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She had begun to suspect that he'd never want her like this again, and surely not when she started to show, certainly not five months in when she's got three babies growing inside of her and is looking like it, too. She had been convinced that the night that got them into this mess was fated to remain amber-encased in her past---the one ending a Lanthanite can conceive of. Caleb has been an incredibly attentive-- partner isn't an appropriate word, but neither really is father-to-be. He orbits around Nahla now, carrying heavy things when she cannot and replicating food for her when she doesn't want to get out of bed and existing in the general state of inescapable authenticity he manages so well around her. He's had months to adjust to this, to make his decisions, to really think as she had encouraged him to, and--
He chooses her again. He tells her tonight that he is Going To Be There For Their Children, that, despite being terrified at first, he knows that he cannot give them the parentally fragmented life he'd been forced into, that children are truly special and he's always wanted some greater purpose and he's a little bit glad he'll be able to delay being posted on a starship for a while anyway. She finds herself falling further into the middle-of-nowhere vehicular crash of love with each word he breathes out. He's so noble, so brave, so understanding. He even asks before he kisses her, just as he had the first time; this time, instead of simply pulling him in and taking her chance, pressing their bodies together with impatient fumbles and desperate grabs and grinds, she tells him that he never has to ask again. That she will never stop wanting him, that he lives in the Lanthanite-golden flecks that decorate her blood like sprinkles on icing, that he lives inside of her and he always has and now he truly always will.
That's great, but I don't know. Not a lot of people ever asked me. So I feel bad now, if I don't. Feels like I'm just as bad sometimes.
She asks if she can kiss him, and he is silent. Someone made him feel this way, she thinks, despicably so---Caleb is the purest being Nahla has encountered, he isn't capable of that kind of cruelty. For a few seconds that slam into Nahla and ache like combat training bruises, he looks like he is going to shatter, a precious vase knocked over into bits of ceramic all across her floor, leaking water and plant matter all around the scene. And then he reanimates, takes her wrinkled hands, slightly swollen at the touch, and tells her, sit back. You're tired.
Nahla relaxes in her bed, her short legs dangling off the edge where she has herself positioned on its side. Caleb places pillows behind her back in more silence---for her comfort, of course, she shouldn't be flat now, but she is glad that she will be able to look at him during this. He's so beautiful to look at, so soft. As she reclines slightly into the pillows, she exhales a content sigh. She's missed this desperately; nighttime bucking fantasies and memories of how her body had slid around and over Caleb's, how she'd rocked against him and how he had cried into her neck with cutting gemstone tears and how she had petted his head, stroked his hair, comforted him like only a mother could---this is never enough compared to the raw, present sensation of Caleb Mir guiding her robe open.
Little warp cores are pushed to the side---this had been a gift when she started getting bigger, the same pattern as the pyjamas he had commented on in her office long ago, and the care involved had made Nahla's entire essence sink. Now, her essence rises and dissipates and floods across the atmosphere of San Francisco, branching across both campuses and into deserts and forests and creeks, ascending as he kneels between her legs and hovers around her body.
Nahla's eyes close and flit back into her skull, anticipating Caleb's touch. She feels his lips press against her chest, the fabric and hardness of his boxers brushing against the bottom of her stomach as he inches her closer to him. She almost tells him to take them off---that she wants to feel his cock truly flush against the bulge of her belly---but he must understand this desire of hers innately and without speech, because he sheds his boxers with only minimal struggle, laughing into Nahla's skin as he does. When they are off, he gives a sharp grunt when his cock presses against her womb. It's clearly overwhelming him, but he is still gentle as he presses it between his stomach and hers, so careful, so tender as he rubs.
Nahla gives her own gasp when his lips circle the skin around her darkened nipples. He's slow at first, using his tongue to trace small patterns in the sensitive flesh---hearts, stars, underlined Xs to mark the spot---taking his time with the act to show his dedication. When he finally takes one between the pucker of his lips and begins to give small, calm sucks in tandem with his featherlight grinds, Nahla's brain spins into its own version of shattering.
The room around her shifts from its typical calm sunray gold into blinding bursts of white. Caleb's tongue circles around her left nipple, and his thumb sways back and forth over the right. They're much larger now than they were the first time they did this; he can't seem to get enough, just moans into them as he suckles on. Nahla's hands find his hair again, giving the back of his head just below his hairline its own pattern traces, always to calm him, always.
He slips his hand away from her nipple and against her inner thighs, whispers to the skin between her breasts with an amused tone you're so wet, I want you so bad, fuck, Nahla, fuck, as if pleasuring her only pleasures him. His middle finger brushes over her clit, engorged and thick, and she yelps, her head falling backward and her unkempt hair draping down over the pillows like fortresses of honey.
One finger begins to tease her open, and Caleb takes his time. She wants to say I love you but it would only scare him; instead she says please, Caleb and hopes that it conveys the same meaning, the same desperation. When Caleb slides his finger in fully, he curls it with a skilled shift and Nahla's breath inverts in her chest. Fuck.
He finally breaks from her breast, kisses down her ribs and just over the beginnings of where her womb has stretched to, where the right angles of her stomach flow vertical and bump up. He keeps kissing her, his lips moving in lines of shooting stars over her belly. He pays special attention to the stretch marks from her last pregnancy, even moans into them, and for a moment one of the triplets moves around inside of her a bit, movement like jello ripples within her.
Caleb only looks up at her. She looks down at him, gives her widest, most saturated grin as he thrusts up with his knuckles and then slides out slightly to work another finger into her. She gushes around his hands—the slick of her body—how wet she gets for him always—it would be embarrassing if she were capable of shame. He continues to fuck her with his fingers—he thrusts in, then releases to brush her clit in small circles, then pushes back in once more on some spinning globe cycle of loving.
"I'm ready for this," Caleb whispers into her stomach. "I'm ready for us."
He isn't, really; he can't be; they both know it. But - fuck, it's hot, in the moment.
I love you, she imagines herself whispering again. I love you, Caleb.
"You're a good kid," is what she does whisper. When he laughs at her awkward joke-hybrid, she exhales with relief. "I know," she finishes, playing along.
