal. If I could… marry you.”

The confession hangs in the air, fragile and trembling like the gossamer silk of a spider’s web. You immediately look down, too cowardly to see whatever’s written on his face. Embarrassment prickles up the back of your neck, hot and awful. Maybe you’ve ruined everything. Maybe you’ve said too much.

But then Caleb’s hand brushes against yours, and carefully, he lifts your left hand from your lap. You glance up, startled, just in time to see him lower his head and press a soft, gentle kiss to your ring finger, right where a gold band might have sat in some other life, in some better world.

Your breath catches so sharply, it hurts your chest.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression uncharacteristically serious, though his smile is still there, small and steady.

“We don’t need the world to be normal for that,” he says. “Registrar’s closed anyway. Who’s gonna stop us? Some dead fucker in a suit?”

You let out a shaky laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “You’re serious,” you say, your voice wavering.

“Dead serious.” Caleb presses another kiss to your knuckles for good measure, warmer this time. He leans in a little closer, so close you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “I’ll find you a ring. Steal it from a jewellery store if I have to. We’ll do it ourselves. We’ll make up vows, find a spot under the stars—hell, we can carve them into a tree if you want.”

The grin he flashes you is crooked and a little bashful, like he knows how ridiculous he sounds and means every word regardless.

“We’ll be the most illegally married people left alive,” he says.

Something in you shudders, fragile and aching, and you squeeze his fingers tighter without even thinking about it.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”

Caleb’s smile softens. He shifts, standing up from his swing with a rustle of fabric, and pulls you to your feet, hands still tangled together. He holds your hand between his like it’s something precious, something he can protect through sheer stubbornness alone.

“Then it’s settled,” he says. “You’re stuck with me now.”

You let out a watery laugh, the kind that feels like you’re almost crying, and nudge his shoulder with yours. “You’re stuck with me, dummy.”

“Best decision I’ve ever made,” he says, smiling so widely now that you can see the dimples bracketing his mouth.

Dinner, that night, is a giddy affair.

Caleb finds some excuse to touch you. You pretend you don’t like it but lean into his arms anyway. He kisses your cheek when you accidentally smear pasta sauce over it and smiles when you shyly turn your head away. The food isn’t even that good—the pasta is overcooked, and the sauce is too runny, and it’s bland because you couldn’t find onions or garlic—but these days, when even finding proper meals is a luxury, you find yourself enjoying it.

You find an old candle hidden away in one of the living room drawers, and you place it in between your plates and let the wick catch flame. It’s a parody of a meal you’d find at a decent restaurant before the world went to shit, but Caleb says it’s perfect and you believe him.

Later, you pile the dishes in the sink, telling yourself you’ll wash them tomorrow, and leave the candle burning down to a stub between you. Caleb stretches out on the battered couch, one arm flung lazily behind his head. You sit down on the space next to him, legs tucked under you.

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep,” Caleb says.

You hum. You are tired, but it’s a good kind of tired. Full-bellied, warm-skinned. You rest your head on the back of the couch and close your eyes. When you open them again, Caleb’s watching you with that look he gets sometimes—fond amusement, something quieter you’ve never been able to place. He doesn’t look away.

“Come here,” he says, voice low, roughened by the kind of exhaustion that’s too deep to sleep off.

You don’t think about it.

The couch sags under your weight as you crawl over, knocking his knee with yours. He shifts to make space, but not much. Just enough that when you sit beside him, your thighs press together, warm through the fabric of your jeans. Your heart knocks around in your ribs like it’s trying to find a way out. Caleb looks at you, his eyes flickering down to your mouth and back up again, almost as though he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t really need.

So, you lean in first.

It’s awkward, at first—a bump of noses, a quick breath of laughter you swallow between your teeth. Then Caleb’s hand finds your jaw, steadying you, and the laughter fades into something slower.

The kiss is soft, careful and testing; like you’re both trying to memorise this, in case it slips away just like everything else. Caleb tastes like tomato and burnt bread and something stubbornly, stupidly sweet—like the boy who used to drag you down the street by hand when you were late for school, and the man who learned how to fly because he thought it would make him brave.

Your hands find his shirt, bunching the fabric at the sides. His fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head to kiss you deeper, slower, like there’s no need to hurry.

You shift, climbing into his lap without thinking, and he catches you with a low, surprised noise against your mouth. His hands settle at your waist, pulling you closer.

The candle burns lower still, forgotten, wax puddling onto the chipped table. The world outside stays exactly where it belongs: outside your old, dusty window panes with no way of bleeding into the walls and floorboards of your childhood home.

Caleb kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s given up on pretending to take it slow. His hands roam, slow and certain, slipping under the hem of your shirt where your skin is warm. You shiver at the contact—not because it’s cold, but because it’s him.

His mouth trails lower, pressing hot, open kisses along the line of your throat, your collarbones. You lift your arms without thinking when he tugs at your shirt, letting him pull it over your head and toss it aside. He pauses—just for a second—to look at you. His eyes are dark, not just with want, but like he’s letting the fact that you’re here sink in, that you’re real and here and his.

He reaches behind you and unclasps your bra, letting it drop onto the floor. You reach for him in return, fingers finding the hem of his shirt and tugging until he helps you strip it off too, leaving both of you half-dressed and breathing hard.

When he leans down again, his mouth finds the top of your breasts, lips dragging slowly over the swell of it, tongue licking experimentally. It makes you shiver, even in the thick, heavy warmth of the room. His hands cup them fully now, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate strokes that send sparks racing under your skin.

You gasp, arching into him, and Caleb groans before closing his mouth around one nipple, sucking gently. His tongue laves over the sensitive peak, teasing, while his hand kneads your other breast with a slow, steady rhythm. Every touch feels unbearably good, like he’s learning you by heart, piece by piece.

“Caleb—” you breathe, nails scraping lightly down his back.

He switches sides, giving the same slow, thorough attention to your other breast, while his free hand starts to drift lower, tracing the line of your ribs, your stomach, until he’s slipping just under the waistband of your jeans, thumb stroking the skin there.

The anticipation coils tight in your belly, a sweet, aching heat building between your thighs.

Caleb lifts his head to kiss you again, and you realise you’re both trembling, holding on to each other like the world outside has already ended—and maybe it has, but here, in this bubble you’ve made together, there’s still something left.

He nips at your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to look at you, chest heaving. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, pulling him back and kissing him hard, greedy for the taste of him, for the solid weight of his body pressing you down into the couch cushions. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, the curve of your ribs—sliding under the remaining layers of clothing with barely restrained urgency.

When you fumble with the button of his jeans, Caleb groans into your mouth, low and desperate, and lifts his hips to help you push them down. You tug them down to his thighs, leaving him in just his boxers, the outline of his cock thick and heavy against the thin fabric.

You palm him through it first—slow, teasing—dragging your hand up his length until he shudders, forehead dropping against yours. His breath stutters out hotly against your lips.

“Please,” he says, voice wrecked and trembling with the effort not to just take.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, small and secret, and then nudge him gently back against the couch cushions. He follows without protest, legs sprawling open, watching you with wide, dilated eyes like he’s helpless to do anything but obey.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and peel them down torturously slowly, the fabric catching slightly around his thighs before you finally free his dick. It’s flushed deep pink at the tip, a bead of wetness already glistening there.

You wrap your hand around him first, stroking from the thick base all the way to the leaking head, feeling the way his cock twitches at your touch. Caleb’s hips jerk involuntarily, a moan torn from his throat, and his hands grip the couch so tightly, his knuckles bleach white.

You lean in and swipe your tongue along the underside, tracing the thick vein there, savouring the way he trembles for you, the way he bites back a curse that still spills from between his clenched teeth.

“Fuck,” Caleb mutters, barely more than a rasp.

You flatten your tongue and take his cock into your mouth, inch by slow inch, feeling him throb against your tongue. His whole body goes rigid. You work him deeper each time; your jaw aches slightly but you don’t stop, hollowing your cheeks.

“You feel—fuck, you feel so good,” Caleb pants, his thighs trembling under your hands.

You pull back a little, letting the tip slip free from your lips, and swirl your tongue around it, teasing the slit until he’s cursing again, hips bucking despite himself. You take him back in deep, relaxing your throat, swallowing around him. Caleb moans, one hand tangling in your hair—not pulling, just holding your head in place.

You bob your head steadily, letting him fuck into your mouth with shallow thrusts, slick sounds filling the otherwise silent room. You moan softly around him, feeling his dick twitch against your tongue in response, the sound shooting straight through him like a lightning bolt.

When you pull off with a wet pop, your lips are swollen and your eyes are glassy. You look at him through your lashes, and he looks completely unlike what Caleb normally looks like—chest heaving, hair mussed, mouth slack with want.

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes out.

“You okay?” you tease, thumb brushing over the slick tip just to see him flinch.

“Come here,” he says instead.

He hauls you onto his lap, kissing you deeply, not caring about the mess. One hand slides between your bodies to undo your jeans. He works them down your thighs with clumsy urgency, dragging your underwear with them. Then he flips you onto your back, kneeling between your legs, spreading your thighs open with both hands.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters under his breath, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, like the words tore themselves from him.

You barely have time to whimper before he leans in, pressing his mouth to your folds with one stripe of his tongue up your centre. You arch off the couch instinctively, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Caleb groans low in his chest, and he does it again, slower this time, dragging his tongue from your dripping entrance to your clit.

He settles his broad shoulders between your thighs and locks his arms around them, anchoring you there, helpless against his mouth. His tongue flicks lightly over your clit, teasing, coaxing, until you’re gasping—then, he sucks it gently between his lips, rolling it with the perfect pressure that makes your thighs tremble against his ears.

You can feel yourself dripping onto his chin, his mouth, but Caleb doesn’t seem to care. If anything, it spurs him on. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

When you buck against him, desperate and overwhelmed, he only tightens his grip, one strong hand pinning your hip down while the other trails between your legs. His fingers glide through your slick folds, teasing your entrance before he sinks one thick finger into you, slow and careful, stretching you open.

You moan his name, shameless, fisting the couch cushions. Caleb watches you like there’s nothing more important than the way your face twists with pleasure under him.

He pumps his fingers in and out slowly, curling it just right, while his mouth stays locked on your clit, tongue relentless, driving you higher with every stroke. When he slips a second finger inside, scissoring them carefully to stretch you, you sob, writhing against him.

He builds you up mercilessly, mouth and fingers working in tandem, coaxing you towards the edge so expertly that it feels euphoric. Your thighs clamp around his head, but Caleb just groans again, fucking you deeper with his fingers, sucking harder on your clit.

You come with a cry of his name, thighs trembling and walls clenching tightly around his fingers. Caleb doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, drinking down every shudder and gasp, prolonging it until you’re a boneless mess sprawled across the couch.

Only when your body stops jerking does he finally pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his cheeks flushed and his lips shiny.

He doesn’t give you time to recover. He kisses his way up your body—your thighs, your belly, your chest—murmuring your name like a prayer against your skin. By the time he reaches your mouth, you’re already pulling him in. He kisses you deep, filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Want you,” you whisper against his lips. “Please.”

He nods, once, twice, frantically. “Yeah. Yeah, I—”

“Please, Caleb.”

“Fuck.”

When Caleb finally pushes inside you, it’s slow—agonisingly so. His hand finds your waist, digging into your skin, and he presses his lips to your forehead. His eyes flutter shut. “You okay?”

You nod, swallowing thickly, still a little breathless. You can’t form words, but your hips move instinctively, rolling up to meet his thrust halfway. He inhales sharply, pulling back and thrusting back in, starting slow.

You pull him closer, your hands wandering over his skin, finding purchase on his shoulders, his arms, his back. You feel the muscles in his body coil, tense with each stroke, but he doesn’t falter. He’s focused, his eyes never quite opening fully.

His hand slides down your body, finding your hips, and he pulls you up against him. Your legs lock around his waist as you move with him, desperate for more. He groans at the way you meet him, each thrust growing deeper, faster, as you push him harder, pulling him closer with each movement.

The sound of your skin slapping together fills the room, punctuated by the wet, breathless gasps that escape both of you. He pulls you closer still, each movement becoming more urgent, more demanding. You can feel every muscle in his body tighten as he drives into you, his grip tightening as if afraid you might slip away.

Your breathing comes in sharp, erratic bursts, and every thrust feels like it’s taking you higher, until your vision blurs and you’re not sure where you end and he begins. You can’t focus on anything but him — the weight of him on top of you, the rough cadence of his movements, the desperate way he groans your name between each thrust. You’re drowning in it, lost in the rhythm, in the sensation of him moving inside you.

You’re so close—the heat building between your legs, the tight coil of anticipation so ready to snap. Your hips meet his in sync, rocking against each other in a slow grind that has your pulse thundering in your ears. Every second feels like an eternity. Your nails dig into his skin, leaving marks behind as your legs tighten around him, pulling him in deeper

The tension in your body snaps, and your breath catches in your throat as your climax hits you, sending shockwaves through every inch of your body. You cry out, fingers gripping his back as you clench around him. Caleb follows right after, his own groan of your name rough. He pulls out just in time and spills on your stomach.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You both lay there, panting, your bodies still connected, struggling to regain some semblance of breath, of control. His forehead rests against yours, your fingers tangled in his hair, his chest rising and falling against yours with each ragged breath.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, Caleb presses lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, to your collarbone, trailing his lips to the curve of your jaw.

You thread your fingers through his hair, cradling him close.

There is only one tree still standing in your neighbourhood, though its branches have long been stripped bare and its bark crumbles if you brush against it wrong. It’s a wonder it’s survived at all, gnawed at by the poisoned air and years of neglect.

Caleb finds it when he goes out hunting for a ring for you—a battered silver band scavenged from a pawnshop’s ruins, dull with age until he painstakingly polished it against the sleeve of his jacket.

He comes back with dirt on his jeans and a quiet kind of brightness in his eyes, the kind he used to have when you were kids and he’d found something he couldn’t wait to show you.

“We should do it properly,” he says, holding out the ring in the cradle of his palm. “Or… as properly as we can.”

You don’t have a dress. He doesn’t have a suit. There’s no music, no flowers, no one to witness you but the empty street and the sick, churning sky.

Still, you walk hand-in-hand to the tree.

Still, you smile at him like the world hasn’t ended.

Still, when Caleb takes your hands—rough and calloused, but shaking a little anyway—you think you’re the happiest you’ve ever been.

Neither of you has vows prepared. You fumble through promises, your voice catching and trembling in the thinning air. Caleb laughs under his breath, wiping at the corner of his eye with the back of his wrist like he can pretend it’s just dust.

His own voice is hoarse when he tells you three simple words, eight simple letters.

He slips the ring onto your finger—too loose, cold from the wind—and kisses you before you can start to cry, cradling your face between his palms. It’s a kiss like a vow in itself: steady, certain, and chosen.

The world around you is broken and hollowed out, but right here, right now, you are whole.

When you finally pull away, Caleb digs into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a bent, rusted nail. Without saying anything, he turns to the tree and presses the nail into the bark, dragging it slowly. You step closer, peeking over his shoulder, heart aching at the simple, stubborn act of it.

The bark flakes away under the nail, the lines rough and uneven, but it doesn’t matter. It’s yours.

A mark. A memory. Proof that even at the end of the world, you chose each other.

Caleb steps back, dusting his hands on his jeans, and looks at the carving like it's the most important thing he's ever made.

Then he turns to you, grin tilted and familiar, and says, "Now it’s official."

You laugh—real and bright, like it bubbles up from somewhere you thought was long dead—and pull him in again, arms winding tight around his neck as the grey sky rumbles overhead.

The end of the world feels like falling asleep in your beloved’s arms, your mouth pressed to the pulse at his throat and his lips pressed to your forehead.

Exhibit: “Testaments of Survival” – Section II: Personal Histories

Object: Piece of Bark from an Apple Tree (Malus domestica) Date: Estimated circa 2074 Location Found: Sector 18, Northern District (Formerly Linkon City) Condition: Severely weathered; fragment only. Hand-carved inscription partially preserved.

Background: This artifact is a remnant of the environmental and societal collapse commonly referred to as The Withering. Following the ecological chain-reaction of 2070–2075, flora across most continents experienced mass die-offs. Very few plant species, including domestic apple trees, survived the acidification of the soil and atmosphere.

Recovered from a once-residential area, this bark fragment bears a simple, hand-etched inscription:

“CALEB XIA AND ████████ WERE MARRIED HERE.”

It is believed to mark an unofficial wedding ceremony held during the height of The Withering.

Personal ceremonies like this, often improvised and undocumented, served as acts of resilience and resistance against the dissolution of traditional societal structures.

The names etched into the bark are a rare human touch from a time otherwise dominated by loss—a stubborn act of hope carved into a dying world.

#recs ⭑#love and deepspace #read this on ao3 a while back but omg #i felt every emotion humanly possible #so unbelievably good

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