yeompei

[yeompei]

That anon who talked about the older twins going to college just made me think of Sylus's reaction when the twins are mentioned at graduation and HIS last name is said.

OMG STOP I'LL CRYYYYYY

i do think, as Sylus enrolled them technically, he'd put in "Qin" as their last names by default— "part of the cover" he'd reason. despite it being his real name. so willing to give it to the two goobers of the eldest sons.

you'd all be there during the ceremony. biggies would have insisted on not marching, but you weren't having any of that. you'll dress up and go to each of their graduations. sylus too, though he doesn't say it, wouldn't miss it for the world.

so you sit in your seats behind the graduates. entertain lucian's endless questions—

where biggies? "up front, sweetheart."

why i no have hat? "you don't like hats."

can sit with keewan? "no." can sit with wook? "no."

and try to keep kyros awake so he doesn't miss his brothers' names being called. "boring." he'd whine. sylus chuckles and entertains him with a smoke bird made from his evol. mephisto rests somewhere to record the ceremony.

and when Q comes around, their names are announced through the speakers and their full name is flashed on the large screen. sylus's shoulders falter just that little bit from his upright, cross-armed seat.

he watches the almost familiar scene. of the once smaller boys climb up the stage—back then to attempt an assassination— now in their togas to receive their hard-earned diplomas, having studied alongside missions, errands, and even raising toddlers. he's overwhelmed by emotion; he only shows through the working of his jaw and the tightening of his fingers on your hand.

kyros and lucian offer levity in their cheers, high-pitched and loud shrieks as their brothers wave at them from stage. drawing attention to their little family. lucian even attempts to climb up during luke's ceremony, declaring, "Qin! Qin! i go too!" before sylus chases him down the aisle and scoops him back to their seat.

and when it's all over, and luke or kieran come to reunite with you, sylus places a hand on their shoulders, heavy and reverent. his eyes sting, hidden behind the sunglasses he insisted on wearing (for his sensitive eyes, of course).

he tells him how proud he is of them, of how far they've come, and how proud he is to be their father.

[yeompei]

𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 | LADS + when someone (tries) to ask you out (pre-relationship)

warnings: blood, major injury, slight body horror (sylus), death, throwing people into the sea, jealousy, possessiveness, you/mc get flirted with by all genders, most of them are lying to you about the people who are flirting with you btw, DAA era caleb

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── xavier

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── zayne

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── rafayel

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── sylus

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── caleb

[yeompei]

LADS x “Who did this to you?”

A/N: Hoooo boy my ADHD is pulling me in like 5 different directions fic-wise but this theme has been feeding the brain worms. All LIs included, but the ficlets are varying lengths (Sorry, Zayne girlies, his was the first I wrote so it was the shortest). Also, check the cw for each because although I’m not trying to ruin anyone’s day here, there is some angst, implied assault and violence. Also, no smut this time, for that, I’ll shamelessly plug my Caleb fic, Delicate Things. Enjoy :)

Read on AO3

wc: 11.6k total

❄️ZAYNE❄️

cw: angst, violence, hurt/comfort, main story/anecdote spoilers, implied Dawnbreaker

In the span of minutes, all of Zayne’s worst nightmares are coming true before his eyes.

You’ve been a regular at Akso Hospital for years, of course. Both for the sake of monitoring your Protocore Syndrome, and for many more on-the-job injuries than he would like.

But this time is different.

This time, you’re in a worse state than your physician/boyfriend has seen you in recent memory.

Zayne had felt the first pricks of dread when the Hunter Association’s evac transport called ahead for triage of a patient exactly matching your age and description, but when they wheel you in, blood-soaked and unconscious, the sensation is more akin to being hit by a bus.

Ever the professional, Zayne’s focus narrows only to saving your life. Transfusion, fluids, stitches. The slight shake of his hands—normally rock-steady—as he readies his sutures is the only thing that betrays his raging inner turmoil.

Once you’re out of the ICU, sleeping fitfully in a private room, only then does he allow himself a moment to break down. He holds one of your hands between both of his, head bowed as tears stream out and then freeze in crystalline patterns on his cheeks.

While he waits for you to awaken, he’s a walking phantom. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t return home. It’s all Grayson can do to force him to eat a protein bar when they cross paths.

When you do wake up, say his name in a ragged voice and thank him for saving you, intense relief washes over him.

But what he didn’t expect was for your pained, tired smile to evoke such a burning, bitter fury along with it. See, that deep, jagged slash across your back, much too close to your spine for comfort, wasn’t inflicted by a Wanderer. After all his research and experience, Zayne can tell.

Human hands wrought this misery, and though the doctor has never thought himself a vengeful man, he wishes very much to know the culprit.

“Who did this to you?”

Zayne sees the way your brows shoot up and your jaw goes slack at his question. He figures you expected a lecture, a long-winded condemnation of your recklessness and a stern reminder that you nearly lost your life. But all of that can wait.

“I…” you swallow thickly, fidgeting with the edge of your blanket. “I’m not sure I’m at liberty to tell you, since it relates to my work with the Association.”

“Please. I have to know. For medical reasons,” In spite of his best efforts, Zayne can’t keep desperation from tinging his voice, or cold fury from sharpening his gaze. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes go wide—it’s almost unheard of for him to beg like this. For a moment, his insides twist with worry, wondering if his obvious ire, even if it isn’t directed at you, will cost him your trust. He tentatively takes your hand, thumb soothing your bruised knuckles. “If it eases your conscience, know that doctor-patient confidentiality still applies.”

“Not sure if that’s relevant,” you mutter. But either way, you decide to tell him everything. It was a lengthy deep-cover operation to infiltrate a crime syndicate with ties to Ever. Some double-agent or informant must have ratted you out, because instead of the supply drop-off you were meant to sabotage, you walked into a trap and got beat to hell for your trouble.

As he absorbs the details of your story, as well as any names and locations that you can remember, Zayne’s grip on your hand tightens. He lets out a long breath. “I understand. Thank you for being forthcoming about all this. My knowledge of this incident, beyond its impact on your health, won’t leave this room.” He stands up, ready to leave, but you grab his sleeve.

“Zayne, you’re not going to do anything stupid for my sake, right…?” You let the question hang in the air for a tense beat.

“No need to worry,” Zayne’s cool fingers brush your bangs aside, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I don’t have the time to hunt down an entire crime syndicate.”

You laugh, but Zayne doesn’t. It’s true, he doesn’t have room in his schedule for such a crusade. But what he neglects to tell you is that he intends to make some.

Your Zayne isn’t a killer. He is a protector of life, so dedicated to his work that he barely has time for himself and his own happiness. But the man in Zayne’s dreams blurring the line between realities, the notorious Dawnbreaker—he’s a different story entirely. That man never relishes killing poor souls who’ve lost their sanity, it’s merely a mercy. But who knows what will happen when he’s faced with men he’s sure deserve a painful death? Perhaps the bastards who laid hands on you will find out.

🐦‍⬛SYLUS🐦‍⬛

cw: violence, angst, kidnapping (not by Sylus), feral Sylus, vague myth spoilers, pre-relationship, MC is a tsundere and Sylus is into it

The leader of Onychinus has grown used to his imperfect, idiosyncratic little world.

Is it ideal? Not always—though it certainly beats being sealed in the Abyss or years of imprisonment in a space-time rift. There are moments of loneliness, even despair, but as he always professes, Sylus is good at adapting to life’s myriad obstacles and inconveniences. With his wits, willpower and vast wealth, there are few material threats, even in a place as chaotic as the N109 Zone. His composure is second to none. He is practiced in the art of the poker face, studied in smug grins and condescending little laughs. It’s usually enough, along with his imposing physique, to intimidate anyone into following orders, folding, whatever he needs at the time.

So, as far as Sylus is concerned, it isn’t really a big deal that for the past month, someone has been trying to kill him.

The first attempts were in public—or as public as Sylus was willing to venture. A fire erupted in his private box at the symphony. An explosion rocked the venue of an elite weapons auction. A briefcase at the site of a deal began spewing noxious gas. Most vexingly, men in dark helmets wielding top-notch firearms had given chase while he was on a joyride with a certain Hunter (who, by his observation, was just starting to warm up to him).

“How are you so damn calm?! This can’t be normal, even for you!” Your voice had leapt up in pitch in the heat of the moment, shrill and wobbly in his helmet’s comms. Still, as competent as ever, you’d pulled a glock from your thigh holster and shot with impressive accuracy, even as one arm clung to his waist for dear life.

Sylus hadn’t been able to help the rich laugh that rumbled in his chest as he weaved out of the enemy’s line of fire. “It isn’t normal, sweetie. Or, it wasn’t, until recently. But with you here, I like our odds.”

You’d scoffed, incredulous, but with your strengths combined, the two of you had made short work of the would-be assassins, barely even breaking a sweat.

Sylus had wanted so badly to observe your expression on the silent ride home. Was it etched with concern or disdain? He’d left a verbal crumb about his recent brushes with death to bait you, but he’d neglected to remember how the helmets and riding position would obscure your reaction. He’d mentally regrouped, tried to focus on your warm body pressed to his, but he couldn’t tell from your posture or your grip on him whether you’d been shaken by the idea of losing him, or if the prospect had rolled right off your back.

That all changed as soon as the two of you were safe in his garage. The second he cut the engine, you had thrown off your helmet and marched up to him, hands planted firmly on your hips. As always, you looked positively radiant when driven to the point of fury.

“What was that about ‘until recently’?” You demanded. “Sylus, has someone been making multiple attempts on your life?”

Sylus whistled, appreciative. “Always so observant, sweetie. The Association trained you well.”

You were not having any of his bullshit. Your nose scrunched and you moved in, as close to ‘up in his face’ as the height difference would allow. “Who? You’re the all-knowing big-shot of the N109 Zone, so isn’t it a piece of cake to find out and put a stop to it?”

“There are some leads, sure,” Sylus casually stepped past you before you could catch the growing smirk on his face and took off his gloves. He was confident he still sounded unbothered. “You know how it is. Having innumerable enemies isn’t new for me.”

You grabbed his arm and turned him to face you again, your expression grave. “Seriously? Shouldn’t dealing with this be top priority?”

Sylus sighed, resting a placating hand on your shoulder. “No need to worry, kitten. Obviously, they haven’t been successful. They’re rather uncreative, actually. And eventually, they’ll get frustrated enough with their failure that they’ll make a mistake. I’ll deal with them properly then.”

You scowled. “You’re way too cavalier about your own life. What happens if they get creative? If they don’t stop trying? I know you heal faster than most people, but you shouldn’t be so reckless—“

”Awww, sweetie. You really care what happens to me, don’t you?” Sylus cupped your cheek affectionately, only for your face to flush red as you shrugged him off.

”You’re ridiculous. Don’t bother haunting me if you end up dead.” With that, you’d tossed your hair and stalked away in a huff.

Sylus had watched you go, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. She cares about me, even in this lifetime.

He’s not smiling tonight.

Your parting comment is the last he’s heard from you in over two weeks. Not a call, text, or even a reply on ‘Moments’.

On its face, that isn’t necessarily unusual. Your contact with him, though it’s been growing steadily, is still rarer than he’d like. Plus, your job requires frequent excursions and undercover operations that leave you nearly unreachable.

What is unusual is that Mephisto has lost sight of your location. Sylus’ network of informants doesn’t have eyes on you, either. Funny how easily confidence can morph into sickening dread. Sylus thinks if you were here, you’d laugh at the absurdity of it.

But you’re not here, and that, he decides, is a problem. You left no word, no clues. And the assassination attempts have come to an abrupt, suspicious end. It’s to the point where Sylus is almost sure you’ve stuck your nose somewhere you shouldn’t have, and worse, you’ve done so for his sake.

He wishes you had confided in him first. He knows you’re a proud person, it wouldn’t be in-character for you to admit that you were worried enough to investigate his would-be killers on your own. Still, Sylus would like to think that at this point, if you were seriously in danger, you’d call for him.

Maybe it’s wishful delusion.

He’s sitting at his desk, going slowly insane as he polishes his new rifle for the umpteenth time when he gets a call from an unknown number. Something like doom or dark foreboding seeps further into his skin with every ring, and his chest constricts as he hits ‘accept’.

”Speak,” Sylus’ voice sounds undaunted as always, his unease masterfully hidden. For a moment, there’s only faint static on the other end. Then, a sudden, dull thud.

”Ugh,” a familiar groan meets Sylus’ ears, followed by some ragged, labored breaths. Sylus’s stomach plummets, his posture stiffening and thoughts racing, planning the next four moves.

“Kitten,” his voice remains deadly calm. “You know better than to contact me from an outside line. My poor nerves can’t take the strain. Where are you?”

Of course, having gestured to Luke and Kieran as soon as he heard your voice, Sylus is already halfway to finding out where you are. The twins are diligently decrypting the signal and pinpointing its origin.

Once again, there’s no immediate answer to Sylus’ question, only some gruff background mumbling, what sounds like a chair scraping against a concrete floor, followed by another muffled cry from you.

Sylus is used to rage. Feeling it, measuring it, mastering it. But it’s a real struggle for him to keep a level head while hearing your pained voice. It makes him burn, sharpens his killing intent more than anything else in this world—surpassing every unkept promise, every claymore to the chest.

”Kitten,” he seethes, his tone like silk-wrapped steel. “Tell me who did this to you.”

There’s a tense beat. Yet more silence.

”Answer, already. Tell him what we discussed,” a frustrated male voice snaps, and then Sylus hears the distinct sound of you spitting, presumably in your captor’s face. “Bitch!” The man roars, and there’s a ringing slap that makes Sylus’ jaw clench and his vision flash white-hot.

Then, gods help him, he hears you laugh. Airy and melodic and a note unhinged. In spite of everything, it brings him a modicum of relief. That’s exactly what he’d expect of the woman he cherishes.

”Don’t you dare come here, Sy!” You yell, still giggling, delirious. “These assholes want me to lure you here so they can blow you up or whatever. But I’ll be fine. You were right, they kinda suck at this—”

“That’s enough…!” There’s another violent crash, a male scream, a prolonged scuffle, and finally, the sounds of duct tape being unrolled.

It’s a long time before someone speaks again.

“How do you like our invitation, Sylus?” a raspy voice pants on the other end of the line, trying for intimidation and falling tragically short.

”Miss Hunter is charming as always,” Sylus says, and he means it.

The raspy-voiced man seems to sneer. “Your little pet has been a pain in the ass these past few weeks, but we finally caught her by the tail. Will you come to her rescue, or should we just slit her throat? Maybe take one of her limbs and put her out of commission? Or something smaller? Doubt she’d miss a toe.”

”Touch her again,” Sylus growls, “and there won’t be anything left of you to bury.”

He cuts off the call and heads straight for a sleek black SUV that’s armed to the gills. “Coordinates?” He calls over his shoulder.

“Already ahead of you, Boss!” Kieran responds, tossing Sylus the keys as he follows right at his heels. Mephisto gives a hearty “caw”, soaring overhead.

“I ran the guy’s voice through our recognition software,” Luke adds, only a pace behind. “It’s as we suspected, those bastards at the Hemlocke Syndicate have forgotten their place. They’re definitely behind the other incidents, too.”

“Good work,” Sylus’ words are punctuated by the slam of car doors and the metallic snap of loaded magazines. “Let’s repay them tenfold for their foolishness.”

“Don’t worry, Boss, we’ll definitely rescue Boss Lady,” Kieran pipes.

Luke laughs. “If she even needs our help. That girl’s always turning Wanderers into Swiss cheese. When we first brought her in, she had so many knives on her I knew she and the Boss were a match made in Hell.“

Sylus doesn’t even acknowledge the twins’ attempts to lighten the mood. He just steps on the gas, too focused on rocketing toward the blinking coordinate that represents you.

As they reach the outskirts of the city, the surroundings get progressively more barren and dilapidated. The Hemlocke Syndicate has holed up in what used to be a vibrant underground shopping complex. Now, it’s mostly rubble.

It’s Mephisto who spots the sentries first, heavily armed and perched on a high concrete roof. He lets out a squawk in warning, and Sylus snaps to Kieran, “Take the wheel.”

In a swirl of twisting shadows and crimson energy, Sylus leaps from the car and appears behind the nearest guard. There’s an echoing clatter as his gun hits the roof, and even before the man can scream, he seems to dissolve into a fine mist. Alerted to his presence, the other guards attempt to fire, but Sylus is a blur of shadows and fists as he eliminates them one by one. He seizes the last guard with his Evol, dangles him over the edge of the building and drawls, “Where is she?”

The guard’s eyes blow wide. He’s trembling, nearly hyperventilating as his gaze flicks from Sylus to the ground below and back again. He gulps. “Th-The sub-basement, innermost room. I-It used to be a movie theater.”

“Much obliged,” Sylus sets him back on the roof. He knocks the guard out instead of killing him, and calls to Luke and Kieran as alarms start to blare. “Finish up here, Mephisto and I are going ahead. I want this eyesore wiped off the map in the next ten minutes.”

”Got it, Boss!”

Sylus barrels his way past repurposed husks of chain stores and half-melted mascots, through labyrinthine halls and hasty barricades, dispatching anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way. When he reaches the abandoned theater, he presses an ear to the double doors. All he can hear is the faint sound of a corny film score coming from inside.

When he eases the door open, he’s at the corner of the last row. The lights are dim, save for the glow of a famous black-and-white movie playing on-screen. In the current scene, a beautiful damsel is being tied to some train tracks by a nefarious mobster. Her cries are heightened, silly, but they set Sylus on-edge.

At the very front of the room, a large shadow is cast over the center of the screen by a middle-aged man in a burgundy suit, holding you upright as he presses a gun to your temple. Your mouth, hands and ankles are taped up, but your eyes are alert. When they lock onto Sylus’, they widen slightly. Sylus gives you a tiny smirk, his gaze briefly rising to the theater’s darkened eaves before it falls back to you.

“A bit on the nose, isn’t this?” Sylus mocks. He makes his way down the stairs, inching forward row by row. In the better lighting, he can make out the weathered face of Dorian Hemlocke: his former collaborator and current leader of the Syndicate. “Also, it seems defeatist to cast yourself as the bumbling villain, Dorian. Don’t you know they never win in these kinds of stories?”

”You made it, Sylus,” Dorian almost purrs, unfazed. “It’s been awhile since the leader of Onychinus slithered out of his den. I’m honored.”

Sylus lifts his chin along with his gun. “Your platitudes are unnecessary. Unhand her and I’ll make this a quick death.”

”Now, why would I do that? Seems like she’s my greatest advantage at the moment.” The man tightens his grip on you, and you thrash in his hold to no avail.

”Self-preservation,” Sylus warns, energy roiling and curling around his form as he steps closer.

”Ah, ah. Stay back.” The man smiles. “Wouldn’t want my finger to slip.”

Sylus huffs, but he does stop. “What is it you want?”

“To topple your reign over the N109 Zone, naturally.” Dorian jerks his head toward the gun in Sylus’ hand. “So, kindly use that to take your own life. If you do, I’ll let her go before your corpse cools. And if you don’t have the guts,” he cocks the gun. “I’ll spill hers.”

Sylus lets out a sigh. “You really are uncreative, old man.” He slowly, deliberately raises his gun, resting the barrel solidly against his own chest. In Hemlocke’s grip, you bristle and squirm, your protests muffled by the tape over your mouth. “I’m sorry it came to this, sweetie.” Sylus’ expression softens. “Close your eyes for me. It’ll be over in no time.”

Your muffled screams only get louder. Your eyes are brimming with tears, and the sight is cracking Sylus’ heart in two. “Quiet, girl!” Dorian snaps.

”I have your word you’ll let her go?” Sylus eyes Hemlocke one last time.

“Yes, now get on with it!”

”Heh. Fine, then. Eyes closed, now.” Finally, you stop moving, eyelids fluttering shut. The air is thick and heavy. Time seems to slow to a crawl. “Good girl. Three, two—”

Bang!

”Mmmph!”

”Caw!”

Three things happen simultaneously: You slam your head into your captor’s chin, Sylus fires two bullets into the man’s chest, and Mephisto swoops down from the rafters, quick as a whisper, and knocks the gun away from your head, raking his claws across Dorian Hemlocke’s face for good measure. The ‘fearsome’ leader of the syndicate crumples like wet paper, and before you can hit the ground, Sylus catches you in his arms.

”Nice coordination, kitten. My offer to join Onychinus still stands.” Your eye-roll turns into a wince as he gingerly peels away the tape that binds you. The angry red marks left behind on your skin, the blooming bruises, they all stir his fury anew, but he keeps his vengeful thoughts to himself.

You don’t seem to notice the state he’s in as you lean forward to scold him. “What was with all that posturing, Sylus? You’re lucky I understood your signal. Your little charade would have been traumatizing otherwise.”

“But you did understand. I knew you would.” Sylus can’t help himself. He pulls you close to his chest, half-expecting you to shove him off. When you don’t, when you shiver and lean into his touch instead, he takes a deep, grounding breath. One arm holds you steady, and his free hand rises to stroke your hair. He can feel how fast your heart is racing—or is that his? When he speaks, it’s all bass and warmth in your ear. “You risked your life on my behalf. Thank you.”

Sylus watches surprise cloud your pretty features. Then, embarrassment. Your lips quiver, and you glance away. “I wasn’t all that worried.”

“Really?” Sylus teases, tilting your chin so his gaze meets yours. ”Those tears could have fooled me.”

Whatever retort you may have planned is drowned out by a low rumbling. The ground begins to tremble, and Sylus doesn’t waste any time lifting you into his arms again. His Evol hums, encircling the two of you like a crimson cloak. “Time’s up.”

“Luke and Kieran?”

“They were worried about you,” he grins. “And so was I.”

It’s all a blur. The rush of air and ringing sound, the acrid sting of smoke in his nostrils. He feels you curling into him, clinging, and it’s as if a void in his chest is suddenly filled. Everything is crumbling, but he is content. He knows exactly where to go. His wings unfurl, and soon he’s breathing fresh air, cradling you high above the burning wreckage.

“You can open you eyes if you want to, sweetie.” He tells you, so gentle.

But when you do, you don’t look toward the ground. You look him dead in the eyes. Your small smile has him hopelessly smitten. Melting. “Thank you for coming, Sylus. You saved me.”

No, he corrects you silently. It’s the other way around.

✨XAVIER✨

cw: violence, angst, hurt/comfort, blood, feral Xavier, main story/anecdote spoilers

Xavier hasn’t been able to calm down since your coordinates disappeared from the map on his Hunter’s watch. There was a short, brusque call with dispatch confirming it wasn’t a glitch, and since then, he’s been frantically zipping around the No-Hunt Zone where you went missing, slaying anything unfortunate enough to cross his path. At first, he thinks maybe you got trapped in an abnormal protofield. But the metaflux, though it’s intense as always in such a Wanderer-dense area, isn’t as strange as it had been during those previous incidents.

Wracking his brain, Xavier considers scenario after grisly scenario at lightspeed. Maybe your watch got smashed, and your skull along with it. Maybe you fell from a high cliff. Maybe your heart gave out and you’re lost to him once again. Maybe…

Suddenly, Xavier catches movement in his peripherals. The familiar black and white of a Hunter’s uniform, splattered with crimson. His heart plummets. He’s at your side in an instant, just in time to catch you as your knees buckle.

“Hey!” Xavier’s cry sounds foreign to his own ears, quivering and broken. He calls your name, cradling you ever-so-gently against his chest. You’ve been gagged and your wrists are bound painfully behind your back. Xavier makes quick work of the restraints with his lightblade, nearly growling at the sight of your skin rubbed raw. When he unties your gag, you cough weakly, lashes fluttering. There’s an angry bruise on your cheekbone, a bleeding slash above your eyebrow.

“Xav…ier?” you rasp. “How… are you here?”

Xavier’s lip quivers, barely resisting the urge to crush you against him in a hug. “Later, okay? You’re safe now. More importantly, who did this to you?”

By now, it’s obvious this wasn’t a Wanderer attack. You were tied up, clearly manhandled. There’s a muddy boot-print on your stomach. The sight of it makes Xavier’s blood run searing hot in his veins. When you don’t immediately answer, his eyes bore into yours. “Who?” He repeats, his tone lower and edged with fury.

Your teeth worry your bottom lip as your eyes fall to the forest floor. “I… think they must work for Ever.”

Xavier goes rigid. “Were they still following you when you escaped?”

“They probably tried,” you answer, smirking in spite of the pain. “They didn’t tie my feet, so I got some solid kicks in before I ran off.”

Xavier ruffles your hair. “That’s my strong, brave girl. Let’s get you out of—”

Suddenly, you hear the sound of branches snapping nearby. Xavier draws his weapon, shielding your body with his own as three hulking figures come into view.

“There you are,” one of them sneers as best he can while clutching his broken nose.

“We told you running was useless,” the second guy spits. He sports a limp and a crudely-bandaged hand.

“Ohhhh, when Dr. Lucius gets ahold of you, bitch—” the third henchman doesn’t get to finish his thought before Xavier launches himself at him and pins him down, one boot pressing against the man’s throat.

“What was that? Don’t think I heard you,” Xavier’s tone remains even as he grinds his heel and the man lets out a gurgling wheeze. “You said Dr. Lucius? Whoever that is, you’ll have to send him my regards since I can’t make it in-person. Yet.” With a loud crack, Xavier smacks the man’s temple with the butt of his sword, knocking him unconscious in an instant.

The man with the bloody nose roars and charges in an attempt to avenge his companion, but he’s too slow. You’ve always thought of your partner’s fighting style as poised and refined, not a motion wasted. But today, it’s as raw and dirty as a street brawl. For the moment, he’s discarded his blade entirely—is it out of mercy? Well… probably not. He ducks under a wide swing, lands a solid strike to the man’s solar plexus before using his opponent’s momentum to flip him over his shoulder and slam him violently to the ground.

While Xavier is distracted, the third henchman tries to take the opportunity to close in on your prone form, but Xavier is quick to intercept. In a flash of light, he teleports behind your would-be assailant and kicks his knees out from under him. He brings his foot down first on the man’s injured hand, then hard on his sternum, wrenching yowls of agony from his throat. When Xavier withdraws, the boot-print left on the man’s midsection mirrors the one you received. His lips twitch slightly upward, but he’s not nearly satisfied.

“Which one of you was it?” he seethes, landing another kick to the man’s groin. “Who’s responsible for the bruise on her cheek?”

“She, uh, fell?”

That’s the wrong answer. Xavier moves from his current target to the man who just spoke. The man who just lied. He captures a meaty arm in a painful lock, bending his elbow the wrong direction. “No one wants to confess? How about telling me what rat-hole you crawled out of and where I can find Dr. Lucius?”

Silence.

“Disappointing,” Xavier tuts. Broken Nose’s eyes well with tears as he hisses through gritted teeth. Any more pressure and his elbow joint will snap.

“Look, we’re just mercenaries! We just do as we’re told.”

“Yeah! We don’t know anything—”

“Hm. I see.” At this admission, Xavier produces a tiny needle from his uniform and, with something similar to the tranquilizer he offered you before your trip to the Nest, knocks them out in quick succession. He leaves them in a heap, then hurries back to your side.

“I’m sorry you had to be there for that. I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner, I… this shouldn’t have happened.” His voice has returned to the soft, kind Xavier you know and love. His azure eyes, once stormy and brimming with hatred, now fall upon you with anxiety and regret.

“Don’t be sorry,” you reach for his sleeve. “You found me. I’m okay now. Thank you.”

Xavier lets out a long breath. He leans his forehead against yours, your noses brushing. His long lashes keep shining tears at bay. “If Ever had taken you—”

“But they didn’t.”

“If I’d lost you—”

“You didn’t,” you soothe, kissing his furrowed brow and his eyelids in turn. Xavier looks the slightest bit more relaxed.

“We’re going straight to Akso. Hang on tight.” Light begins to swirl around the two of you, and you lean your head on his chest.

“Of course. But, did you call for backup to collect those guys?”

Xavier huffs, not sparing them a glance. “I did. But we’ll see who gets them first—the Hunters or the Wanderers.”

🐠RAFAYEL🐠

cw: violence, angst, hurt/comfort, implied attempted assault, roofie, drowning (mentioned), sea god Raf, he kills people

Rafayel may seem brash, reckless, even. But in truth, he knows how to play the long game.

Art, love, revenge. All three are things he considers worth the wait.

The night begins like so many other boring gallery openings. Thomas had insisted upon a masquerade event as a gimmick, “Rich people love a theme! And an excuse to get all dressed up!” He’d crowed, evidently very proud of the idea.

But to Rafayel, whether he forces polite conversation and fields obtuse questions with a mask on or without is of little consequence. He’ll be subjected to the evening’s drudgeries either way. So, he begrudgingly heeds Thomas’ plea to seem ’mysteriously aloof’ instead of bored, giving his champagne a listless swirl as he surveys the sea of masked patrons. Even in their glittering finery, something about them strikes the artist as profoundly dull.

That is, until he senses you among them.

He can feel the shift in the air, catch the scent of your perfume even before he lays eyes on your figure in the distance. You’re radiant, a splash of technicolor contrasting shades of grey. A vision draped in rich blue silk that shimmers in the gallery lighting, flowing like a playful tide with each graceful motion. Rafayel’s hand unconsciously rises to his heart, trying to calm its erratic fluttering. As always, his senses conspire against him at every turn when it comes to you. The euphoria you evoke in him verges on pain. His yearning is deep and old as the ocean itself.

She’s here. My bride.

A grin tugs at the corner of Rafayel’s lips. It really is a pleasant surprise. You’d flat-out refused to come tonight when he’d asked. And no amount of teasing, whining or cajoling had moved you. When pressed for a reason, you’d simply said that you “had other plans”. 

That had certainly left him sulking, but now, his hurt feelings are nowhere to be found. When the two of you make eye-contact from across the room, he notes the millisecond of mischief in your gaze, followed by a cheeky, secretive wink. You incline your head ever-so-slightly to the group of suit-clad men in your midst—high-ranking members of The Journeymen, a club rumored to be involved in illegal art dealings, protocore theft, and much worse. You deliberately adjust the bracelet at your wrist, and it’s all the confirmation he needs to know your presence is the Association’s doing. Rafayel internally thanks Captain Jenna for livening up his night.

Your covert communication and subtle moves scream ‘don’t interfere’, so Rafayel does his best to honor your wishes. But he does keep an eye on you as the night wears on—never close enough to arouse suspicion from your targets, but never so far as to lose sight of you. From what he can see, you seem to be holding yourself quite well, socializing and putting on a ditzy front to lower their guard.

Rafayel has to hand it to you, you put on a great show. 

He only turns away once, having been pulled away by Thomas to chat with some influential buyers. Every excruciating second you’re out of view intensifies the annoyance brewing in his chest. Rafayel knows you’re a pro, you can hold your own in most situations. Still, his mind can’t stop fixating on the scenarios where you couldn’t, on the possibility of losing you again. His unease is punctuated by the shattering of glass and the acrid scent of blood.

Rafayel immediately snaps to attention. Drink forgotten, he hurriedly parts the throngs of wide-eyed patrons to make his way to you.

When he gets closer, a chill creeps up his spine. Your champagne flute is in pieces, scattered across the marble floor. The biggest one is clutched in your shaking hand, blood is dripping from a slash in your palm, and whether from pain or frustration, your eyes are brimming with tears. Crouched down and breathing shallowly, you look poised to gather the rest of the shards, but one of your targets stops you. Quite a bit older than you, the smarmy man, Edgar Mondreau, loosens your grip on the glass shard, pulls you upright by the wrist and casually lays his other hand on the small of your back. His tone is thick with condescension as he leans in to whisper in your ear. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, let the staff handle it. I’ll get you another drink.”

How dare that bastard manhandle you. Rafayel could kill him on the spot. The only reason he doesn’t is because he’d never hear the end of it if he compromised your mission. Still, his jaw is set as he watches how your muscles tense at the contact. He observes the sheen of sweat on your brow, the deep flush in your cheeks under the intricate mask you wear.

“That’s kind of you, but I shouldn’t.” Speech somewhat slurred, you seem drunk—only Rafayel is sure you haven’t had a drop of alcohol. You take an unsteady step away, only for the creep to seize both of your shoulders. You flinch. Fire flickers at Rafayel’s fingertips. As good an actress as you are, he can tell the difference between your charming little charade and genuine distress. 

Unable to bear it any longer, he’s next to you in an instant, sunset eyes probing your hazy ones. He separates you from your unwanted companion, using his body to block you from your target’s reach. Letting you lean against his chest, he keeps you steady with one hand, and uses the free one to loosen his collar and wrap his silk scarf around your bloodied palm.

“Hey, what are you–?” The man looks indignant, but Rafayel just checks his impromptu bandaging, all business.

“Pardon me, Mr. Mondreau. This woman looks like she might faint. I’ll take her to the garden for some fresh air.”

“M-Mr. Rafayel, there’s no need for that, she’s just had too much to drink.” The man tries to push in closer, and it takes all of Rafayel’s restraint not to shove him into the champagne tower. Mondreau insists, “She came here with me. If she’s sick, I can take her home.”

Something churns inside him, then, some titanic emotion that feels too vast and consuming to chalk up to “anger” or “jealousy”. For a brief moment, the temperature in the room drops, the champagne goes flat, and the display lights flicker ominously—an ill omen.

When the light returns, a brittle smile is plastered on Rafayel’s face. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but he forces himself to keep his tone light. “She’s bleeding, and practically falling over. What kind of host would I be if I callously ignored her? Magnanimous as I am, my guests are of the utmost importance to me. Understand?”

For a moment, no one moves. The silence between the two men is loaded, heavy. Rafayel wonders if Mondreau will protest, pick a fight. But ultimately, he just scowls, making a small ‘tsk’ as he turns on his heel and stalks away.

“Now, everyone,” Rafayel addresses the concerned crowd at large with a penitent bow of his head. “I do apologize, but tonight’s festivities will have to wrap up a bit early. I know, it's disappointing. But they say time heals all wounds. Good night.”

With that, Rafayel winks and sweeps you into a bridal carry, ignoring the shocked murmurs that follow his path out of the hall and Thomas’ bewildered expression as he clears his throat and starts to awkwardly shepherd the attendees toward the exit. His focus is only on you.

Once you reach the garden, Rafayel gingerly sets you down on a bench next to a delicately sculpted stone fountain, kneeling in front of you to get a good look at your face.  

“Cutie,” he whispers, lightly cupping your cheek. Your skin is burning hot, and your eyes still won’t focus on his. “Are you okay?”

“Raf,” You blink too slowly, your reaction delayed and your movements sluggish as you try to fan yourself. “It’s… too hot,” you complain. “And I feel really weird.”

“What happened? Did you grab someone else’s cocktail by mistake?”

You shake your head.

“And you watched your drinks being poured, never set them down unattended?”

“No! M’not a baby,” you pout. But then, realization dawns. You wince. “Shit… once… I was grabbin’ the data stick off of Clarke. Had to do it while Shin was flirting with his ex-wife. Handed my drink to…”

You trail off, eyelids drooping. Rafayel’s gaze sharpens as he gently tilts up your chin. “Who? Who did this to you?”

“Mon…dreau…”

You slump forward into Rafayel’s embrace and he holds you tightly, securely. There can be no doubt that your drink was spiked. 

A potent cocktail of fury and self-loathing roils in Rafayel’s gut. He should have stopped this. He should never have left your vicinity. He should never have let Thomas invite these reprobates to his gallery opening. They’ll have to have a serious conversation about this, it was really–

“Shit,” Rafayel bites out. Then, he lets out a string of muttered curses in Lemurian. But that’s enough for now. He’ll have to contain his emotions for the moment.

Instead, he focuses on getting you back home safely. He helps you change, removes your makeup, and tucks you into bed. Watching your sleeping face stirs his guilt again, and he entwines his fingers with yours. He stays by your side the whole night, never letting go.

~~

“I was careless,” you groan, pressing an ice pack against your pounding forehead. “Sorry I ruined your event.”

“No,” Rafayel counters. “I was careless.”

“Please, it’s not your fault. It was my mission–”

“I wasn’t there when you needed me,” he insists, too quiet and grave for your liking. “You were doing great, but you were outnumbered. Also, for the record, there was nothing to ruin, cutie. You only ever brighten any place you walk into.”

“Geez, Raf,” You blush at that, hiding your face in your pillow. Adorable.

“What will the Association do with those bottom-feeders now? Prison? I hope it’s prison.”

You chuckle at Rafayel’s attempt to lighten the mood, but you shake your head. “They have ties to the police—to the Fleet, even. I secured the data we needed to build a case, but an all-out assault is a no-go. It could be months before we bring them in.”

“Seriously?”

“Mhm.” Rafayel’s scowl is so overblown that you can’t help but laugh. You reach out to caress his cheek, planting a featherlight kiss on his forehead. “Thanks for being mad on my behalf, fishie. But you don’t have to worry. All I need you to do is stay by my side. Please?”

“No fair. How could I say ‘no’ to that?” Rafayel leans into your touch, letting your warmth seep into his skin. He grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles, your wrist, reverent. He’s not lying to you, he’ll stay for as long as you need.

But as for those bastards… this will not do.

Once you’ve curled back into the blankets to sleep away the afternoon, Rafayel silently pads out of the room, retreating to your balcony. He pulls his phone from his pocket, and Talia’s name fills the screen.

“Rafayel! How are you, dear?” His aunt’s voice is as clear and melodic as ever.

“Not great, Auntie,” he heaves a sigh. “Miss Bodyguard got herself tangled up with some disgusting scum. And I… I couldn’t protect her, even though she was right under my nose.”

“Who?” Talia’s voice takes on a sharp edge. “What do you need?”

“It might be a lot to ask, but I was thinking…” Rafayel stares at the midday sky–too clear for his current mood. There’s a finality to his words. “A farewell concert.”

~~

A week later, Rafayel is in his Lemurian form, circling the ugliest super-yacht he’s ever seen. And that’s saying something.

The paint job is a glossy, putrid green, somewhere between swampwater and bile. It’s trimmed in an obnoxious amount of gold swirls, not so much artfully placed as clumsily slapped on by an amateur. Her name, Journey Seeker, is scrawled in barely-legible script. And the sails—three of them, too tall to be practical, definitely compensating for something—are each carved with the likeness of a founding member of the Journeymen. Every tacky, narcissistic detail is enough to make Rafayel’s stomach turn.

He can’t wait to let the ocean claim it.

The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon when he summons stormclouds to cover its streaks of pink and gold with a foreboding gray-green. The waves begin to churn, a restless prelude to violence. Rafayel takes in deep lungfuls of petrichor and sea-brine, feeling his once-dormant power spark, catch and ignite in his chest. It roars in his ears. It sears through his bloodstream from head to tail. His eyes and scales begin to glow, casting a faint blue light into the swirling void below. It has been some time since he let this strength surface, and on most occasions, he wouldn’t risk losing himself to instinct or cruel fate. But this involves his bodyguard, his muse, his beloved bride. 

If there is one person this power is meant to protect and avenge, it’s you.

He expects a fight against primal urges, or at least some resistance. But instead, the Sea God’s will is almost too aligned with his. Rather than disdain, he feels anticipation– pleasure. This all-consuming wrath, the desire to draw blood, to plunder, to kill... It makes his bones ache and his muscles burn with want. He’s underwater, but he can barely breathe, his senses are heightened, honed in on the deck and the distant figures wriggling atop it like parasites. 

The plan is in motion. The yacht’s crew have been replaced with Lemurians. Talia is currently wowing the Journeymen with an exclusive performance, lowering their guard and gathering them all on the deck. All he has to do is wait for her signal to begin the assault in earnest. But she’s taking too long. 

Rafayel craves justice. He longs to unleash his wrath upon those who wronged you.

Right as his last thread of restraint is fraying, a bright red flare streaks through the swollen clouds, trailing white smoke that signals the Journeymen’s doom. He catches sight of Talia and the crew members diving into the ocean, toward safety. And that’s all he needs.

With a jagged flash of lightning, the rain begins to pour in icy torrents, percussive against the frothing sea. The wind screams, and in a tornadic surge of saltwater, Rafayel rockets above the deck, looming over his enemies from on high. Thunder shakes the masts, and, as if conducting a deadly symphony, he sweeps his trident in arc after wide arc. The waves heed him, rising impossibly high before slamming the hull with incredible force. The ship groans in protest, rocking dangerously back and forth. The suit-clad Journeymen’s screams are muffled by the rain and thunder, but they’re crystal-clear to Rafayel. He savors each one.

The men all look like drowned rats, scrambling to cling to the sails, the masts, anything.  But Rafayel is relentless, battering the ship from all sides. He sends a lightning bolt directly at each sail, and one by one, the images of Clarke, Shin and Mondreau burst into flames, spurred on even in the downpour with the help of his Evol.

It isn’t long before the boat can’t stay upright, and with the help of another terrible wave, it crashes into the surf in slow motion. Some of the men, in a frantic survival attempt, leap over the edge into the freezing ocean. Most are sucked under the ship as it rapidly takes on more and more water.

Rafayel calls his shark friends to deal with the stragglers, but there’s one person he wants to deal with personally. Scanning the churning seascape, his eyes eventually lock onto him: Edgar Mondreau, clinging to a piece of a broken sail.

“You,” he rumbles, deep and dark as the sea-floor. He descends upon the trembling man,  unearthly blue stare boring into Mondreau’s soul. “There you are.”

“W-What–? Who…?” Mondreau’s eyes are wide, disbelieving. They dart from Rafayel’s tail to his trident, then, finally, to his face. “Rafa…yel?”

A feral grin spreads over Rafayel’s lips as he lets electricity crackle between his clawed fingers. “That’s right. Are you shocked?”

Mondreau is rendered speechless. He tries, in vain, to paddle backward, but he loses his grip on the sail. Before he can sink, Rafayel grabs him by the tie and yanks him to eye-level. Mondreau coughs and wheezes, sniveling. “Wh-Why are you doing this? What did we ever do to you?”

“You don’t remember?” Rafayel tightens his grip. “Not even how… impolite you were to that woman at my gallery?”

Mondreau doesn’t seem to make the connection at first, but then, it clicks. “H-Her? That’s it?! I’m sorry. Really, I am. If you let me live I’ll give you riches, influence, any woman you want. Anything!”

For a tense moment, neither of them speaks. Rafayel tilts his head, like he might consider it. Then, he sneers.

“No.” 

He stabs Mondreau through the heart with his trident. Once, twice.

“Aaaagh!”

“Foolish human,” Rafayel growls. “As if there’s anything you could give that would make up for your heresy. The price for hurting my bride is death.”

With those words, he lets the man's lifeless form plummet into the depths of the sea.

The next day, an anonymous tip as to the location of the Journeymen’s hideout, rumored to contain their stash of illegal protocores, is left at the Hunter Association. Shortly after, the news reports the shocking news of the sunken yacht and its casualties. You are flabbergasted, but Rafayel simply arches a brow, sipping his tea in silence. 

🍎CALEB🍎

cw: violence, blood, angst, hurt/comfort, yandere/vengeful Caleb, DAA era (pre-explosion), implied (attempted) assault, main story/anecdote spoilers, Caleb beats up the perpetrator, also he tortures the guy with his Evol for a bit

In his first year at the DAA, amidst grueling bootcamps, flight training and academic rigor, Caleb finds solace in his visits home.

There are many reasons—old friends, familiar locales, Gran spoiling him with her cooking—but the foremost reason has been, and always will be, you.

Caleb keeps up a cheery front as always, but he can’t pretend the distance hasn’t been hard. You text most days, call when your schedules allow. But since it’s your last year of high school and his first at the academy, both of you are crazy busy. He’s got plenty to keep him distracted, but the yawning void in Caleb’s gut is never quite full unless you’re nearby: laughing, bantering, bossing him around.

One of his favorite parts of these home visits is reuniting with you at the train station. The way your eyes light up at the sight of him as he steps onto the platform makes him giddy. You always rush to meet him with a grin, only to stop short of an embrace and school your features into a more neutral expression, trying to look like an overly-excited kid and more like a grown-up. He finds it adorable. Like everything else you do. Caleb loves nothing more in these moments than to ruffle your hair and crush you against his chest so tight, feeling the awkwardness melt away as you return his hug.

Only this time, you aren’t there to greet him. Instead, he gets an apologetic text explaining that you’ll see him later because you have a ‘scheduling conflict’. Caleb hates the sound of that. So vague, so… distant. He tries to pry a bit more, sending some wide-eyed apple stickers and playful questions. But you leave him on read.

Suspicious, he thinks, unable to untangle the knot in the pit of his stomach.

Still, he’s nothing if not patient. Caleb shops for your favorite foods to stock the fridge, meets up with Gran to walk her home from chair yoga. By the time the two of them arrive back at the house, the sun is setting, but you’re still not back home.

“Geez, it’s getting late. D’y’know where she ran off to?” Caleb asks over the soft sizzle of the beef fried rice he’s tossing in the wok. “If she isn’t back soon, dinner’ll get cold.”

Gran takes a sip of her tea and waves off his concern. “She might still be awhile. She’s on a date.”

A date.

Caleb nearly burns himself on the pan. That’s what you meant by ‘scheduling conflict’? He tries to compose himself before responding. “Wooow, really? She didn’t even mention it to me.”

“Well, you know,” Gran muses, “she’s never been one for romance, and she’s at that age where having a crush can be embarrassing. I’m sure she’s just shy.”

Actually, ‘not one for romance’ isn’t quite right, and Caleb knows it. You haven’t brought up many boys to him—it’s a touchy subject for you two—but that’s not for lack of admirers, and he knows you’ve had at least some passing interest in your schoolmates over the years. Thing is, Caleb has made sure that none of those pesky flies buzz around you for long. Some have been more persistent than others, but in the end, Caleb takes pride in the fact that he hasn’t let any assholes slip through the cracks and break your heart. Or, he used to. But, now that he’s away, leave it to Gran to encourage you to go out with some punk kid.

Caleb bites back a string of profanities and just gives Gran a noncommittal ‘hmm’. He’s about to send you a message to check in, just in case, when he hears the lock chime as you burst through the front door, letting it slam behind you.

“Ah, welcome back, honey,” Gran calls.

Caleb hears you shuffling as you kick off your shoes, but instead of coming into the kitchen to greet the two of them, you keep your head down and hurry straight to your room.

“Hey, pip-squeak, you hungry—?”

“No, I’m tired,” you mutter, your bad mood punctuated by yet another slam.

Caleb and Gran share a look. He turns off the stove and instead fills the electric kettle with water for tea. The few minutes it takes to steep feel like an eternity, but once the drink is steaming and honeyed, Caleb carries it into the hallway, keeping his motions quiet as he presses an ear against your door. It’s faint, the sound muffled against your pillow, but Caleb swears he can hear you sobbing. His brows pinch with worry, and he knocks three times. “Pips, you okay in there? I brought chamomile.”

The crying stops. A quiet, shaky inhale. “I’m fine. Go away.”

If you’re trying to deter him, answering in such a raw, rough voice isn’t the way to do it. Caleb would normally give you more time to calm down, but under these circumstances, his anxiety and protective instincts win out. He pushes the door open, only to find you clutching your pillow for dear life, face puffy and red from crying. He sucks in a breath. “You—"

“What part of ‘go away’ was hard to understand?” you snap, but to his ears, your attempt at anger only sounds like the bleating of a wounded lamb.

“If you really want me to leave, I will. I’ll set this here.” Caleb puts down the mug on your bedside table, fully intending to give you some space and return later. But before he can get far, you’ve squeaked out a, “No, stay.”

Caleb eases onto your bed slowly. The mattress dips with his weight, but he maintains some distance at first. His eyes scan your body for signs of injury, but you’re curled in on yourself and deliberately angled away from him. His worry mounts as he reaches for your arm, but you reflexively flinch away from his touch. Even you seem shocked at this—your teary doe-eyes waver for a moment with guilt.

Fury flashes hot behind Caleb’s eyelilds for a moment at the fact that someone made you fearful enough to elicit such a response, but he stops trying to touch you, just slings an arm behind your pillows and speaks to you in soft tones.

“It’s okay now, pip-squeak. You’re safe at home. Gran’s here. I’m here. You don’t have to tell me what happened. You don’t even have to say anything. But if you want to cry, you know… I’m right beside you.”

“C-Caleb,” A shudder goes through you. A quiet sob leaves your parted lips, and Caleb’s heart wrenches as you bury your head in his chest, inching closer and closer until you’re flush against him. He can feel you shaking, feel hot tears soaking into his t-shirt, and it’s killing him that he can’t banish your sadness with a thought, a touch.

“This okay?” one hand falls to your forehead, gentle, tentative. “If it’s too much right now, I’ll stop.”

“No, s’okay,” you manage, drawing an arm around his back. “Can you just… hold me?”

Caleb feels as if he might break in half. He pulls you close, his free hand stroking your hair just the way you like, nails running softly over your scalp. The two of you stay like that for a long time as you cry yourself out. You were holding back before, but now that he’s next to you, you feel safe enough to let your tears flow freely, to let unfiltered wails and heaving gasps escape you in waves. Each whimper is a dagger in Caleb’s stomach, but he holds his protective embrace, the only visible traces of the storm roiling under is skin are the unshed tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

Slowly, slowly, your sobs die down and your heartbeat steadies. Your breathing deepens, and your tears dry up. You’re still clinging to him tight, but your features have softened in sleep.

Caleb brushes a kiss on the top of your head and murmurs bitterly into the silence, “Who did this to you?” The unspoken connotation is clear: whoever it is will pay dearly.

Once he’s sure you’re deeply asleep, Caleb pulls out of your grasp a bit, searching for clues. You were off before, hiding something with your closed-off posture. Caleb’s breath catches when he determines why—there are darkening bruises blooming on your skin, one on your left wrist, and two on your thighs, distinctly in the shape of handprints. For a moment, Caleb’s mind goes blank. Visceral, murderous intent surges through his veins at the despicable imagery these marks evoke. Then, his adrenaline-fueled thoughts come all at once, too quickly to parse.

Should he beg Gran to pull you out of school? Burn the place down himself? He could take you out of Linkon, tuck you away in Skyhaven, or in some distant sanctuary where nothing like this would ever happen again.

As for the perpetrator? Whoever it was that dared lay hands on you would never escape his reach, his retribution. Dark, violent scenarios dance before Caleb’s eyes, all the bloody ways he would like to take his revenge. He had worked for years to enter the DAA, but he’d throw everything away if it meant punishing this vile act. But he’ll have to find him first.

Like a sign from the divine, your phone lights up on the bedside table. Caleb swiftly unlocks it, having known your passcode for years. The messages are from someone named Brett. The name vaguely seems familiar, maybe someone in your year who was getting too friendly with you. Caleb had fixed that. When he opened your conversation with him, there were some innocuous messages about homework, plans to meet up for a date hours earlier, and finally, just now, a string of messages that made his skin crawl.

B: I can’t believe u ran off, ur such a tease B: Bet u gave it up to ur ‘brother’ tho, fucking slut B: Wait til I tell everyone u choked on my cock B: Think they’ll believe little miss perfect is really a whore? I do

With shaking hands, Caleb screenshots the messages, sends them to himself, and then sends a new message.

Me: Don’t be butthurt! Changed my mind :p meet me at the park for some fun~

When he receives the desired affirmative response seconds later, Caleb scoffs. He deletes the text thread, blocks Brett’s number and turns your phone off. Then, he pads out of your room, eases the door shut and nearly runs smack into Gran.

“Is she okay?” she pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Caleb can feel the weight of about ten more unasked questions hanging in the air between them. But right now, time is of the essence.

“She will be,” he scowls, swiping his keys off the counter. “I’ll be right back. If she wakes up before I get back, you should keep her company. Maybe bring her some of the ice cream we bought earlier.”

Gran, looking as if she can read Caleb’s mind, but like she knows there’s nothing she can do to stop him when he’s like this short of a sedative, lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t get caught.”

Caleb rolls his eyes. “Do I ever?”

~~

Caleb wishes he could take a picture of the bug-eyed look on Brett Daniels’ face when, instead of the girl he expected to meet for a late-night tryst in the park, a muscle-bound pilot-in-training emerges from the shadowy treeline.

Under different circumstances, he’s sure you’d find the snapshot hilarious.

The bastard blinks once, twice, like maybe he’s hallucinating. He never heard a car pull up, barely even hears the taller man’s footsteps as he approaches. The star basketball player he used to envy is bulkier than he remembered, all broad shoulders and corded muscle. His jaw goes slack, and Caleb doesn’t miss the sheen of sweat that springs to his brow. “C-Caleb Xia… what…?”

Caleb flashes his signature golden-boy grin. Only now, under the silver-blue tint of night, its undertone seems wolfish and threatening. “Surprised to see me, Daniels? You shouldn’t be after tonight’s monumental fuck-up.” He fishes his phone from his pocket, showing off incriminating screenshots of Brett’s whole text thread with you—threats, insults and all.

“H-How—?” The shithead’s throat bobs.

“I have my ways.”

Daniels cringes. He’s never heard Caleb so icy, so eloquent—and your stalwart protector has all the gory details of the night’s encounter. In other words, he’s so fucked.

Panicking, he tries to scramble backward, only for Caleb’s Evol to root him to the spot. The pressure is intense—it’s all Brett can do not to sink to his knees. Still, he fights to remain upright, trying to sound tough.

“What are you doing here, Xia?” he lets out an uneasy nose-laugh. “Playing white knight?”

”Not at all,” Caleb bites back a sardonic smile. He comes to a stop in front of Brett’s trembling form and cracks his knuckles. “My intentions aren’t nearly so noble.”

”H-How are you even here, asshole?” Brett snaps. “Aren’t you supposed to be training in Skyhaven?”

“Ever heard of a weekend visit?” Caleb mocks, all faux-cheer. “Oooh, I see. You thought my living situation would save you, huh? You thought you could get away with touching Pips because I’m busy these days? Because I’m not in school with you anymore? I almost admire your optimism.”

”You’re bluffing,” Brett taunts. His smirk reeks of brash entitlement, and it’s really testing the limits of Caleb’s patience. “You won’t do shit. Not when there’d be CCTV footage that’d ruin your career before it starts. So, you’ve got screenshots. Those are easily doctored. And who do you think people would believe? The son of a prominent government official, or violent gutter trash like you and your whore little sister?”

“I take it back,” Caleb shakes his head, gesturing toward the surrounding area. There are no cameras or surveillance bots, much less anyone passing by. “You’re not an optimist. Just a dipshit.”

”Oh, fuck you—“

Caleb grabs Brett’s hair and yanks it back, hard, eliciting a yelp. His intense stare bores straight into the boy’s soul. When he speaks, there’s no outward anger. Only a calm befitting the sky before a tornado. “Do you think,” he begins, “there’s a distance you could travel, a rat-hole remote enough that I wouldn’t find you to punish your depravity? How naive.”

Brett squirms helplessly against the force of Caleb’s Evol and the vice-grip on his hair. He stares up with red-rimmed, watery eyes filled with desperation, but not an ounce of remorse. ”L-Listen, man,” he blubbers, “I didn’t—she’s the one who flirted with me, okay? She teased me and made me think I’d get what I wanted, and then she chickened out and acted all offended when I tried to hit—”

Caleb’s fist collides with Brett’s nose faster than he can form a thought, faster than a growl can rumble in his chest. The crack as it breaks sends a rush of feral electricity up the base of Caleb’s spine. He wails on him, barely registering the pain in his knuckles or Brett’s agonized screams. He lets his wrath and mad satisfaction crescendo with each strike, only stopping once your assailant’s face is nearly unrecognizable. When he loosens his grip on Brett’s hair, he crumples to the ground in a whimpering heap.

”There we go,” Caleb pants, flicking the blood from his hands and eyeing his work with reverence. “Now you have some lovely bruises to match the ones your disgusting hands left on her skin without consent.”

��Y-You’re insane!”

Brett’s voice breaks pathetically, blood, snot and tears running into his gasping mouth. This time, Caleb can’t hold back the cynical laugh rising in his belly.

”Am I?” His smile is like glass, glinting and jagged in the moonlight. “Because I can’t think of anything less sound of mind than what you’ve done. Letting your selfish need for power override another person’s free will. You really are sick.”

”What about you?” Brett spits. “Does she know you’re here? You’re a hypocrite.”

The word is spoken like it’s meant to wound Caleb’s pride, make him reconsider his position. But it only draws out another low laugh. The sound makes Brett shudder, evoking a fear so primal it feels straight out of a nightmare.

”She doesn’t,” Caleb confirms, “and she never will. But there’s a difference between you and me, Daniels.” Caleb kneels down to be level with Brett’s face.” You were trying to claim something that will never belong to you. And me? I’m simply protecting what’s mine.”

”I knew it,” Brett manages between heaving gasps. “I knew something was going on in that fucked-up little house of yours. You’re both disgusting freaks—gaaah!“

”Do you know what G-forces can do to the human body, Daniels?” Caleb drawls, expression serene in the face of Brett’s pathetic whimpering. There’s a harsh shift in the air as his Evol intensifies. “‘Y’see, most people can handle between 4 and 6 gs before their bodies start taking serious damage. And that’s to say nothing of prolonged exposure. Our brains and hearts aren’t built for that kind of pressure, the rush of blood to and from our extremities.” Caleb emphasizes his point by letting up on the intense pressure, only to slam it down again. Brett retches, blood and bile streaming from the corners of his mouth.

”Most people would have to get on a roller coaster, a rocket or an aerobatic plane to feel something this extreme. But with my Evol, I can demonstrate it with a thought. How is it?” He increases the downforce on Brett’s body, and he groans in agony. “Does it hurt? Or are you too light-headed to register the pain?”

Brett’s eyes flutter, and for a moment, he actually passes out. Caleb scoffs, letting up until he’s conscious again, gasping, pale and disoriented. “That’s called G-LOC. Fun? Some people chase that feeling, but you don’t look like you enjoyed it much.”

“You gonna… kill me?” Brett slurs, barely coherent. “I didn’t even… get my dick wet.”

Caleb’s jaw clenches. He grips Brett’s collar and yanks him up to eye-level. One hand rests on his neck—not hard enough to constrict his airway, but enough that he can feel the frantic flutter of his pulse. Caleb gives a tight smile. “How lucky for you that you didn’t. That means your miserable existence can continue for now.”

“I—You’re letting me go…?”

”On one condition. Go straight to your congressman daddy and explain exactly what his worthless son did. And then tell him if he doesn’t have you transfer schools immediately, not only will I kill you, I’ll release enough evidence to disgrace your family name many times over. Got that?”

All Brett can manage is a little nod.

”Good. I never want to see you in Linkon again. I never want to hear about you touching an unwilling person or coercing someone into sex. Clear?” Another nod. ”Perfect.” Caleb promptly slams his knee against Brett’s crotch and lets him slide to the ground, shaking and sniveling.

The guy’s probably still crying out in pain as Caleb retreats, but he doesn’t register anything besides the blood roaring in his ears. His adrenaline is still running high, he has to actively restrain himself from turning on his heel and pummeling Brett Daniels into the dirt until he stops moving.

When he arrives home, the house is dead silent. Caleb does his best not to make any noise, padding straight for the bathroom to change and clean himself off. His knuckles are all scraped up, but he figures he can chalk it up to Academy training. Gran’d know the truth, but you’d buy that—probably.

Caleb is so deep in thought that it’s a total jumpscare when you appear outside the bathroom door, wrapped in a fluffy robe and rubbing sleep from your puffy eyes.

”Gah, pip-squeak! You scared the crap out of me,” Caleb clutches his chest, taking a few calming breaths.

”Did you go somewhere?” You ask, innocent eyes searching his. Your tone is edged with the slightest bit of worry.

”Nah, not really, just needed some air,” Caleb ruffles your hair and pulls you softly against his chest. You don’t fight him, instead nuzzling your cheek against his heart, seeking a feeling of safety as your hands cling to the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Caleb is nearly overwhelmed by the raw desire to protect, to possess. It wrenches and twists at his insides, fraying the edges of his reason, but he keeps his expression placid, gently stroking your back. “You okay, Pips?”

You sigh into him, your grip tightening. “Mhm. Just… worried about school on Monday.”

Caleb’s lips brush the crown of your head, and his voice is warm and sweet enough to make your chest swell. “Don’t. Everything will be okay. Put your trust in Caleb, and whatever it is will work out.”

You let out a dry little laugh, “You always say that. So cocky.”

”Don’t believe me?” Caleb’s thumb traces your cheek, the dark circle under your eye, like he’s brushing away invisible tears.

You can’t help but lean into his touch. Everything really isn’t okay, you’re still upset and afraid. But when he’s here, things feel lighter. Less overwhelming and sad. You meet his gaze, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I do.”

”Good girl,” Caleb presses his forehead to yours and lingers for a spellbinding moment, eyes lightly closed. He squeezes you tighter in an embrace that’s closer to what he’s always really wanted. A closeness that transcends ‘childhood friend’ or ‘big brother’.

After awhile, though, he forces himself to pull away, to adopt that cheerful, familial affect that protects his peace and conceals his yearning. He slings his arm over your shoulder and steers you toward the kitchen. “I’ll make us some tea, how’s that sound?”

”With honey?”

”’Course.”

masterlist

[yeompei]

How cute 🥺

Cr: http://xhslink.com/m/6Vb6j3uQprY

[yeompei]

okay dude whatever tf

[yeompei]

Squish squish pt.2

[yeompei]

Oh, to actually be his wife 😢

[yeompei]

Imagine being Rafayel's influencer significant other.

Imagine you and Rafayel had done a spectacular job hiding your relationship.

Imagine it was unbelievable given how easily the man trailed after you at home like a shadow with too much emotional attachment. But to the outside world? No photos. No tags. No reflection accidents.

Imagine he once ducked behind a underneath a table in a restaurant just to avoid getting caught in the background of your friend's instagram story.

Imagine he was good at vanishing. And you were good at playing dumb.

Imagine the internet only knew him as 'that painter guy' you talked about once in a while. Cryptically, half in sarcasm, half in love. A couple of your more hard core followers had pieced together some hints.

Imagine that was because you had soft launched a blurred sketch on your story that maybe matched one of his unreleased works. One follower swore they saw his elbow once in your pantry. Still. It wasn't enough. You never confirmed anything.

and Imagine you liked it that way. That tiny secret. That bubble where it was just you and Rafayel, baking at midnight and painting on the kitchen tiles, passing each other notes on napkins and pretending not to keep them in drawers.

Imagine that was until today. Until you, in your full chaotic glory, left your phone propped up in its usual place on the kitchen counter. Ring light on. Camera framed. TikTok live countdown loaded. And then you walked away. You forgot.

Imagine in your defense, you were mid spiral about an email from a brand that used comic sans in their outreach. You had intended to vent live, throw on a face mask and maybe roast their entire marketing department while eating a snack or something.

Imagine then Rafayel had to come out of the shower. And he smelled like ocean breeze and expensive silence. And then he handed you a cookie in a napkin shaped like a flower. So naturally, you got distracted.

and Imagine your phone, already on, waiting for you, began streaming. The screen showed an empty kitchen counter. Jazz humming from a Bluetooth speaker. The slight creak of the floorboards as someone walked down the hall. And then Rafayel entered the frame.

Imagine the sleep mussed curls. Damp hair clinging to his temple. A plain shirt you definitely stole as you could be seen wearing those in live but it seems like he never took back. Drawstring pajama pants riding low on his hips. Yet he still look like something you'd find in an art museum's forbidden lovers wing.

Imagine he wasn't trying to be hot. He was just... Existing.

Imagine he walked into the kitchen, barefoot and relaxed holding your favorite mug. The one shaped like a cat's face, ears and all. The one you bought out of spite of him. Steam curled lazily from the top. He took a sip of its content and made a soft little noise of satisfaction that definitely hit the mic. He then leaned over to pick something up. Your hair tie, which he slid around his wrist like it belonged there. The chat erupted.

Abcdefg: um. UM.

Ztrope: IS THAT? HELLO??? IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS??

2days3days: THAT LOOKS A LOT LIKE RAFAYEL. THE RAFAYEL.

Ladsslave: the painter?? the softboy with sarcasm and brushstrokes?? HIM???

1sht1kll: i'm gonna pass out i swear to god WHY IS THIS ALWAYS HAPPENING

1233kill: no way that's real 💀 clearly an actor or filter

dmnlf: you're probably doing this on purpose for clout lol

clote4: watch her claim it's her man when it’s literally just a guest artist or whatever

Imagine Rafayel set the mug down. Rubbed his eyes. Looked around like he was trying to remember why he came in here in the first place. Then his gaze landed on your phone, red light blinking softly on the front facing camera.

Imagine still unaware of what it meant, he picked it up. And the stream angle shifted. The moment the camera turned, full and direct into his face, it was over. Full face. Full frame. Full boyfriend reveal.

"Darling?" Rafayel blinked as he called gently. "Is your phone... Doing something?" And far down the hall you replied. "Yeah, can you bring it here?"

Imagine he walked toward you. Phone in hand, now capturing everything. His sleepy eyes, your cardican slung on his shoulders that he picked it up along the way. The way he absent mindedly play with your hair tie in his wrist along the way.

Imagine he reached the bathroom doorway and handed the phone to you just as you turned around. You looked at it. You looked at him. Then at the blinking light. Then back at the screen. Silence. Horrified, unified silence.

Imagine the way your eyes widened. His did too. And then both of you broke. You started laughing so hard you had to clutch the edge of the sink, phone still in hand. Rafayel leaned against the doorframe, face flushed but grinning, one hand covering his mouth like he couldn't believe what just happened.

"Oh my god." You wheezed. "Did we just?" "I think we... Yes." Rafayel exhaled, still laughing. "We accidentally hard launched on TikTok Live."

Imagine the chat had completely melted down.

Abcdefg: I'M LOSING IT THEY JUST LAUGHED. THEY KNOW.

Ztrope: HE'S REAL. HE'S DOMESTIC. HE'S IN A CARDIGAN. I CAN'T BREATHE.

2days3days: THIS IS GIVING CHEF-CHILI-PANCAKE, COLONELAPPLE-ON-STREAM, FRUIT-VENDOR-WITH-ROSES, DR-ORANGE ENERGY

Ladsslave: is this the same multiverse again?? did we just unlock the artist boyfriend variant

1sht1kll: bro didn't even mean to do it. they're just out here LIVING THEIR LIFE TOGETHER

1233kill: okay but he's fine tho

dmnlf: i take back 2 of my 4 comments

clote4: they… you really pulled a painter. no way.

Imagine by the time you finally managed to steady your breathing, turning to Rafayel with mock betrayal. "We were doing so well." He nodded solemnly. "I was so careful. I even painted you anonymously." "You titled one of them 'Muse in Moonlight.'" "Still vague." He defended.

Imagine you looked down at the phone still streaming. "So… do we stop it? Or ride the wave?" Rafayel smiled, soft and warm and totally at ease. "We've been talking about it for months. Maybe the universe decided for us."

Imagine the way you stared at him. "This is not how I thought we'd go public." He leaned in, kissed your cheek on-camera. "It's also very us, though." Chat lost their minds. Again.

Ztrope: HE KISSED EM. I'M GONE.

Abcdefg: he's so soft to them. They're still chaotic. It makes SENSE NOW.

2days3days: this is my favorite version of love. painter x unfiltered influencer. peak content.

Imagine you reached for the screen, finally ending the stream with a stunned, breathless laugh. Then you looked at Rafayel and said. "So... Should we post the cat mug photo too?" Even though he frowned at the thought. He still wrapped his arms around you. "Sure. Let's give them the full gallery." You smile in his arms.

Imagine just like that, with a blink, a mug and your boyfriend's face lit by accidental live lighting, the two of you became the internet's new obsession. And for once... It felt kind of nice.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: to all my fellow kababayan out there, I hope you're all doing well, sending lots of love and wishing ya'll safety and warmth 💜

[yeompei]

LADS GUYS AND WORK GOSSIP (aka a pick me girl is in office and you're crashing out)

IM BACKKKKKK🧚‍♀️🧚‍♀️🧚‍♀️ sorry for being inactive for 2 weeks guys blame my internship 🥀

hope you enjoyyyy ilysm mwah🫶

[yeompei]

Official commission art 👑⚔️

Source:

Source: weibo.com/6788431792/519…

https://t.co/tZtpfTUOPB

https://t.co/2vI28RRgSv

[yeompei]

BE MY BABY — 恋与深空

〔 𝒾 〕 The LADS men as fathers, personified in the cute moments that make them the perfect parent and partner.

𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝓍 𝐦𝐜!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, smau ⋮ gen audiences ⋮ comedy, fluff, pet names (pearl, babe, sweetheart), original baby names (may not be your cup of tea but!)

── .✦ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘):

@prkhaven @frenchkisstheabyss @xomakara @tinycatharsis @pinkjellyz @jaylaxies @bambiihee @asiatic-apple @starlites-oath @berrryparfait @heartyluv @aeyumicore @swanlikely @humanjarvis @raendarkfaerie @wooasecret @yeompei @mariahuchiha90 @smittenlynn @mcdepressed290 @griefig

© 𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗞𝗘𝗨; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 ��𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌!

[yeompei]

[yeompei]

Dad!lads and their children not wanting them to 'steal' your attention ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

Dad!Rafayel, Dad!Caleb, Dad!Sylus, Dad!Zayne, Dad!Xavier — <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>

RAFAYEL — "my turn!"

You sat comfortably on the couch, a gentle smile tugging at your lips as Seraphina rested in your lap, arms loosely wrapped around you like a koala, her tiny high pitched voice filling the room with endless stories about her day.

"...and then, uncle thomas' daughter, she brought this bubble wand! like big bubbles, mommy! Like, bigger than my face!" Seraphina exclaimed, eyes wide and expressive. "And then I tried to pop it with my nose, but it popped before I got there, so I think I need a faster nose."

You chuckled, brushing your fingers through her soft hair. "A faster nose, huh? Sounds like we need to train it.”

She gasped in mock seriousness, "Yeah, like nose push ups!"

The two of you giggled in sync just as Rafayel wandered in, paint smudged slightly on his forearm and his energy softened by the effort of his most recent piece. He spotted the two of you—your daughter cuddled close to your chest, your eyes so tender as you listened, and something in him just melted immediately. Without a word, he came to sit beside you, exhaling softly.

Seraphina barely acknowledged him, too caught up in recounting how she tried to race a random squirrel in the park and “almost won.”

Rafayel leaned his head against your shoulder, closing his eyes for a moment. You welcomed his touch and leaned into him, your cheek pressing gently against his forehead. He wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you with the quiet clinginess of someone who’d missed you, maybe not for long, but long enough to feel it in his chest.

You kissed his forehead without needing to say a word. He sighed again, content.

That is, until a tiny hand poked his cheek.

Seraphina turned her head just slightly, squinting at her father with narrowed, suspicious eyes. But when you hummed again, encouraging her to continue, she ignored him, for now.

Rafayel shifted closer, his head now tucked into the crook of your neck. He pressed a warm, tender kiss to your skin, inhaling your scent with a kind of reverence that made you blush a little. His arm around you tightened just slightly, like he was grounding himself.

Unfortunately, Seraphina was not having it.

She made an annoyed noise and shuffled, a little more squished now between the two of you. She tried to scoot back into your lap further like she was trying to reclaim lost ground.

“Daddy,” she huffed. “Go away…! I want mommy!”

Rafayel chuckled against your skin, low and amused, ruffling Seraphina’s hair as she pouted.

“Hey now..” he teased, “I was here first in spirit.”

Seraphina scowled and smacked his hand away weakly, “Daddy! Stop stealing mommy!”

She wrapped her arms around your middle now, glaring at her father like he was the villain of her princess story. Her small hands gripped your shirt as she dramatically clung to you. You gave her a kiss on the forehead to soothe her, gently laughing. “There’s enough of mommy to share, princess.”

“No!” she insisted, “It’s my turn!”

Rafayel’s arms didn’t budge. Instead, he pulled both of you closer and nuzzled against your neck again.

“Can’t help it,” he murmured, voice smooth but sleepy. “She’s my wife. I need her touch to recharge,” he added.

“She’s my mommy!” Seraphina growled with as much authority as a four year old could muster. With surprising determination, she carefully stood up on your lap and went between you and rafayel, trying to push him away with her little hands.

“Daddy, move! It’s my turn with mommy!” she declared.

You nearly burst out laughing at the sight, your daughter trying to push her father away, trying to weakly shove him off the couch while Rafayel just laid there dramatically, acting like Seraphina actually pushed him away, and his arms spread out like he’d been defeated in battle.

“Ahh, the betrayal…” he jokingly said. “Wounded by my own daughter.”

“Daaaaddyyyy!” she whined louder now, clearly not in the mood for games.

“Alright, alright,” you said through your laughter, scooping her gently in your arms before she ended up headbutting someone. “Let’s make a deal, five more minutes of mommy time, and then daddy gets one kiss. Fair?”

Seraphina crossed her arms, glaring at Rafayel. “...Fine. But only one. And it has to be a quiet kiss.”

You turned to Rafayel who raised his brows playfully, “Didn’t know kisses came with volume settings.”

“Daaaaddy!” she whined again.

You laughed again, leaning in to kiss him softly, sweet, and warm, short enough to appease Seraphina but just long enough to make Rafayel sigh in mock defeat once more.

CALEB — little drama queen

You were sitting in the living room, legs folded comfortably, while your daughter lay flat on her stomach in front of you, muttering something about gymnastics and how “her spine felt like spaghetti now.”

She’d been trying to do backflips all morning. On the couch. On the floor. Off the edge of the bed. Caleb told her she needed supervision, and a mat, and maybe a coach, but she wasn’t having it. Now here she was, exhausted, grumbling, and insisting you massage her poor, hardworking back.

“You didn’t stretch, baby,” you reminded her gently as your fingers worked slow circles down her spine.

“I did! I touched my toes twice,” she mumbled into the throw pillow.

You bit back a laugh. “Not enough.”

After a while, her protests faded into little hums, her breathing slowed, and her eyes started fluttering shut. She was clearly fighting sleep, but it wasn’t a fair fight anymore.

You lifted her gently and placed her down on the side of the couch where there was already pillows, carefully tucking the fluffy blanket over her tiny body. She melted into it, arms splayed, cheek smushed against the pillow. You ran your fingers through her hair once more, and finally, she was out.

“Perfect execution, honey.” came a familiar, quiet voice.

You to find Caleb leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene with a small, proud smirk.

“And just like that… our little beast sleeps,” he whispered.

You playfully glared at him. “She’s not a beast.”

“She tried to backflip off the stairs,” he deadpanned.

“Fair point.” you said as you softly chuckled.

He pushed off the doorway and walked toward you, stepping around your daughter’s kingdom of plushies and toys. He gave the couch a quick glance, eyes narrowing just slightly as he made sure her breathing was deep and even. Satisfied she was truly asleep, Caleb turned to you with a raised brow and a sly grin.

“I’ve calculated that we have exactly,” he glanced at the clock, “ten, maybe twelve minutes of uninterrupted peace.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s generous.”

He leaned down, cupping your face with one hand and brushing a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s not waste it.”

You quietly laughed, and he stood up again, taking your hand. “Come on. While she’s out. 15 minute window.”

You followed him into the kitchen, where he slid his arms around your waist and pulled you close. “No interruptions. No flips. Just me and my very pretty wife, who owes me a kiss for being the parent who caught her mid air dive off the sofa earlier.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned in, hands gently resting on his chest. “One kiss?”

Caleb quickly replied, “At least ten.”

But just as his lips brushed against yours—

Thud!

You both froze.

Another thud.

Then—

“Mommyyyy…” came the most tragically theatrical voice imaginable from the couch. “I’m cold… and lonely… and no one loves me anymore…”

You peeked over Caleb’s shoulder to see your daughter had rolled right off the couch, on purpose, and was now lying face down on the floor like a fallen soldier.

She didn’t even look hurt. She was just flopped there like she’d been abandoned for centuries.

Caleb groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “No way..”

“She’s doing the dramatic faint again,” you whispered, trying not to laugh.

Your daughter slowly rolled over the two of you, looking up at you with big watery eyes and a pout that could end worlds. “I couldn't feel you anymore, and my back still hurts a little.. and daddy stole you..”

Caleb stepped out beside you, arms crossed, looking very serious. “Hey, hey, don’t pin this on me. I was just—”

“You stole mommy with kisses,” she said, pointing at him accusingly. “You were kissing.”

“Mommyyyyy…” your daughter whimpered again, now dragging the blanket and crawling toward you like a starved kitten.

You sighed, your heart melting.

You smiled and crouched down, scooping her up. She nuzzled into your shoulder instantly, letting out a content sigh.

But she didn’t stop there.

Still in your arms, she turned her head toward Caleb and gave him the cutest sleepy glare. “You have to wait your turn, Daddy.”

Caleb put a hand on his chest, feigning heartbreak. “She’s turning you against me.”

“No, she’s just attached to me,” you said, kissing your daughter’s temple.

He walked closer, brushing her hair back and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. She didn't do anything and just gave a big yawn.

SYLUS — "you have to wait, daddy!"

Caleb grinned, wrapping his arms around both of you in a loose, cozy hug.

The scent of fruit scented markers, children jewelry, and faint smell from your daughter’s favorite lotion lingered in the living room. You were seated cross legged on the soft rug, a pastel pink blanket draped over your shoulders like a royal cape. In your lap sat your four year old daughter, ball of sparkle and drama, carefully applying stickers to your cheeks like you were the guest of honor at a royal coronation.

“This one means you’re brave,” she said, pressing a glittery unicorn sticker near your jaw. “And this one is for beauty. Because you're the prettiest queen ever, Mommy.”

You smiled, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “High praise, coming from the princess herself.”

Your daughter giggled, her tiny legs kicking playfully as she adjusted the plastic tiara on her head for the fiftieth time. “We match!”

That’s when the door opened.

The lock clicked softly, followed by the subtle weight of Sylus' footsteps. You didn’t need to look to know it was him, you felt the shift in the air. He never entered a room loudly, but there was a kind of presence to him. A calm that followed wherever he went.

He had just returned from a quick business deal. His suit jacket was draped over one arm, tie slightly loosened, and the light from the hallway framed him in quiet gold as he stepped into your world of dolls and dressed up.

He paused when he saw you both,his eyes flicking to your daughter, then to you, noting the stickers on your face, the tiara, the slight smudge of pink on your cheek.

“Looks like I missed a coronation,” he said lowly, a rare warmth in his voice.

Your daughter perked up but didn’t move from your lap. “Daddy!” she grinned, but then quickly turned serious as she threw her arms around your waist protectively. “Wait—no! Mommy's still mine right now!”

Sylus blinked and had that teasing voice, “Is that so?”

“We’re not done with the royal coronation!” she explained with the utmost importance, pointing to the sticker sheet. “She needs her magic star sticker and her sparkle serum, or she’ll lose her powers!”

You gave Sylus a look that barely concealed your laughter. He raised an eyebrow, unbothered, and stepped closer.

“I see,” he murmured, setting his jacket gently over a nearby chair. “Should I come back when the queen regains her powers?”

Your daughter nodded gravely. “Yes. Or you might interrupt the spell.”

Sylus crouched beside you quietly, one knee down on the rug, and looked straight at your daughter.

“Then I’ll be careful,” he said. “But I did come home early… because I missed your mommy.”

Your daughter's lip puffed out as she turned her whole body toward you, her sparkly bracelet clinking softly. “But I missed mommy all day! I haven’t even had princess tea with her yet!”

Sylus didn’t argue. He simply reached forward and gently brushed your hair back, letting his knuckles graze your cheek where a heart-shaped sticker sparkled. His touch lingered there, eyes on you, not demanding, not impatient. Just… waiting.

You tilted your head slightly toward his hand, and your daughter let out a little gasp, scandalized.

“Daddy!” she whisper yelled. “You’re breaking the sparkle bond!”

Sylus drew back instantly, lips twitching into the smallest amused smile. “Forgive me, Princess.”

She frowned at him, then looked back at you. “Don’t move, Mommy. We’re almost done. I’ll let Daddy hug you after the ceremony.”

Sylus stood again, brushing imaginary dust off his slacks like he was waiting for a boardroom verdict. “Understood. I’ll be in the audience.”

He didn’t leave, though. He sat on the edge of the couch behind you, resting an arm along the backrest—close enough to touch you, but he didn’t. He just sat there, watching you both, eyes soft, content to let your daughter have her moment.

Eventually, your daughter pressed the final sticker on your hand and declared, “The queen is restored!”

You leaned back into Sylus, who wasted no time reaching forward and wrapping an arm around your waist. You felt the quiet relief in his touch, even if he didn’t say a word.

Your looked up at him and said thoughtfully, “Okay, you can have Mommy now. But only a little bit.”

Sylus met her gaze, calm as ever. “I don’t need much.”

And with that, he leaned forward and kissed your temple—slow, grateful.

ZAYNE — silent demands

Your daughter didn’t interrupt this time. She was too busy arranging her dolls for her tea party and arranging new stickers that she'll be using for her father next.

You were sitting on the couch, Jasmine sitting peacefully on your lap, her small hands clutching her stuffed penguin as her cheek pressed against your chest.

You weren’t doing much, just sitting with her, brushing her hair with your fingers as she hummed softly, occasionally pointing to the stars beginning to appear outside the window.

“Mommy,” she whispered, “that one looks like a flower.”

You followed her gaze, smiling as you kissed the top of her head. “It kind of does, doesn’t it?”

She nodded, settling in deeper into your warmth, like she was trying to melt into you. Her voice was always gentle like that, soft, quiet, never loud even when excited. Her affection didn’t come with squeals, but with long glances, small gestures, and her whole body leaning into yours like your presence cradled her.

Zayne entered a few moments later, his steps quiet as ever. He’d just finished with a call in his study, sleeves rolled up, his watch now resting on the side table. He stood by the doorway for a moment, watching you both in silence, before making his way over.

Jasmine saw him, but didn’t say anything. She just held her penguin a little tighter.

Zayne sat beside you, the couch dipping under his weight. He didn’t say anything right away, just let out a soft exhale and gently placed a hand on your leg, fingers curling there.

You looked at him, smiling softly. “Tired?”

“A bit,” he murmured, his voice low and close. “But this helps.”

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, slow and deliberate. Jasmine’s arms around her penguin tightened.

Zayne leaned in more now, wrapping an arm around you as he rested his forehead against your temple. “Missed you both today.”

You hummed, returning the sentiment with a gentle squeeze of his hand. But you felt it, Jasmine shifting ever so slightly in your lap, tucking herself closer like she was afraid he might pull you away.

Zayne noticed too.

His eyes glanced toward her, and he moved back just enough to see her face.

“Hey, sweetie..” he said gently. “I’m not taking mommy away.”

Jasmine didn’t respond. She just shook her head a little and held her penguin closer, her eyes downcast.

“I… I just want mommy a little more,” she said softly, barely above a whisper.

Zayne blinked, then slowly let out a breath as if the quiet request had tugged his heartstrings.

He nodded. “Alright. I understand.”

He brushed his hand over her head lightly, then leaned down to press a soft kiss to her hair. “You’ve been waiting all day, haven’t you?”

Jasmine gave a tiny nod, still holding you close, her face gently tucked beneath your chin now. She wasn’t pushing him away, not really, she just didn’t want to be forgotten. She wasn’t loud about it, but the message was there, tender and clear: 'I need her, too.'

You rocked her slowly, wrapping your arms around her.

Zayne didn’t press further. He didn’t joke or tease, he just shifted so he could lay his head on your other shoulder, careful not to take any space Jasmine needed. His hand found yours again, his touch steady, grounding.

The three of you sat like that for a long while, the silence soft and full.

Eventually, Jasmine whispered, “You can have mommy after I fall asleep...”

Zayne smiled, his voice a quiet promise. “Then I’ll wait.”

And he did.

Even as her breathing slowed and her body relaxed against you, Zayne didn’t rush the moment. He stayed there beside you, hand in yours, content to love you both, in different ways, but just as deeply.

XAVIER - son's territory

The room was comfortably dim, the curtains letting in just enough of the Saturday afternoon light to cast everything in a soft golden haze. You, Xavier, and your son were all sprawled across the bed, enjoying the rare peace of a quiet day.

Your son was nestled right between you and Xavier, arms wrapped tightly around your own like it was the most precious pillow in the world. His little cheek was smushed against your arm, breaths deep and even. Xavier, meanwhile, had already fallen into a heavy sleep not long after lying down, face half buried in the blanket, one arm tossed lazily across the bed as if reaching for you even in his dreams.

At some point, Xavier started shifting closer in his sleep. His arm landed across your son’s back, and his leg crept a little too close. Your son let out a tiny, muffled grumble but didn’t fully wake. Instead, he clung to your arm tighter like it was the only safe thing left in this slowly shrinking cuddle space. Xavier, still asleep, moved again, accidentally squishing the poor kid even more in his unconscious attempt to cuddle you.

That was when your son had had enough.

With a tiny huff, he stirred awake and sat up groggily, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand while the other hand reached for his favorite stuffed animal. He didn't cry or whine, just blinked slowly and began his mission with quiet determination.

He started crawling around the bed like a little general preparing for war, gathering plushies, pillows, and even tugging half the blanket along with him. He worked in silence, occasionally looking back to make sure Xavier was still knocked out.

You blinked awake when you felt the small weight returning, your son had crawled right back into your arms, snuggling into your side with a sleepy little sigh. You smiled down at him, brushing his hair from his forehead, your heart instantly melting at the sight.

But then you noticed it.

A wall—no, a barricade, had appeared.

Your son had carefully arranged his plushies and pillows into a full body barrier between himself and Xavier. The stuffed animals were stacked like sleepy guards, a fortress of soft limbs and squishy faces that formed an unmistakable boundary. A makeshift torso. Even a pillow “head.” He’d crafted an entire decoy dad to keep the real one from sneaking past his defenses.

You let out a soft laugh, covering your mouth so you wouldn’t wake either of them.

Your son, sensing you were awake, peeked up at you with drowsy, half lidded eyes. “Mommy…” he mumbled, already sinking back into sleep.

On the other side of the barricade, Xavier snored softly, completely oblivious to the pillow decoy that had replaced your warmth.

“mommy's just right here, buddy..,” you whispered, kissing the top of his head.

[yeompei]

FOREVER HIS | SUGGESTIVE

headcanon: yandere! caleb x fem! reader

childhood friendships always last forever, don’t they?

warnings: language, obsessive behavior, drugging, kidnapping, inappropriate use of evol

CALEB ! has always been adoring you since childhood. you’d confuse his obsession with care— I mean, why wouldn’t you? if a cat does as so much scratch you, it’ll be gone before you ever see it again. now growing up, you’re a target for every villian in your story. you must be protected from all the bad people, and there was only one solution he had in mind.

CALEB ! invited you to a dinner under the stars, where there were private rooms installed. of course, he took one, along with some medicine to ease things down. you’re a gullible woman, so when he asked you to look up at the shooting star— you listened. your beautiful eyes reflected the illuminating night sky, your pretty lips parted in awe. you never noticed when he spiked your drink.

CALEB ! watched calmly as you drank, listening to you smiling carefree and blabbering about your latest mission. you were smiling midway, but then it faltered to a frown. a shattering sound is heard as you drop the glass from your trembling fingers; “Caleb…be careful with your drink…” you slump on your chair, eyes growing narrowed as you hear him clear his throat. his gaze does not waver.

YOU ! try to keep your gaze, but your eyes are glued to his colonel-standard boots— creating echoing steps as they stop before you. a leathered glove gently picks up your chin, and your vision gets blurry. yet, you were able to see that he wasn’t the caleb you knew before. it was someone much, much more horrible.

YOU ! tried to keep yourself at bay the first few weeks. but the room you were in had no windows, and the door could only be unlocked from outside. the room was well furnished, and caleb had the courtesy to provide you with a TV and books for your entertainment. countless times you tied to woo him, to slip behind him as he would focus on the melodies that came from your lips. and countless times, he’s caught you. a swift grab at your waist, or a simple commanding gesture and gravitational pull, “y/n.” had you dragged back. what’s worse, was that you didn’t even know where you were. and that meant no one else knew.

YOU ! tried to get into his mind. figure out why he kept you like a bird, admiring you from afar but never close. and from it all, it was simply protection— protection you didn’t even need. you knew you were strong, with so much capability. but against someone in a high rank, and an evol that can make you freeze in an instant— you were hopeless. your sanity started getting weaker by the month.

CALEB ! treated you to many things when you behaved. he’d let you choose what to eat, whether it be cooked by him or ordered. he’d let you order clothes, books, and other things— that is, after he’s reviewed it’s contents. and on days you were rebellious? he simply didn’t talk to you. he still fed you, but didn’t even bother with simple notions like “good morning” or “how are you?” but remember when he subtly threatened to keep a collar on you before? this time he promises it. he doesn’t force it on you, he simply says a reward will be given if you do. and the reward? an apple.

CALEB ! knows he’s doing something wrong, but it feels so right in his head. you don’t let him near you at all. but he watches you from his phone, when he’s on missions or away from you. the collar was meant to keep a live feed on your vitals, and perhaps your location if you wanted to pull an escape act. he loves you, loves you so much that he made sure you never existed in the outside anymore.

It took you months before you allowed him to touch you. You’d grow repulsed if he’d dare try to reach out, yet now, you couldn’t bother reacting. The room had grown to a prison, and no matter how much you tried to rack some ideas into your brain— you never found a way out. A breathy sigh slips from your throat, and you close your eyes, listening to the thudding footsteps getting near.

He’s back from his trip.

You pull your sheets over you, curling yourself into your protective little ball. He should get the hint that you don’t want to talk to him. But does he ever? The door slides open with a ding, and you hear his boots shuffling toward you.

“I’m back,” he sounded tired, and the bed shifted behind you, “Sorry I took too long, some things came up.”

Caleb watched the sheets rise and fall slowly with your breaths, your body turned away from him. Seems like it’s one of your moody days…

“Are you alright?”

“No.”

He nodded, taking off his cap and setting it down on the nightstand. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. You didn’t retort or make a noise, so he decided to rest his chin on what would be the shape of your head underneath the blanket.

“When can I leave?” you ask, your voice muffled but noticeably annoyed.

You feel Caleb rap his fingers on your tummy, and a soft him is heard behind you;

“I think you already know the answer pipsqueak,” he presses a kiss on the blanket, “I’m sure you remember.”

Your stomach churns, but the hate you felt before was diminished. If Jenna were to look at you, she’d very much say you weren’t the same hunter she knew.

“You’re a monster Caleb, a cruel monster.”

The man chuckles, and his grip on you tightens evermore possessively. The action evokes a huff from you, and your hands instinctively try to push them away. His regal eyes darken slightly, enjoying your pitiful attempts;

“I’m only a monster if you want me to be.”

a/n: tagging my MOOT @floredaqueen, cause she’s my MOOT. again, my MOOT.

work and rights belong to me, laurel.

[yeompei]

TAILSPIN — part one

〔 𝒾 〕 "I'm sorry that I can't be her," you say, tears interlaced with every word. You circle back to her endlessly, the loop remaining unbroken. The dead girl's footfall is everywhere, and you're breaking with every step she takes across Caleb's heart. "I'll never be. We both know that, but don't expect me to be waiting around for you to realize I deserve more than a man who looks at me and only sees a ghost."

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱𝐢𝐚 𝓍 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐦𝐜!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 8805 (estimated 20k for full story) ⋮ 18+ ⋮ angst with a happy ending, smut, canon divergent as mc dies in the initial explosion and not caleb (he still gets injured thus requiring his biomech arm), coworkers au, rivals to lovers, fwb, miscommunication + jealousy, semi-toxic dynamics, mentions of ptsd and grief, dom!caleb, semi-public sex, size kink, manhandling, gagging (glove as a gag aye), multiple orgasms, marking, dirty talk, degradation kink, "sir" kink, spanking, edging, overstimulation, oral (f + m receiving), cum-eating, unprotected sex, creampie

⌗ 𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐢'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── First story on this blog! I decided to release this first part because I'm so excited to post the first chunk! I hope you guys enjoy it because it was a pleasure to write. Shoutout to @tinycatharsis @xylatox @aeristudios @frenchkisstheabyss and @xomakara for reading this first part as well as @hyukalyptus for doing editing magic on it, I love you all so much ♡

Caleb doesn't know what to do about the dog tag.

The present is years old by now, but it looks the same as it did when he received it. It's not rusted or faded, and there are no dings or scrapes to buff out. The care of its owner shows with every gleam and glisten of the necklace in the sunlight. He hasn't taken it off, not once. Not until a few days ago. Not until the clasp came undone from the impact.

The only sign of wear on the jewelry is the missing gemstone at the center of the silver apple that rests next to the dog tag. It's ironic in a sense, but Caleb can't fathom how.

His and her friends sniffle and hiccup with every inch of dirt that's laid out over the coffin. Caleb insists on doing this part of the service alone, no matter how long it takes. The act stains his suit pants through the process of covering each square foot, but he doesn't care if he looks unkempt or not. Most things don't matter now, anyway.

The funeral home director suggested Gran’s and the hunter’s services and burials be over the course of two days—yesterday and today. “You’ve already been through so much,” he whispered with an authoritarian sympathy only elders possessed. “Take this one day at a time.”

One day at a time is hellfire, a kind of agony one only understands when life crumbles around you at once. The gut-punch of losing his caretaker would've taken enough time to heal from on its own. But Caleb doesn't understand how to navigate this additional pain that pales in comparison to the previous set of wounds, still fresh as the day they were inflicted upon him. “How does a person recover from the devastation of watching the girl he loves die right in front of him?

The Deepspace Aviation Administration's mandated grief counselor recommended grounding techniques for wandering thoughts, especially ones related to the accident. "It wasn't an accident," Caleb interrupted him when he used that word. "Don't mince words."

"However you see the situation, Mr. Xia, focus on what is in your current nexus of control when your mind spirals."

Following the doctor's orders, he takes a deep breath and tries to feel the ground underneath his feet. All the while, he clutches the dog tag around his neck tightly as the ceremony concludes.

She gave it to Caleb the day he left for Skyhaven. He promised her, foolishly, he’d return to their childhood home as often as possible. Time constraints of their everyday lives that kept them apart could not sever their bond; Caleb wouldn't let it. She might’ve been a hunter, and he a pilot, but their constant course was always back to each other, no matter how briefly those lines converged.

If only he knew their time together would run so short, too short for him to finally pluck up the courage to say he couldn't live without her. And now he has to make peace with the fact that that lost declaration is his new reality.

Without thinking, Caleb lets the metal dog tag pierce his skin. The necklace slices the inside of his palm open slowly. It takes ten minutes and the crowd around Caleb dissipating for him to notice blood running down his shirtsleeve. The loneliness gives way to an indifference that shields him from physical consequences. All he senses is the thrum of his heartbeat as the wind meets his open wound.

If nothing else, the hollowness will remind him it was real and he was once whole. That's what will keep him from spiraling ever again. From expecting the world to be kind to him now that his soul is irrevocably destroyed.

2 YEARS LATER

"And this is the loading bay for each squadron and their respective aircrafts. Yours will be around two dozen, and you'll meet your subordinates later on today once we establish your security clearances." Damien, your new boss and one of the many majors of the fleet continues with the tour of the base. His harping about the procedures and commandments is background noise as you navigate the space together. You're aware of what you can and cannot do as a Farspace Fleet member, even more so now with your new rank.

It's not as if lower-leveled privates don’t know their way around. You've been to the loading bay many times, taking the route to and from excruciating missions in the past year like clockwork. You could label each piece of a plane's equipment and list their purposes by heart if given the opportunity.

With your recently appointed title as First Lieutenant, you are well aware things will change. Subtly, for sure, but just enough to tilt you off your axis, hence the necessity of such a tour. "We need to show you what it means to be a part of the company with a fresh lens, so to speak," Damien had said curtly during the first hour of the tour, like you were a child on her first day of preschool. Maybe it was more for them than you, seeing as you already felt the shift in your previous colleagues' demeanor. Some of them were happy to see you move up in the world, while others sneered from the sidelines.

It didn't matter to you, regardless. Ty, your best friend and a newly appointed Second Lieutenant, is the only person you need beside you to face the career change. And she's even more elated than you are. It's been three days, but she's remained star-struck, especially by the glamour of her new badge and uniform.

"I can't believe this is actually happening," she repeats for the third time in two hours. "Wonder when we'll get to see our new guns."

"Seventy-two hours and you're already chomping at the bit for target practice," you comment with a smile. She's still playing with the golden stars on her coat as she walks, and you nudge her in the shoulder to remind her to stop.

"Don't pretend you're not antsy either. If the rumors are true and they have our names engraved in them, you're gonna shit yourself," she says with a wink.

"Fleet personnel are forbidden from tampering with company equipment, especially for cosmetic purposes,” Damien interrupts with his objective voice. “It's sanction number twelve if you need more clarification on the matter.” There's no admonishment in his tone, but no humor either. You and Ty look at each other, biting your lips to keep the laughter from escaping.

Damien proceeds with his lecture until everyone is at one side of the bay. Masses of opaque grey clouds melt into the surrounding concrete and you could almost forget you’re at work. The city without-a-doubt lives up to its name—the sky is your haven in every sense of the word. 

You always dreamed of flying away one day and it seems possible now more than ever.

That is until a masculine hand yanks you from the edge of the runway, the strength of his forceful fingers burning your right bicep. "Watch it!" a voice you've never heard before cuts through the air, domineering and deafening.

Within seconds, your face is inches away from Caleb Xia. The colonel’s violet eyes sear through your own while his shoulder-length hair blows in the breeze, letting the edges of his wolf-cut glint in the sunlight. 

The only information you gleaned on the colonel came from company paperwork and sultry whispers of nurses and comrades. Never expecting to see him in person, you took all the gossip as myths at worst and warnings at best.

Now, you see why the rumor mill spins with his name on each spoke.

"Did you forget this base is almost five thousand feet above Linkon? You could kill yourself if you're not careful." His voice is threateningly calm. On-lookers would say his demeanor is on the cusp of normal if it weren't for the intensity of his gaze, the heaving of his chest, and the tightness of his fingers around your upper arm. His grip loosens, but his stare remains staunch.

You gulp and respond in haste to avoid furthering your newfound embarrassment. "Apologies, Colonel."

Though his grasp releases, his gaze lingers across your face and you wonder what assumptions he's making in his mind. Have you already stunted your career growth before it's had the chance to bloom, like a seed plucked too quickly from the soil?

"Are these the new lieutenants for Squadron Eight, Damien?" Caleb says the words without looking at the major. His words come with an aura of mystified disdain, and your jaw clenches. Initially, you were nervous in his presence, but now you feel talked down to and rightfully agitated. One mistake during a first impression did not dictate your entire worth to the fleet. Ty sees your eyes beginning to blaze, and she pleads with her own for you to calm down.

You grind your teeth together to keep a response from leaving your mouth, but the second the next words come off of his tongue, it's over. "Looks like this one has to remember the boundaries of her bearings."

"Nobody asked you to remind me of my faculties, Colonel Xia. I'm more than capable of that responsibility."

Suggested edit: Preparing for Caleb’s harsher words—or even another death grip on another one of your limbs—he chuckles instead. The edges of it sting your pride once again. He beckons your group of three to walk alongside him. Only then do you realize his second-in-command, Gideon, is standing by and waiting for the colonel to finish his impromptu business.

Clearly, Caleb has other plans.

You remain close to Caleb's side as the other three in your party stay a distance behind, all of them clearly intimidated by the man at your left. You walk for a while before stopping a few meters away from a set of aircrafts parked on the opposite runway. They're painted with the classic fleet colors of gray, black, and red, along with their squadron numbers marked in white text on one side.

After clearing his throat, Caleb smirks. "If you're so aware of things, you must know the fleet wouldn’t exist without the power of our arsenal." He turns to face you head on again, expression hardening with a smile so bright it stuns you. "So, First Lieutenant, what was the original—"

Too easy.

"The C-5M Super Galaxy was the prototype for the fleet's F35s. Taken from the American Airforce until its dissolution in 3012, the bones of that plane are in use today across all our operations through the Deepspace Tunnel and beyond," you finish Caleb's eventual question seamlessly. 

But you refuse to look at him directly and instead train your gaze on the faraway planes, tracing the slopes and curves of their structures in a loop. "The only alteration the fleet made to the C-5M," you continue, "was lighter aerodynamic design so squadrons and cargo could move across the space-time continuum more efficiently."

You can't contain your smug smile or how wide it spreads before you turn to meet Caleb's eyes once again. "And that's just for our carrier crafts. Do you want the origins of our reconnaissance and bomber planes too, Colonel?"

In a move you don't expect, Caleb's expression softens. An emotion lurks beneath his irises; it refuses to let the smile meet his eyes. He still steps forward again to shake your hand, his touch much gentler than before. "Congratulations, Lieutenant. You may actually survive moving up the ranks."

Silently, Caleb motions for Gideon to make their exit. Damien stutters out a comment on needing to speak to the colonel further about a different matter, leaving you and Ty alone to reflect on whatever that intrusion was. Caleb doesn't look back once, but you sense the longevity of his purple eyes lingering over your form. The ghost of his presence still pierces past your muscles and buries deep into your bones, even as he continues further down the strip of pavement toward the fleet's headquarters.

"So, he seems like a peach," Ty comments first before a breathless laugh spills from her lips. "He is very attractive, though."

He's definitely something, you think to yourself. You're just unsure of what that something is.

"Firearm accuracy estimated as follows: ninety-four percent. Firing distance could be a factor in the remaining six percent deficit. Please practice again for an updated calculation."

The Shotbot's cheerful voice threatens you, or at least you think so. It wants you to throw its spherical body across the room with the way it taunts you. Back when you were too green, you might have. But you have to be better than that, calmer than you used to be. Quality results for a lieutenant don't come in haste, and definitely not with heightened emotions.

"Will do, bitch," you mutter, breathless from the exertive exercise. You kick a few spent shell casings on the training floor as you walk back to the practice bench, your hammering heart in tow. You place new bullets in the magazine, one at a time with quiet precision until it feels hefty in your palm again. The gun's weight lowers your frantic heartbeat, your rushing pulse steadying to an even tempo.

When chaos is all you’ve known, you make peace with storms and weather through until they’re over. Weapons make weathering those storms easier.

A deep chuckle comes from one edge of the training space, and you recognize it like a windchime above your front door despite only hearing it a few times. It holds curiosity with a sharp gleam. Its sound cuts through you like a knife as its owner waits to see if it's worth striking what's on the other end of the blade.

"Ninety-four. Is that your personal best?"

You laugh, but it's too airy to hold any emotion. It's more for theatrics than anything else. Your gun clanks sharply on the bench when you set it down.

You turn to see Caleb staring you down smugly in his tank top and sweatpants, training clothes immaculate in comparison to your crew shirt and spandex shorts drenched in sweat. You don't let his appearance faze you, though. You keep your spine straight and your face steadfast as you reply. "What's yours, Colonel?"

Caleb tsks, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "I asked you first, bluebird." Seeing the surprise in your eyes, a laugh erupts from him again. "Don't freak out. It wasn't that hard to find your old code name."

"You were investigating me?"

He contemplates his next words with a pout. "Think of it as gainin' intel. It's a small part of my job description to oversee the new fish in our big pond. Especially one so close to drowning the other day."

You roll your eyes, leaning back behind you to grab your pistol. "I think we established that I can handle myself just fine."

"Prove it."

You quirk an eyebrow. "You want more oral history on the fleet? You could've just said so."

Caleb's smirk sits in contrast with the tick of his jaw. A million emotions flash across his face, but it's indecipherable past the two tells he's shown. He raises a hand, and your gun shoots out from your palm. It whips through the air until it lands in his own. "Hand-to-hand combat. I'm curious to see if your accuracy is better in this facet of battle strategy."

Damn him and his gravity evol.

Many comrades of yours who fought with him on the frontlines commented on his physical manipulation of guns, melee weapons, and even body parts that left them stunned. He clearly knows how to use it to his advantage, particularly in times like this to humor himself.

"Will you be using that trick of yours when we fight?"

He shakes his head, crossing his heart with the hand not holding your weapon. "Promise," he responds, but you don't trust it. Not until you see him in action.

Caleb can't figure it out.

He's dodged most of your combos, your left fist considerably weaker than your right. Has to be her stronger hand, he thought when he cleared another punch aimed for his jaw. He even landed a small jab to your ribs after one too many exertions left you open in a reckless move.

Yet you're still standing.

You remain stubbornly active in the fight all the same, throwing more hits out and blocking where you can like you haven't exhausted enough energy already. Caleb has to respect the moxie you possess. It's admirable for any soldier to continue on in the presence of an opponent who outnumbers them in a multitude of ways.

You won't win; he knows this. But the hope in your eyes—coupled with the thought that you still believe you can—confuses Caleb further.

He likes your eagerness to find his weak spot in the fight, the vulnerable point that will give you the upper hand. It begs the question of what he still has yet to learn and admire about you. This then leaves him in a stalemate with his original set of unanswerable questions: Who are you? What is it about you that's pulling me in? Why do you remind me of someone I don't want to remember?

Caleb's questions turn into frustration as the fight carries on. He regrets starting this at all. He wishes now you would concede and admit defeat, throw down your arms and stop stirring up the contents of his heart that have sat comfortably untouched for so long.

He could finish this dance and let all of it go, accepting the fact his curiosity will peak here with no definite resolution to his inquiries.

Still—

"Damnit, just quit already," Caleb barks. He hits and blocks faster in an attempt to drain what's left of your stamina.

You laugh, the sound deflated from your fatigue but still possessing a spark of challenge. "That'd be too easy."

Caleb doesn't recognize he's pinned you down to the floor with both his body and gravity evol until he feels the rubber of the floor mats against his calloused fingertips. You gasp in surprise when you fight to get up with no success, his evol keeping you supine. Your reaction spurs more of his irritation to the surface, the emotion rising faster than he's prepared for.

"You have no self preservation, do you?" he asks with bite. His body is equal parts taut and tense above you. Both arms rest on either side of your face as he tries regaining his composure. His chest bumps yours with every respective inhale and exhale you both take.

You smirk up at him. "Just enough, Colonel."

A metal bard pricks Caleb’s side, thankfully not yet piercing his skin. With each inch pressing harder into his skin, it cuts through his tank and the threat of it puncturing his skin is unnerving. But you don’t let it, not when you’re the one controlling it.

Caleb may not know much about you, but he estimates you won't go so far as to kill him during the first week on the job. At least, he doesn't think you will.

He huffs a breath of surprise, his interest spiked more than before. "Your file never said anything about an evol."

A corner of your mouth quirks up, and his breath catches. "Nobody ever asked."

He feels like a teenager again, caught sneaking out by his Gran or flunking a big exam. To name the ticking in his chest feels impossible. The time bomb is indecipherable, one Caleb doesn't know the wiring for.

"Ninety-seven."

Your eyebrows quirk, the skin between them folding. Caleb commits the expression to his memory without meaning to. It's too cute, somehow. "What?"

"My accuracy. It's ninety-seven," he whispers. His lips are a few feet away from yours that are molded into a small grin. Both of your sweat-covered faces sit a handful of breaths apart.

It's unprofessional, his behavior. From using his company clearance to dig into your file to training with you like this, he sees every misstep he's taken to get to this point and recognizes what an idiot he is. He should pull away quickly before he moves any closer, and he knows he will.

But an unnameable force tugs him down, holds him there in the moment for a little bit longer. He's helpless; the damn weighted bomb in his chest won't let him escape.

You look around the room in a clear display of nerves, unsure how to continue. "I need to get back to the armory. Ty will be looking for me."

Caleb nods like he's ready to let you go. His own survival skills kick in, telling him to sit up and step away from you. "I'd say," he starts while recollecting himself, "your evol would be incredibly useful in battle. I'll update your file to reflect this fact and consider your potential for upcoming missions."

You rub your sore arms and wrists as you acknowledge his words. "Noted, Colonel. Thank you."

He clears his throat suddenly, hiding the blush of his cheeks behind his fist. "Caleb is fine, Lieutenant. I think we've skipped the need for titles when we're in situations like this."

"And what situations are those?" you jest.

Caleb chuckles. You ride the ebb and flow of his emotions like a wave, your banter a match for his without much effort. He likes that, too, maybe a little too much. "When we're alone, I guess."

You giggle too, so softly he thinks he imagines the sound. You stand up from the floor with weak limbs, but you manage to extend a hand to him in agreement. "Also noted, Caleb."

Caleb may not understand it or you just yet, but once he does, he'll be able to put it to bed for good without issue. Only then will he feel less tepid, less like something inside of him has just cracked.

Caleb wasn't kidding when he said he would consider you for future missions because of your evol. It was only a month into your new position when your squadron became a staple of the fleet's recent set of cleanup jobs and intergalactic conquests. You liked to assume it was by your own merits and not due to the glowing recommendation Caleb passed to his higher-ups, but you knew better.

Slowly, you proved you were capable of more than even Caleb anticipated. Despite your efforts, it didn't stop conspiratory eyes passing over you when you and the colonel were in the same vicinity. He sure gets close whenever she's around, don't you think?

The murmurs of your comrades couldn't keep you from doing your job, though. It may have chipped at your patience day after day, but you could only show so much of your crumbling resolve. You initially believed the fleet was all about space travel and battlefields. Now, you realize it's a tightrope of commands and surface-level courtesy, a constant rotating door of fighting and pony-showing.

The return to Skyhaven for a few days is necessary, to say the least.

Exhausted and drained, you slept in until noon the first day you arrived home and ate takeout alone for the first time in months. You could do as you see fit, with nobody to answer to or have under your wing. Your apartment is as messy as you left it, but you prefer it that way. 

And now, walking through the city via the intricate skyway bridge, your battery recharges with every step. Almost thirty hours ago on the aircraft you called your second home, you were on the verge of fraying from the ever-present spotlight. Now, you can be a silent spectator without a title or set of responsibilities. It may be for only a few more days, but it's enough.

As you watch the cotton-candy clouds adorning the dusk sky, your mind wanders around the same unrelated subject. What’s Caleb doing now? Is he enjoying time off? Did he opt out of a home visit? Is he still working?

Maybe you shouldn't be thinking of your boss's boss in this manner, but you have to assume it's normal given how much time you spend together. Besides, neither him nor anyone of importance is around to tease you, so what does it matter?

"Galileo, wait!"

The second before you’re given the chance to shout, a gargantuan German shepherd tackles you, forcing your back to the ground with her forepaws. The pup, apparently named Galileo, brushes her brown and black fur against your cheeks, sniffing and licking your face as you sit up by your elbows. Why she opted for kisses as a greeting to a random stranger instead of a bite, you don’t know. 

But you recognize the owner in question like the back of your hand. He runs up to the both of you, his eyes blazing with horror. "Shit—Gal, come here!"

At Caleb’s command, Galilea jumps off your lap, circles around him, and sits perfectly in front of him with a pleased expression. Her tails wags as she awaits Caleb’s behind-the-ear scratches. Clearly, she loves him, letting you finally release the chuckle caught in your throat from meeting her. 

Caleb joins in on your laughter with his own. This time, it's not accompanied by the cockiness or calculation you're used to. It's carefree, light but stuffed with pleasant surprise.

You quirk an eyebrow up at him. "Is this how you charm women? Stick your dog on them?"

He extends a hand out to you, chest still rumbling with humor. "Only the pretty ones. Can't help Gal for knowing the difference."

You're about to bite back with a snarky comment—Oh, so you think I'm pretty, Colonel Xia?—until you flinch.

You feel the burn from your palm coming into contact with his, realizing your skin is covered in scrapes from the fall. What felt like nothing from the fall now feels like the sting of a thousand papercuts.

"Damn," he exclaims. "You need to disinfect those now." He helps you up by the elbow rather than the hand, so gently you think he's mistaking you for a feather instead of a full-sized adult. His gaze lands on the towering apartments at the bottom of the bend. "We need to get you back so you can get cleaned up."

"Yeah, I have a first-aid kit in—" A sudden realization cuts your sentence short. "Caleb. Did you look up where I live in your intel-gathering mission?"

Caleb smirks. "Gotta be thorough, right?" He releases you to tug on Galileo's leash, signaling for her to start walking again. As you both follow suit, Caleb says, "Besides, you can't be upset at me. That's no way to treat your neighbor."

Some time after the two of you make it to Caleb’s door and you stand by as he rifles through his cabinets, he appears from the bathroom with bandages and ointment in his hands, his steps quick and deliberate. "This won't take long."

You giggle to yourself, stifling the laughter with the back of your hand. When a crease forms in his brow, you say, "Why do I get the feeling you've said that line before?"

Caleb chuckles and brushes you on his way past you, patting the spot next to him on the couch once he sits down. "Careful, Y/N. I don't think it's wise of you to make assumptions."

Caleb's apartment in the building opposite of yours is immaculate, not a speck of dust or any embarrassingly opaque stains in sight. He expects absolute precision when you're on the base, so it shouldn't be a shock he's as regimented in his everyday life.

Galileo settles near Caleb's feet as he inspects the wounds on your hands. "They're really shallow. Shouldn't need more than a few days of bandaids and antibiotic cream."

You huff a breath. "Didn't think you could pass yourself off as a doctor, too."

He rolls his eyes playfully. "I know a guy, who actually is a doctor. Taught me a few tricks before I joined the fleet."

You hiss when the first splash of ointment coats your cuts. The pain ebbs once Caleb rubs the cream in, the numbing agent working quickly. "Better?" he asks.

"Much. Thank you."

He hums, pleased by your gratitude. He takes a bandage and begins unwrapping it, careful not to tear the plaster. Your eyes flit across his living room as he works on your hands. Many see him as an enigma, an uncrackable puzzle. But sitting between his legs as he mends the cuts still spotting with blood, you realize there's two men in Caleb Xia that only few people get the opportunity to witness.

This fear-inducing colonel, someone who you initially found to be far too patronizing, is one half of him. He takes no prisoners, does not ask before he does, and seems to chill every man below him to the bone. Yet, this part, the Caleb that is often hidden from public view, intrigues you to no end.

He has few friends yet clearly dotes on his dog, many chew toys on the floor the only form of disarray in his space. He plays his role in the sky with domination and smugness, yet has shown intense care for you that goes well beyond normal boundaries. And, funnily enough, he seems to be incredibly efficient at assembling airplane models, many plastic aircrafts lining his bookshelves.

You don't know this Caleb like you do the colonel, and yet it feels like you could figure out what makes this version tick easily if given more time. And you want to discover those ticks, so much it rattles you. Maybe it's because some part of you recognizes his framework, his ease with being comfortable alone. Or maybe it's because he gives you the same inquisitive stares you're starting to throw his way.

Is he as curious to understand you, too?

"Wanna share your thoughts with the class?" Caleb asks with a close-mouthed grin. A dimple pops out from his cheek, one you didn't notice before.

"What made you want to join the fleet?"

Caleb laughs, but it's entirely artificial. It's too measured, more careful than careless. You can tell the difference by now. "I thought I would find answers to this thing that happened to me a long time ago. And once I realized I wouldn't, that it was a dead end that didn't really have a resolution, it was too late to turn back. Now, I like the shiny attire and equipment."

You giggle at the tail-end of his answer. "Is that why you climbed up the ranks so quickly? Because you were on a search for something that mattered to you?"

"That, and I'm devastatingly handsome. Who wouldn't want to see me in a colonel's uniform?"

The smile on your lips doesn't wane, but the remainder of his answer comes back to the forefront of your mind. His need to repair what broke him a long time ago flicks at one of your subconscious nerves viciously, although you don't show it on your face. He senses it though, looking up at you with those violet eyes brimming with curiosity. You know he wants to know how you would answer without him having to repeat your question back to you.

"I wanted to belong," you confess. "I've always been very out of place, no matter how hard I tried to fit in. At school, at the foster home…" You trail off, immediately regretting sharing such a private part of your life. Caleb may be friendly, but is he truly a friend, someone more akin to Ty than Damien or Gideon? "The fleet's always given me structure, a purpose to fulfill, friends that understand what it's like to struggle and succeed together. Ty used to think it was crazy to like being on the brink of death all the time, but—it's better than being alive and alone."

You hoped Caleb wouldn't laugh at you or craft a funny comment in response to your honesty, but you're more than relieved to find your hope in him wasn't misplaced. All he does is nod and continue fixing up your hand, a solemn expression dressing his face. "I didn't grow up in a traditional home, either. I had a caretaker and…a sibling, but…" The muscles in his face tighten, his jaw bone practically protruding from the skin. He has to be biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from going completely over the edge. You've never seen him like this, skating past his usual composure to leave himself incredibly open.

You shake your head at him, unable to see him torture himself further. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I thought since you told me the truth, it's only right to do the same."

The smile Caleb gives you in response upends all the contents of your stomach, stuff that has to be the makings of both butterflies and livewires. As he takes your bandaged hand in his, his breathing regulates itself as your skin touches. He rubs the outer edges of your palm with his thumb, and your previous regret eases a little. It makes you believe the needle is moving closer to friendship, to being safe in your vulnerability. Maybe even something more. You've never been good at emotions or letting them fly freely, but with him, you want to be.

And that makes a piece of you shift back into a place, a piece you believed was buried way before you could give it a home.

An hour into the gala, Caleb's ready to go home.

The liquor tastes too cheap for him to be drinking on purpose. The rooftop venue overlooking the entirety of Skyhaven isn't anything special, sans the twinkling lights surrounding the bar and dance area. And Caleb's schmoozed more than half of the current partygoers a million times before this event, so there's nobody worth impressing tonight.

Worse yet, the person Caleb wants to put his effort into talking to hasn't shown up, and most likely won't.

"Parties aren't my thing," you told him a few days ago on the aircraft, taking you both home for another mandated break. "Besides, it's for some brigadier general's retirement right? Nobody will notice me missing."

Caleb does, though—so much so that your absence twists in his gut.  In every search he's done across the sea of faces for your daring eyes and smart mouth, he grows more restless. Does that not matter to you by now?

"Smell this," Gideon interrupts Caleb's thoughts with a drink an inch from his face. The younger guy practically dumps all the liquid onto his boss's jacket in the process of…whatever he's doing.

Caleb sets his whiskey sour down on a nearby glass table. "Man, kiss my ass."

"Seriously! That battlefield medic Anya gave it to me, and I can't tell if it's laced with a love drug or something."

Caleb sniffs the rim lightly. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, but it's cute how inept his subordinate is to this stuff. "Smells like a classic strawberry margarita to me."

Gideon huffs. "You say it like I shouldn't be concerned."

"Because you shouldn't be. Be grateful someone's interested in buying you a drink in the first place."

"Says the guy who hasn't gotten any since his DAA days," Gideon spits back before taking a sip of his margarita.

Caleb has the next barb on his tongue, prepared to strike Gideon like a viper eager for an easy kill, but it disintegrates. He can't be bothered with a comeback now, not as he loses all sense of gravity seeing you walk through the double doors like a vision.

Your dress, bordering between modest and suggestive, is the richest red Caleb’s ever seen. Like a ripe apple ready to be plucked from a tree. The silk hugs your curves while the drop sleeves show off your shoulders and neckline—a mouthwatering view. 

Caleb shouldn't look at you like a dog with a bone dangling in the air in wait, but he doesn’t remember why. Even if he did, would it matter? He’ll gravitate back regardless, the instinct to admire you like second nature. It’s easy, letting you to steal every coherent thought from his grasp. All that matters right now is you and the garment that's inducing his lust-filled eyes and dry mouth that begs for some form of relief.

No— not just any relief. Caleb knows this, knows the name of the remedy he seeks. But he doesn't know if it's worth it to cross that line, lay himself bare for you when he's been burned before.

Then again, he was burned for not risking anything back then. Perhaps he should do the opposite this time.

Just as he's about to greet you, he sees an underling that he knows too well creeping over to steal the honor first.

Caleb's body has to be on fire from the way the sight in front of him eats at his flesh. Jace Lee, a major above your rank but leagues away from Caleb, pulls grins and giggles from you like a charlatan with a cheap magic trick. And you feed into his ploys, entertaining a man that isn't Caleb with no hesitancy.

He wants to scream, kiss the idiot's jaw with his fist, and pull you away from this place without a second thought. The feelings that bubble to the surface are almost foreign. He hasn't felt this way since…well…

He downs his whiskey in a few sips before excusing himself from Gideon's side. He saunters to you and Jace, and he sees your demeanor change. It's a lot clearer now, the curtain lifting with every step. Jace is a courtesy, a polite conversation you have to entertain. But when you see Caleb coming over, your amiable smile becomes one of challenge and eagerness just for him.

It can't be in his head what he's witnessing change before him. "Jace, pleasure to see you. Apologies for missing you before." Jace eagerly takes the higher-ups hand. Caleb lets the idea of clenching down with a vice-grip level of strength pass across his brain. He can't be an asshole right now, not when you're this close.

Caleb then takes your hand and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, his own action creating an electric tingle in his spine. "You clean up exceptionally well."

Trying to hide the new color on your cheeks is of no use, but he finds you captivating all the same. "Thank you, Colonel. Actually, Jace and I were talking about a new carrier mission planned for next month. Can I find you later?”

As if you needed to ask.

Caleb retracts his hand and nods all the same. His heart rests in his mouth as he walks away to leave you to your conversation. It remains there, heavy and pulsing, when he walks to the bar to order a glass of vodka. 

Caleb shouldn’t feel jealous right now. He thought his jealousy ended with the thoughts he had long ago about MC, his heart a tangle of emotions he had no words to justify unraveling back then. Now, you’re the cause for his undoing, and he’s unsure how to reconcile the war in his heart.

He orders another drink with a shot of tequila. The alcohol burns as it slides down his throat, but it doesn’t matter to him. He’ll drink anything if it helps to take the sting away from his racing thoughts and unkempt feelings.

Caleb stirs in his bed with the urge to rise quickly and find you. He’s unsure how he’ll get up with a dull ache in his skull from all the drinks he consumed, but all he knows is that he can't take it anymore—the unsaid words, the tension in every sinew that he’s composed of, the way he yearns for you.

In the haze of liquor, he remembers your arms wrapped around him on your way into his apartment, body hefty but his thoughts heavier as he came through the door.

“You looked really pretty tonight. I forgot to say so. I mean—You always look beautiful, but this dress is…” He ran his fingers over the material, each passing of his hands against the silk torturous.

“Thank you, Colonel.” Your giggle caused a deep knot in his chest.

 “I wanted to kiss you the second you walked into the bar,” he confessed, bashful despite the boldness of his words. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time, actually.”

Your body tensed as you dropped him on the bed, but you still ran your fingers through his hair, admiring each gold-spun strand like a treasure.

“Sleep it off, Caleb.” You looked at him so gently; it drove him crazy to not press his lips to yours then and there. “Tell me all of this when your head's clear in the morning.”

Nothing could have kept him from remembering every word and action. He’d say it all again on a loop if you wanted him to. He tossed and turned in his bed two hours after that, willing the fog of alcohol to clear from his brain. If he waited and saw it pass, then he could do what he's wanted to this entire frustratingly slow night. 

He definitely can’t wait until morning. That's not possible.

Now, with a semi-sober head and a chest overflowing with desire, right now, he needs to know for sure what you want before he goes any crazier.

He tiptoes into the living room on bare feet, trying to stay quiet but still focused on his mission. His heart clenches seeing you belly-down on his couch, snoring lightly with no blanket or pillow to provide you comfort.

The guilt creeps down his body for leaving you in this state while he was buzzed, but relief runs straight past it once he realizes you didn't leave for a reason.

You wanted to stay; he can't imagine the pain he would've felt if you hadn't.

He sits on the ottoman nearby and runs his fingertips over your cheek, his feelings firm on his palate yet partially stuck in his throat. Saying the words came so easily with liquid courage, yet repeating them is like walking through quicksand.

"Wake up, bluebird," he whispers. The only other sounds outside of his voice are your gurgles and whines from being pulled from your dream.

The minute your eyes open, a hazy smile creeps past your teeth. He feels his heart ease and jackhammer in the same second.

You rise from your spot with a yawn. "How are you—"

Caleb doesn't give you a chance to continue your question. He presses both hands to either side of your neck and acts rather than thinks, slamming his lips down onto yours.

The moan that slips past his mouth when he presses his tongue to the roof of yours is instinctual; it's too good to keep quiet about. He presses you into the cushions behind your head as he kisses you deeper and longer without reservation. Maybe the key to the courage he needs is savoring every bit of you he can before releasing it all verbally.

When you part, a string of saliva connects your mouths together, and he almost groans again at the sight. He wants to go back to kissing you breathless and forgetting the rest of the world around you both exists, but he needs to say the words again so you know he means it.

“You told me to tell you this when I had a clearer head," he whispers. "And I think it’s more than clear now.”

One breath to focus on the present moment. Another to quiet the fear. And one more for good measure.

"I want you. I've wanted you for weeks, and I can't stop myself. So don't ask me to…unless it's not what you want." A piece of his heart withers at the thought that your first kiss could also be your last, but he continues on. "I'll do my best to walk away and we can stay friends, but if you feel the way I do, let me give you all of me. Because it's killing me not to."

By the end, he isn't sure if he's breathing. With the quiet contemplation on your face, he's questioning if you're breathing as well. Dying on that couch in front of you wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, forever eager to know the thoughts swimming in your mind. If he has to go out that way, so be it.

Then, one side of your mouth quirks up, and he thinks he might see another day of existence. "Show me how much you want me."

Your words are his wreckage and his freedom.

In a flash, your dress is draped over the ottoman like it’s worthless. Caleb's an inspector by nature, a pilot who looks on all sides before committing to a course of action. He has to admire each line of your body with a kiss. Take his time with each pass or squeeze of his hand on your skin.

He pays great attention to your chest specifically, kneading one breast as he keeps the opposite one's nipple in his mouth. Sucking, biting, tugging. He's not innocent, and you should've known the second you met him. But it's another thing to experience the sin he's eagerly providing, and he doesn't mind teaching you every lesson he has to offer.

You're incoherent by the time his hands rest on your hips, mumbling and moaning in a language he gathers isn't English. He's itching to take your panties off, but is too enraptured by the wetness that's soaking through the fabric to do so.

"You're drenched, sweetheart." Caleb kisses the damp spot on your underwear, your puffy clit thrumming from the sensation of his lips, even through the cotton barrier. "This all for me?"

You nod like it's all you know how to do, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. "Only for you."

He chuckles darkly and pulls the panties to the side. His tongue licks a fat stripe across your folds, taking its sweet time on the trail up to your clit. A wanton sigh escapes your lips from the sensation. 

Another laugh escapes him from your eagerness to meet his lips with your center. “You’ve never felt this way before, have you, sweetheart?” he asks between more licks and slurps. “Nobody’s ever touched your pussy like this?”

“Shut up,” you respond breathlessly. He continues on, lost in lust and admiration for your body. Why did it take so long to get to this point?

"You like it, beautiful?" Caleb asks rhetorically, knowing the answer in the way you raise your hips to meet his face. "Do you like how my tongue feels?"

"Yes, yes—oh fuck—yes." It must be hard to form logical sentences once he slips a finger through your wetness. He sets a pace meant to scissor you open thoroughly. What will it be like when his cock is inside of you? It makes him ache between his lungs thinking about it.

His mouth wraps around your clit as your walls clench around his digit, eager to keep it inside when he retracts. "You’re sucking me in so well." Caleb admires the view, his hand exiting and entering you like it's where it's always meant to be. "Maybe I'll keep you like this forever. Never let you leave and fuck you stupid every second of the day." Another drag of his tongue against your clit, and your breath hitches. "Do you want that beautiful? Want to be here with me?"

"Of course, please," you plead. "Oh god, please let me be yours, Caleb. Will you let me?" Most girls confessing such a thing would blush something scalding, but you don't care an inch or a mile. You just want him to let you fall apart, and he senses it.

The urge to whine threatens your lips as he pulls himself off you, but it dies when he yanks his suit pants and underwear down in one swoop. Pre-cum coats the tip of his cock, the skin of his length red and throbbing. He's ravenous by now, his patience up to this point kept him at bay to prepare you for what's been coming. What he's been so eager for the second he pinned you down in that training room.

"I want to feel you around me when you come," he whispers before taking another kiss like a thief in the night. You curse at the taste on his tongue and he hums, pleased in knowing it’s your own arousal. 

Tapping the head of his cock against your clit, he coats it in your arousal like he’s dipping a finger into a pot of honey.

When it presses against your gummy walls, Caleb almost comes right there. He doesn't know how he's survived up to this point without knowing how you feel. If this was what was waiting for him all this time, he's a fucking idiot for denying himself. His hip bones press to yours when he's fully inside, sheathed completely despite the tightness encasing his cock.

He wants to move, but he's too busy staring into your twinkling eyes  already glazed over from pleasure. Thinking back to your earlier question makes him pulse against your heat. 

Will you let me?

He needs to give you the answer before he loses himself in you again. "You never had to ask, beautiful. We've belonged to each other for a long time now." He swallows your resounding cry with his mouth as he thrusts his hips.

It's heavenly, better than any plane ride he's ever taken, the funniest jokes he's ever heard, and all the desserts on the planet combined. It's just the two of you, your bodies glistening in the moonlight and his soul being wrapped up in you like he's wanted it to be since the start.

If this is what it's like to fall, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to hit the ground when it's all over.

He moves at a faster speed, thrusting in and out of you with a precision that is just as sharp as his marksmanship. You bite down on his neck to stop from screaming out in pleasure, and Caleb laughs like he's still drunk. He likes his skin between your teeth more than he imagined.

"That's it, sweetheart," he says between two brutal thrusts. "I want all of it."

All of it you gladly give. Running your nails along his back, you mar the skin there in your quest towards your high. You thrust up and into him with your own hips, and Caleb almost loses it then. You're too good at this, too perfect for even his fantasies. "God, sweetheart, I'm gonna come if you keep it up."

"Do it," you murmur. "Fill me up, Caleb. Give me all of it so I never go without you again."

That does him in, like Icarus flying too close to the sun. He falls without protest or trepidation. And you fall with him, clinging to his shoulders as ropes of his cum coat your insides white. It's warmth, heat, desire overflowing past maximum capacity.

Caleb clings to you in the aftermath like a life preserver, chin in the crook of your shoulder and his hands tightly wrapped around your middle. You feel spent and sticky, but he still litters kisses all over your skin like you're the oasis in the middle of a desert. You've never looked more beautiful.

And when you stare into each other's eyes coming down, your shared arousals seeping out from where you two meet, you both know everything has changed.

"Caleb, I can't breathe. Loosen up," you joke, trying to lighten the mood.

The ends of his sweat-soaked hair tickle your neck as he nuzzles in closer. "I can breathe for the both of us just fine."

"Caleb!" You turn in his hold to protest further, but he steals another kiss from your lips before you can gladly give it. Once again, like a bird called back to its flock, you're lost in him. And, in you, he's found.

He's freed from the fear you're going anywhere without him. The physical reminders you're here keep his doubts at bay.

They keep him from admitting how much of a liar he is. How he's keeping a part of his life from you. How he'll always tuck away the fraction he's certain will make you run from him without a second thought.

── .✦ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘):

@filmnings @innocygnet @prkhaven @frenchkisstheabyss @xomakara @tinycatharsis @pinkjellyz @bambiihee @xylatox @asiatic-apple @humanjarvis

© 𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗞𝗘𝗨; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌!

[yeompei]

the sickness you foster, your favourite addictions (p.1)

Pairing: Colonel Caleb Xia x Non-MC Reader

Summary: After your brother was killed under the command of newly appointed Colonel Caleb Xia, you swore you'd never forgive the man who returned from the mission when your brother did not. But when you're forcibly reassigned as his second-in-command, you're pulled into a cold war of secrets and bloodstained power plays.

Assigned to spy on the colonel by the same institution that decorated your brother's grave with empty honours, you find yourself caught between two monsters, one who watches from above, and one who stands too close. But there's more to Caleb than perceived cruelty. He’s calculating, obsessive, and far too interested in what lies beneath your controlled fury. The closer you get, the more you begin to wonder: Is this grief? Hatred? Or the start of something far darker?

Warnings: Caleb is lowkey his own warning in this one lol, he's kind of cray cray. Yandere vibes. Angst? Mentions of violence and injury. SLOWBURN. Enemies to lovers.

Word Count: 9k (oops it's long, grab some snacks)

A/N: This one's for my Caleb folks, enjoy! Haven't fully brushed up on my LADS lore, and I'm not entirely sure what a second in command actually does, lmao, so I've just winged a lot of this. Just wanted an intense, hot man in a uniform. Part 2 will be more yandere vibes because it'll be in his pov, but if you squint, it's kinda obvious here too in the end. Also, I don't know if this is angsty enough, might have to up my game in part 2 lol, feel free to leave suggestions. Would love to hear yalls thoughts so please don't be silent readers <3

Big thanks to @dramaticalsachan for the second-in-command idea, I hope I did it justice!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

You first saw him at the funeral. Not just glimpsed, or acknowledged in passing, but really saw him. Before that, Caleb Xia had been nothing more than just another transmission in the static, a faceless name buried in mission logs and fleet dispatches. You had known of him the way one knew of black holes—far-off anomalies, powerful and impersonal. He was a gravitational constant in the Farspace Fleet, orbiting on the edges of your awareness, never quite intersecting your path.

And yet, that was the moment he entered your orbit. Or rather, collided into it, though it didn't feel like a collision then. 

On a day like today, nothing felt like it was supposed to, not with the grief roaring through you like a storm trying to rip through steel. You were too preoccupied with more important things. Like the silence left behind by the only voice you ever truly listened to, and the weight of the small box they placed in your trembling hands, rattling with medals and empty meaning.

Bravery. Honor. Sacrifice.

All the hollow reverence the Farspace Fleet draped over its fallen like ribbons on a corpse. What meaning did such accolades hold for the dead?

You didn't know, but as you stood there, clutching a lacquered box heavy with medallions your little brother would never pin to his coat with that crooked grin of his, something curdled in your stomach.

He would have scoffed at that word—little.

"You're older by what? Five minutes?" he'd say with a grin. "Doesn't count."

But it did count. Five minutes made you the eldest. Five minutes made you his shield and protector. Five minutes meant you were the one who should have died, because otherwise, how shameful was it to be both the first one in and the last one standing? 

Now, you stood in front of an empty grave, accepting hollow honours from an organization that had let him die. Your mouth was pressed into a bloodless line, your eyes dry from failing to cry. The bitterness rising in your throat was corrosive and alive, blooming like acid beneath your skin. 

Then you saw him.

At first, he was just another face in the sea of mourners, wearing the polite solemnity that funerals demanded. He stood a few rows back—deliberately, you suspected. Not so far as to seem absent. Not so close as to draw attention.

But once your gaze found his, it caught. Because Caleb Xia did not cry. He did not bow his head in regret or parrot the same condolences the others did. His gaze alternated between you and your brother's placeholder grave as if he couldn't make up his mind which of you was the bigger curiosity. His gaze carved through your skin and down into the marrow, as if searching for some fault line to split you open.

He stood in full Farspace regalia, his uniform pressed with military precision, the cold glint of medals decorating him like ornaments. One might have mistaken him for a war hero, but you knew better.

That shining title—Colonel—was new. Your brother's blood was barely dry, and already Caleb had been paraded for his very first mission as commanding officer, the very same mission that had left your family in ruin.

You couldn't think of anyone less deserving of the title.

So how dare he stand there as if he had the right to mourn? How dare he pretend, when he was the one who led your brother into the stars and brought back barely enough remains to mourn? 

Every second his eyes remained on you, you fantasized about tearing the medals from your brother's memorial box and ramming them through the sockets of his skull, engraving the consequences of failure right into his goddamn face.

But no, grief wasn't allowed to be ugly. You had to remain composed, and look tragic in just the right way. It was always a performance, because someone was always watching. 

Perhaps what made it worse was the fact that your brother had idolized him. You remembered the way his face used to light up when he said the name. Caleb Xia, the elite pilot with impossible reflexes and a spotless record. Caleb Xia, who had risen through the ranks like a comet. Caleb Xia, who made gravity bend and enemies fold, and young soldiers believe.

Your brother had certainly believed, and he died for it. 

You hadn't paid attention then, too busy to care for the ramblings of a fanboy. Different departments, different lives. You'd told your brother that you'd get him a photocard of his beloved Colonel once as a joke, and now those very same words lodged in your throat like thorns.

You had never imagined you were capable of feeling such immense loathing. You loathed Caleb's composure and the way he didn't pretend to grieve, because that meant he didn't even care enough to perform. Not even for show. 

You had never wanted to be violent so badly in your life.

Eventually, the crowd thinned, their footsteps fading into the vast silence of the hangar-turned-memorial, leaving behind nothing but the scent of cold metal and the flowers you'd never asked for. But of course, the Colonel remained exactly where he was, but this time, you met his gaze deliberately, letting him see the contempt etched into every line of your face.

Words would only dilute the venom, so you glared at him until something shifted. It was barely perceptible, the slightest tick of his jaw that betrayed his otherwise statuesque stillness. He was not made of stone after all.

You almost walked to him then. Almost let your boots carry you across the short but volatile distance. Almost let the resentment do what it had been aching to since the mission report first found your inbox. But you didn't. You exhaled slowly and stayed where you were. 

With luck, this would be the last time you ever saw him—this man with too many accolades and too little soul. Different departments, different lives. The Farspace Fleet was too large for casual run-ins. 

Besides, you had a few days off. Enough time to cage the wildfire in your chest and coax your malice into something you could live with. Something you could survive.

Because if not...

You were the head engineer of your team. Most fleet vessels passed under your approval at least once. You had access to every bolt, circuit, and pressure seal. If you wanted, you could rig his next solo flight to fail so discreetly the black box would read it as a tragic malfunction. It wouldn't even be difficult, and you'd thought about it. You'd thought about it more than you liked to admit. 

No. 

You weren't a killer. You still had some fractured piece of morality you clung to, like wreckage from a shipwrecked past, even if the man standing across from you couldn't say the same.

You were convinced that whatever cruel, indifferent beings sat lounging at the helm of the universe despised you. It was the only reasonable explanation.

The moment you returned from your time off, you found yourself summoned to the office of one of the Fleet's polished brass relics. Admiral Harkins was a man who reeked of privilege and sour cologne, and when he gestured for you to sit in the leather chair across his desk, you did. Optics and self-control were what mattered most in this place. 

He began speaking at once, his temperament carefully calibrated for sympathy. "The loss of your brother was felt deeply across the ranks. A promising young pilot. A tragic sacrifice."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Tragic, indeed. Tragic that no one in this godforsaken institution gave a damn until his body was stardust and his name convenient for morale.

You tuned the rest of his solemn drone out until his next words cleaved through the haze. 

"...which is why we felt it would be most fitting to reassign you. Temporarily, of course."

You sat up straighter. "I wasn't aware there were any issues with my current assignment, sir. I've received no complaints from my division, and I'm deeply invested in my team's current project."

Admiral Harkins offered a placating smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, yes, of course. Your work has been exemplary. This isn't a demotion, I assure you."

"Then where, exactly, am I being reassigned?"

His smile widened, as if he'd been waiting for you to ask. "As I said, it's quite the opportunity. You'll be serving as second-in-command to the Colonel himself."

You very nearly let every ounce of disdain twist your lips into something ferocious, but instead, you folded your hands in your lap and forced yourself to sound professional. "I was under the impression the Colonel already has a second-in-command."

The Admiral gave a sympathetic sigh. "A pity, truly. The same mission that took your brother's life also gravely injured the Colonel's deputy. He's currently in long-term care. His condition is stable, but the doctors insist on complete rest."

"With respect, sir, I fail to see how this is the best use of my skills."

"It's only temporary. A few months at most. It would mean a great deal to the Colonel, I'm sure, to know someone reliable is supporting him. He shouldn't be worrying about work while his former second is recovering, wouldn't you agree?"

Ah. There it was, the guilt trip, delivered with just the right tone of paternal disappointment. It was fucking absurd, and you briefly imagined telling the Admiral that if Caleb wanted support, he was most welcome to jump into a black hole to find it.

"Sir, the project I'm currently leading involves calibrating the new grav-thrusters for the Titan-class vessels. We're already on a tight timeline, and my presence is fairly integral to the process."

Admiral Harkins beamed like he was about to award you a prize. "Yes, I'm very aware. Your teammates speak highly of you, which is exactly why we decided to let you continue your little engineering project as well."

"Sir...?"

"Think of it as wearing two hats!" he declared enthusiastically, as if multitasking two completely incompatible full-time roles was perfectly reasonable. "During the hours Colonel Xia has no direct need of you, you're free to return to your workshop. Split your time accordingly."

Now you really wanted to scream. Two hats? What a nice way to describe a psychological death sentence. They expected you to assist a commanding officer and continue building fleet engines on the side? It was a whole new definition of overtime.

And yet, if it had been any other officer or any other role, you would have taken it without question. Better to drown in work than return to the apartment that had your brother's jacket draped over the back of the couch. Better to never sleep at all than to fall asleep deprived of his stupid jokes. 

When you didn't respond, the Admiral took it as agreement, and he leaned forward, his conspiratorial tone making your skin crawl. "You see, you're the only one we can really trust with this assignment."

"Trust with what, exactly? Taking meeting minutes?"

"After the tragedy that befell your brother, some of us on the board have begun to question the Colonel's judgment."

You stiffened.

He continued smoothly. "We just want someone reliable—someone who's already suffered the cost of a command gone wrong—to be our eyes and ears. Nothing formal, of course. Just let us know if our concerns are unfounded. Help us rest easy, you know."

Now it made sense. This wasn't a promotion, but a leash. They wanted you close enough to see if Caleb was cracking under the burden of his new position. You stared at the Admiral, and he gave you a sympathetic nod. But this was not up for discussion. There was no denying him. 

"Some believe the Colonel may have been directly responsible for how catastrophically the mission deteriorated. I'm sure, given your brother's unfortunate death, you'd want to see this matter resolved. Properly. The transfer documents have already been dealt with."

The implications hung in the air. They were asking you to spy on him, giving you no choice in the matter. And the worst part? They thought they were doing you a favour.

You swallowed hard, nodding stiffly, because to protest further would be to draw attention. "Understood, sir."

The man in front of you clapped once in approval. "Wonderful! You'll be present for mission briefings and tactical updates. You'll sit in on communications between the Colonel and Central Command. Be available during inspections, ship evaluations, and security sweeps. Assist in delegating tasks. Nothing too demanding. Just ensure things run efficiently. I imagine someone of your capabilities can manage that with ease."

"Yes, sir."

"Though, who knows, perhaps your new role will come to an end sooner than we anticipate."

That drew your attention. "If the Colonel's former second recovers quickly?" you asked carefully.

The Admiral gave a casual chuckle. "I meant if the Colonel no longer requires a second-in-command."

"Are you expecting his workload to drop in the upcoming months, sir?"

"No, you silly girl. Gods above, you really don't use your head for anything besides calculations, do you?"

The words should have slid off you like water off reinforced hull plating. But they didn't. They burrowed deep into old wounds and unhealed bruises. Into that quiet place where rage and memory tangled together like rusted wire.

This wasn't the first time, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last.

You forced your expression into something unreadable and your spine into something unbreakable. You knew this game because you'd been playing it all your life. You were no stranger to such phrases.

Silly girl.

Feisty thing.

Overreacting.

Too sensitive.

Too cold.

Too difficult to work with.

Too ambitious.

Too much.

You'd heard it in the academy from overzealous classmates who dismissed your calculations, only to fail the thermodynamics simulation while yours earned top marks. You'd heard it in every group project where you ended up doing the heavy lifting, while the boys talked over you and then took credit for the success. You'd even heard it here in the Fleet, from officers who swaggered into your workspace with broken gear and worse attitudes—who questioned your methods, your protocols, your qualifications—until you fixed what they couldn't and sent them back out with their tails tucked between their legs.

They never thanked you.

You remembered one in particular. Commander Rusk had smirked and said, "Didn't think a girl like you'd know your way around a soldering iron."

You had smiled sweetly and replied, "Didn't think a man like you would need so many tries to plug in a simple cable."

You never saw him again, which you considered a victory. 

But the truth was, the constant scrutiny wore you down.  Your competence had to be proven every day, while others were simply assumed to be competent by default. Your voice had to be just authoritative enough to be heard without being called aggressive. Your mistakes, when they happened—because they always did, you weren't flawless—were seen as confirmation of your nature, while men's mistakes were dismissed as anomalies.

"The Colonel might no longer require a second-in-command, because dead men don't need someone to keep their schedule, do they?" Admiral Harkins continued with exaggerated slowness, as if speaking to a child. Then he laughed, like the punchline of a joke he'd told himself a thousand times, and all your initial hostility bled out of you because this was far worse. 

Surely not. Surely, even in an institution as corrupt as the Farspace Fleet, he couldn't be suggesting...

But he was.

"Of course, no one would blame you. No one would even need to know. This isn't part of your duties, naturally. Just something to consider." He winked. "You've suffered a terrible loss. In grief, people do things. Understandable things. And the DeepSpace Tunnels, well, accidents happen in there all the time. It's a miracle half the fleet doesn't get swallowed whole."

It was as if he'd reached inside your skull and pulled out every shameful thought you'd tried to bury since the funeral. Of course, the idea had crossed your mind when you'd caught sight of your brother's favourite mug sitting unwashed in the sink.

But thinking it was one thing, and hearing it spoken aloud by this sleazy man was another. It made you want to claw your way out of this room and this goddamned uniform.

Instead, you stood and saluted. "Understood, sir. Eyes and ears. Got it."

The killing wasn't a part of your job description, and for once, you would try not to go above and beyond expectation. Although if Caleb so much as breathed the wrong way in your direction...

You weren't a saint, but you weren't a murderer either.

"If that's all, I'll be taking my leave, sir."

"Good. You may report immediately."

The Colonel's office was on the upper deck of the command wing, lined with star maps and strategic charts that flickered faintly under harsh lighting. No personal artifacts or clutter, just polished steel and silence.

When you arrived, Caleb was standing with his back to you, seemingly engrossed in a terminal screen. You watched his sharp outline, and nearly grimaced. He was practically carved from discipline. His uniform was flawless, with not a thread out of place, and you were supposed to find a crack in this man's armour? You had the worst luck. 

He turned at the sound of your footsteps. Up close, he was exactly what you'd imagined, and his unreadable stare met yours with the precision of an unsheathed blade.

"Colonel Xia." You gave him a crisp salute that he didn't deserve. "Reporting as ordered."

The man did not speak, and you found your patience wearing thin. 

"I've reviewed the mission logs and communication protocols. I expect I'll be briefed on the remaining duties shortly...sir." You tacked on the honorific belatedly, like an afterthought, and judging by the twitch in his cheek, he noticed. 

Caleb took a deliberate step forward, his long legs eating up the distance between the two of you. "We'll go over those after the inspection tour. You'll shadow me for the next several days."

"Of course."

His gaze lingered on your face, and you saw the awareness in it. He knew why you were really here, or at least he suspected. He looked at you the way a predator studies traps, wondering what lethal thing might be waiting just beneath the surface.

You let your eyes narrow a fraction. Maybe a part of you wanted him to know. Maybe you wanted him to feel as uneasy in your presence as you did in his. 

"If you have any reservations about this arrangement," he said impassively, "I trust you'll speak to Command." The words were polite enough, but the challenge beneath them was unmistakable.

"No reservations, sir. I always follow orders."

"Do you now."

"Always...sir."

A lie, and you both knew it. You were two storms circling each other, measuring windspeed and calculating damage.

Caleb nodded curtly, thrusting a datapad in your direction and walking out the door without waiting to see if you followed. "I expect these to be completed before 1800 hours. If you have questions, don't waste my time."

You hurried after him, scanning the device with a frown. There were a lot of tasks, spread across several departments, including two that were, technically, not under your jurisdiction. It had to be deliberate. He was testing you.

"Busy day," you remarked casually, flipping through the assignments. "Planning to see how quickly I crack?"

He looked over his shoulder. "I have the right to assess the competence of my new assistant, don't I?"

You hated the way he implied he owned the role as if you hadn't been placed there purposefully, like a scalpel beneath his ribs.

"And if I fail the assessment?"

"Then I report that Command made a mistake assigning you here. And I have you removed."

The corner of your mouth twitched in contempt. "How efficient of you."

"I value efficiency. You should, too. Unless you're going to disappoint me before the first cycle ends."

"You'll have to work harder than that if you want to rattle me, Colonel."

You understood his game now. He wanted you to fail. To explode and prove the story he'd already started writing about you. But you weren't going to make it easy for him. 

"After you finish the fighter log discrepancies," he said, clearly moving on, "you'll oversee the diagnostic sweep of Deck Nine."

"That wasn't listed on my assignments."

"Consider it a late addition."

"How convenient."

The rest of the day unfolded like a carefully staged performance, except both lead actors wanted to murder each other. 

You completed Caleb's damn checklist. You reviewed the logs, flagged anomalies, and corrected three manual override entries that looked suspiciously like sabotage masked as human error. You even oversaw the hangar bay logistics with brutal efficiency.

No one could say you weren't doing your job, not even him, and in your delusion, you imagined that if every day passed by as uneventfully as your first, perhaps you'd be able to get through this assignment without losing your mind. 

That was until your last meeting of the day. 

The briefing hall was already full when you entered, the air saturated with recycled oxygen and idle chatter. Officers clustered in tidy rows, muttering among themselves while they waited for the Colonel. 

Caleb himself had stopped to speak to another officer just outside the door, so you entered the room alone, and it was like the air changed the moment you did. It was so subtle that you might've missed it if you weren't already expecting it. 

Heads turned, and conversations stuttered, paused mid-sentence. Several pairs of eyes tracked your path to the front. Most of them didn't know your name, and even fewer could connect it to your face. That was the nature of your usual role. The head of the engineering division was rarely seen outside hangars and repair bays, and certainly not parading through the corridors like she belonged at the Colonel's right hand.

Yet here you were, so it didn't take long for them to leap to the easiest conclusion. You could feel it in the amused smirks and the hushed whispers.

So that's what the Colonel's into. New assistant, or new personal toy?

Then came the voice, low enough to pretend it hadn't meant to be heard, but too clear to be accidental. "Didn't know the Colonel liked his secretaries broody. Do you think she'll last longer than poor Liam?"

The speaker—Ensign Kallan, by the look of his badge—grinned to himself, clearly proud of the comment, even when the men around him shuffled awkwardly. You saw one look away, and another smirk, but no one corrected him. 

The Colonel stood in the doorway now, and although most had registered his presence by now, the idiot who had commented hadn't. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Caleb's fingers twitch, but he didn't say a word in your defence, or so much as look in Kallan's direction. He only tilted his head at you, waiting for a reaction. 

You could have stayed silent. You should have stayed silent. But silence, you had learned long ago, was a language best wielded on your own terms.

"Ensign Kallan, was it?" You offered a faint, polished smile that didn't reach your eyes.

He straightened slightly, surprised to be addressed. Of course, he expected you to ignore his jibe. "Yes, ma'am?" The last syllable dripped with sarcasm. 

"I understand your confusion. It's easy to mistake capability for ornament when you've never been on the receiving end of either." The room went quiet, but you didn't stop. "But allow me to correct the record. I am not a secretary or a communications officer. I'm the engineer who overhauled the shielding calibration protocol that kept half this fleet from imploding during last cycle's solar breach. My clearance exceeds yours by three levels, so unless you're volunteering to scrub machine shop floors for the next two months, I suggest you remember that."

Kallan paled. "Yes, ma'am." The honorific was uttered with a lot more reverence this time, but you didn't acknowledge it. 

Caleb had finally decided to walk over and stand beside you now, his expression neutral as if nothing had happened at all. But you felt the smallest shift in his posture. Was the subtle inclination of his head approval or amusement? You couldn't tell, and you didn't care. 

For the rest of the briefing, no one dared to mistake you for anything less than what you were.

You dedicated the rest of the meeting to inspecting Caleb, and it only proved what you'd already learned earlier in the day. He was damnably good at what he did, issuing instructions with absolute clarity. No wasted words or repetition. It made you even angrier. For a man so incapable of making mistakes, how had he screwed up chatastrophically enough to end your brother's life. 

You were here to prove his incompetence, and yet he was giving you nothing to work with. You hated how nothing about him ever seemed frayed. He handled crises with the same composure he used to sip his morning coffee, and you tried your best to catalogue every detail. 

Mental Note One: He never fidgeted. Not with his gloves, or his cuffs, or even his comm. Either he was truly calm, or he had mastered stillness so thoroughly it masqueraded as peace.

Mental Note Two: He didn't praise. Not even when a weapons officer reported a 36% efficiency increase. 

Mental Note Three: He listened with a predator's patience. He never interrupted, but only because he didn't need to. The moment he so much as opened his mouth, the person speaking would fall silent, and all eyes would be on him. 

You loathed how your mind kept tracking him this way. It was like studying the schematics of an engine you'd sworn to dismantle, and knowing a system inside and out just so you could find where best to break it.

He was watching you as well, and you let him. Let him wonder if you were the knife in his ribs or the hand that would stop someone else from twisting it deeper. You had been assigned to him after his previous second-in-command nearly died. He knew the game as well as you did.

When the meeting finally ended, and the officers began to file out, Caleb handed you his datapad dismissively.

"You kept up," he observed.

You smiled tightly. "And you didn't collapse from the weight of your own ego. We're both full of surprises."

Shit. 

You didn't mean to let that slip on your first day, but the hours had been long, and you still had a second job to attend to while your pompous superior was probably going to go home and sleep off his tyranny. 

There was a long pause, and Caleb gave you an odd look, like he wasn't sure whether to reprimand you or laugh.

"You'll compile today's summary logs and deliver them to me by tomorrow morning."

"Understood, sir." Though your tone was polite, you looked at the datapad like it might explode in your hands.

But orders were orders, and you had every intention of doing this so perfectly that not even he could find fault. Maybe you should have messed up on purpose, just so he'd take you off the job, but your ego wouldn't let you do that. If anyone would lose this game, it'd be him. 

"0600, tomorrow. Outer docking ring. Don't be late."

You inclined your head. "Wouldn't dream of it, Colonel."

You departed before he could say anything else, the cold burn of his stare following you down the corridor. Tomorrow would be worse, you already knew, but so would you.

After that briefing incident, Caleb's assignments took a noticeable turn, and suddenly, your duties as second-in-command bore an uncanny resemblance to administrative drudgery.

He never mocked you overtly, but you could see it in the slight raise of his brow when he handed you your daily task list. The almost-smirk that tugged at his mouth, never quite reaching a full expression, just a faint twitch, like he knew.

The list included vital responsibilities as:

- Sorting and reformatting decades-old combat logs "for archival purposes"

- Fetching and organizing requisition orders for ships you didn't even work on

- Coordinating meal rotations for his squadron as if you were a glorified cafeteria assistant

- Printing, binding, and physically delivering daily mission transcripts to his office, even though all data was stored digitally

- Scheduling appointments with officers you had no business interacting with

- And, on one especially insulting afternoon, compiling a list of docking bay lightbulbs that needed replacing

Lightbulbs.

You were an aerospace engineer, not a glorified secretary, yet here you were, jotting down broken corridor lights and organizing dinner times for grown men.

And the Colonel? He was taking some sort of sick pleasure out of all this. Sometimes he'd ask you with that irritating calm, "I trust that your new role is treating you well?" 

You weren't sure what burned more, your indignation or your pride. He wasn't just being petty. No, it was too calculated for that. You began to wonder if this was his way of pushing you out. Of stacking enough insults that you'd give up and storm off. Little did he know, you had no choice but to stick around. 

But the pettier his orders became, the less guilty you felt about your weekly check-ins with Admiral Harkins. You always had something for him, even if it was nothing damning or meaningful. You told him about Caleb's routines—the strange consistency of his hours, the precise loops he walked during patrol shifts, and the way he reviewed the reports no one else bothered with. You even told him how the man kept his office locked behind triple authentication when he wasn't in it.

It wasn't enough, and you knew it, because the Admiral was growing impatient. But a part of you relished that. Men like the Harkins and Caleb had made your entire life unbearable, so you deserved to enjoy their discomfort a little too. It was only fair. 

Caleb's next order came while you weren't even in his office. You had assumed he was done for the day, and you were in your own lab by now, your mind busy with orbital mechanics. 

A junior officer approached you sheepishly, his shoulders curled inward like he was bracing for impact. "Colonel Xia requests that his usual coffee be brought to his office. He said...you'd know how he takes it."

You blinked. "Excuse me? You want me...to fetch the Colonel's coffee?"

"Yes, ma'am. Those were his words."

It took a full second for the words to land, and then you almost laughed. "It's almost midnight. I'm off the clock," you snapped impatiently. 

The junior officer looked pained. "I...he insisted it be you."

You turned on your heel and stalked to the breakroom so fast you nearly knocked the poor bastard flat. Then you made the damn drink, the coffee machine hissing too cheerfully for your mood. You stared at it like it had personally betrayed you.

Your pride was stacked like dynamite behind your ribs, and the bitter scent of roasted beans filled the sterile room. You stared at the steaming cup in your hand and considered dumping engine oil in it. You were making coffee for a man who'd once stood three feet away from your brother's sealed casket without a single word of remorse.

Then another petty thought slithered into your mind, inspired by the elementary school version of you who held grudges like oaths. You could spit in his coffee and he'd be none the wiser. But no, you were not a child. 

When you arrived at his office, Caleb looked up from his desk suspiciously. 

You set his drink down with more force than necessary, just shy of a slam. "Orders up."

He didn't thank you, staring down with an intensity that could've peeled paint from steel.

"What? You think I poisoned it?" You raised a brow. "Maybe you shouldn't ask people you don't trust to handle your beverages."

His gaze narrowed. "If it's harmless, you wouldn't mind taking the first sip."

The audacity. First, a glorified errand girl, and now his personal food tester?

"If I wanted to kill you, Colonel, I wouldn't use something so juvenile as poison."

You considered throwing the cup in his face, but you had never been one for theatrical displays. When he pushed it toward you, you lifted it to your lips, letting the vile liquid scald your tongue. 

You grimaced. "You really drink this sludge willingly? What are you, part engine?"

Without responding, he stood to take the cup back, his fingers brushing the spot your lips had touched. Then, without breaking eye contact, he drank from the same place you had.

He met your glare without flinching, as if saying, I see your anger, and I will raise you discomfort until you shatter.

"Good to know I can trust your judgment, even with coffee."

Your next words were out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. "Sir, I'm beginning to wonder whether I was assigned as your second-in-command or your executive assistant."

Caleb's lips twitched. "Is there a problem?"

"I just want to be certain I'm fulfilling the expectations of the role."

"You are. Perfectly."

You searched his face for anything—malice or mockery—but his expression was impassive.

After the coffee incident, something in you fractured. You didn't start out trying to be petty, but you were tired, and tired people did reckless things. Especially tired people with full access to every system Caleb Xia touched. In hindsight, that was an unrealistic level of trust for someone he clearly suspected. 

You'd been pulling double shifts for weeks now, spending your days enduring the Colonel's smug orders and your nights half-conscious in the reactor lab, trying to keep your side project alive.

So when you stared down at the endless stack of reports he expected you to sift through—personnel evaluations, damage assessments, duty rosters—all of it something he could've reviewed digitally in half the time, you decided to stop being a doormat. 

You slipped one file into the wrong pile, marking a requisition form from two months ago with a red tag that made it look urgent. It was completely unrelated to anything happening now, but enough to waste twenty minutes of Caleb's precious time and make him bark at the wrong officer.

Next, when his weekly mission report got sent to the wrong printer, accidentally of course, you didn't correct it. You just let it sit five floors away, and when he messaged asking where the hell it went, you took your sweet time replying. 

"Must've been a routing glitch, sir. Maybe the system's lagging. You could always walk down and retrieve it. Stretch your legs."

Then came the real fun.

You started adjusting his calendar. Three-minute overlaps. Swapping meeting rooms and forcing him to sprint across two floors to make it on time. He started arriving early to everything just in case.

It was easy to feign ignorance, but you noticed the way he would glare at you in those moments, like he was waiting for you to confess. 

He was a man of precision, so during every mission briefing, you made sure his mic's calibration was just slightly off. The feedback was a little too sharp, and it was enough to draw a few startled glances. He fixed it within seconds, of course, but you caught the tick in his jaw.

By the third month, the bags under your eyes had gone from subtle shadows to outright bruises. Caleb had stopped trying to hide the way he studied you, half calculation, half curiosity, like he was trying to crack a cipher and was starting to hate the code.

Because you still got the work done. You still filed your reports, showed up at every meeting and every duty rotation, even if your eyelids fluttered and your voice was growing thinner with each passing day.

The more tired you got, the pettier you became.

You started rerouting his door sensors so they opened half a second late. Not enough to trigger a repair report, but enough to annoy him. You delayed his comm signal one cycle, so his input always came in a fraction after someone else had already spoken, and his alerts pinged five seconds later than usual, long enough to miss the first call. You subtly changed the temperature setting in his office by a few degrees. One day slightly too cold, the next barely too warm. You even programmed the hallway lights outside the room to flicker, but only when he walked past.

They were all childishly insignificant rebellions, but they were immensely satisfying. 

Maybe you wanted to see him feel something for once, even if it was frustration. Maybe you just wanted proof that he was human, because right now, you hated him too much for him to be anything else.

Caleb, on the other hand, never directly confronted you, but he started giving you longer, unnecessarily complicated errands that took you through the most inconvenient routes. Then there was the coffee, of course. You thought you'd made your point after that humiliating performance, but the man was incorrigible. He'd request it again every few days. Never directly. Always through another officer, and always with an air of plausible deniability.

You made it every time, and when you delivered it to his desk, he'd watch you with those goddamn eyes and make you take the first sip. Then, like a ritual, he'd drink from the exact same place your lips had touched.

He was enjoying this too. 

It was well past midnight, and you sat hunched over a circuit board, the smell of solder and melting alloy thick in your nostrils, your fingers trembling from a cocktail of caffeine, overexertion, and sleeplessness. The light above your workstation flickered faintly, casting dull gold across the edges of your tools.

In the background, looping through the static-clogged speaker of the overhead system, your brother's favourite song played again. It had been on repeat for several hours now, and you both loathed and needed it in equal measure. 

It was like picking at a wound every time it would scab over, but the silence was worse. You couldn't bear it, especially in this place that he used to linger in after hours, where he teased you for being too much of a perfectionist. 

His hours as a junior officer were more humane than yours, but he always stuck around waiting for you. In fact, the only reason he had even been here was because it was your dream to work for one of the nation's most prestigious organizations. It was your dream that killed him. 

You sniffled, hastily brushing your wrist over your cheek. You had no time for this. You were rushing to finish your team's prototype before sunrise, knowing you'd miss the presentation tomorrow. The final unveiling of something you'd worked so hard to build. And why? Because you had to attend some mind-numbing strategy meeting as Colonel Xia's fucking secretary.

The thought made your soldering hand twitch too hard, nearly frying a wire and burning your fingers in the process. You let out a string of expletives. 

When the door slid open, you didn't even look up. You knew the cadence of that stride too well by now, and you were halfway to biting your own tongue off before the fury spilled out of you.

"Of course," you muttered, "why wouldn't the Colonel show up to ruin what little peace I have left?"

Caleb didn't reply right away, stopping just inside the threshold to survey the space. "Enjoying yourself, are you?" His frigid tone made the temperature in the room drop by several degrees. 

"Oh, immensely," you drawled, glancing at him over your shoulder. "Who doesn't love getting metal fumes in their eyes at two in the morning?"

You set your soldering iron down and blinked rapidly. The burning sting reminded you—too late—that you had forgotten to put on your safety goggles again. Your watering eyes betrayed you, and you blinked harder, pretending to inspect a nearby tool so he wouldn't see the redness or the sheen gathering in the corners of your lashes.

Caleb took a step closer. "You've been busy lately."

"Yes. My workload has doubled thanks to you."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then enlighten me, sir."

"The scheduling errors. The misrouted transmissions. The false alarm in Bay Six."

"Sounds like a lot of administrative chaos. You might want to speak to your secretary about that. Your actual secretary."

"I am," he returned coolly. "And I'm observing a pattern. You tampered with the launch logs today."

"I fixed a misfiled routing loop. You're welcome."

His tone sharpened. "You don't have that kind of clearance as my—"

"But I do have that sort of clearance!" Your eyes were really burning now, and you weren't sure if it was the soldering fumes, the lack of sleep, or that awful tendency from childhood to cry whenever you were frustrated. "You keep on forgetting that I'm not just here to fetch your coffee and arrange your calendar. I was running propulsion schematics while you were still..."

Caleb's lips twitched with amusement. "Is this where you say, while I was still learning how to walk?"

"Judging by your competence, that was probably last year, so yes. Yes, I was."

"Perhaps you should've stayed in your workshop if you wanted to avoid responsibility."

As if you had a choice. 

"You've got some fucking nerve," you snapped. "Coming into my space at this hour to scold me like I'm one of your little soldiers."

Caleb shrugged. "I came because I expected professionalism. Forgive me for assuming we could have a mature discussion about your antics."

That was the last straw, and you stood so suddenly your stool screeched against the floor. "Professionalism? You mean the professionalism I show when I make your drinks? Or the reports you make me deliver in person, because God forbid you send an email like a normal person? Or do you mean the professionalism I've shown while letting you humiliate me in front of every officer in this fleet? You let them call me every name in the book and say nothing at all, and mind you, I do not need you to defend me, but everyone knows they'll only stop if a man tells them to!"

Caleb's face remained stoic, but his silence was telling. You were getting to him. 

Good. 

"I have one place where I can breathe freely," you continued. "One place where I still feel like I'm doing the job I worked so hard for. So you can't just come in here and defile it, simply because you feel like it."

When he took a step forward, you matched it, refusing to be cornered.

"You think this is a game?" he inquired softly.

"No, I think this is a job. In fact, I'm doing two of them, and I'm doing a hell of a better job than you are. All you do is get people killed and pretend it's leadership."

Caleb's expression darkened with the kind of danger that only existed in the seconds after a gun misfired.

There was no other warning before the very air collapsed inward, as though a singularity had bloomed in the center of the room. Your ears popped, and the pressure struck you from every direction at once.

When your legs buckled beneath the impossible weight, you reached out instinctively to catch yourself, your hand fumbling against the cluttered edge of your workstation. A solder scraper tore a gash into your palm, and you slipped anyway, the blood-slicked metal clattering to the ground as your knees slammed hard against the floor. The gravity was unbearable, like the air itself wanted to crush you.

When you looked up at Caleb, trembling under the invisible force he commanded, he was serene. 

“Say that again,” he ordered. “Go on. Tell me more about what I do. About who I kill.”

You bared your teeth, but then he tilted his head in contemplation. 

“You know, it’s funny. The way you talk, anyone would think you weren’t the one who pushed your brother into joining the Fleet.”

Your blood ran cold. “What?”

He stepped closer, and you could feel your joints ache beneath the force of his will. “What, you think I haven't read your files. You were the golden one, weren’t you? He just wanted to keep up. Wanted to impress you. Look where that got him.”

“Shut up.”

Caleb smiled faintly. “Maybe the guilt you’re so desperate to dump on me belongs to you. Not the first time I've been made a scapegoat for someone else's inadequacy.”

Your vision went white. “Don’t you dare pretend you know anything about me.”

“Oh, but I think I do. You talk like I held the gun, but really, he died chasing your shadow.”

“You were his hero," you snarled. "He followed you into that mission with stars in his goddamn eyes, and you let him die like he was nothing.”

Caleb flinched. The gravity around you warped tighter than before, pinning your arms to your sides. "No, you made him want to be a hero. I simply let him try. Too bad he didn't have it in him.”

Your stomach turned. The air kept pressing down, and your vision blurred from the pain in your hand and the shame clawing its way up your gullet. 

“He died under your command,” you hissed. “And the only reason you’re still standing is because I haven’t put you in the ground yet.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, and the only sound was your brother’s music, still looping behind you, soft and sweet and impossibly cruel.

You barely had time to flinch before Caleb was right above you. His presence pressed against your skin like violence waiting to be unleashed, and his hands hovered near your head, twitching with hesitation. He looked like he didn’t know what he wanted: to cradle your face like something precious, or to grab a fistful of your hair and wrench your head back until your neck snapped to attention.

What he ended up doing was something halfway. His fingers threaded into your hair with an unexpected intimacy, tightening just enough to sting. “Oh? Is that your grand plan now? Kill me? Put me in the ground right next to your brother and call it justice?”

You didn’t answer, but the flicker in your expression must’ve betrayed something, because his smirk widened, venomous and knowing.

He leaned closer, and his breath grazed your cheek. “I know all about you. Your late-night meetings with the Admiral. The hours you spend in his office, talking about me.”

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

His grip tightened, and when he spoke again, it was darker. If it had been anyone else but him, you might have thought that was...jealousy in his tone? But it couldn't possibly be. 

“You get cozy in his office, feeding him reports about how I'm unfit and dangerous. What does he do in return, hmm?” Caleb's lip curled maliciously. “Does he stroke your ego? Or does he stroke something else?”

Disgust flared in your throat. “What the fuck did you just say—”

“Come now, don’t act innocent. You play all the parts so well. Loyal soldier, mourning sister, reluctant assistant. But let’s not forget how you got this position in the first place.” He crouched, eyes locked to yours. “You nearly killed Liam.”

The accusation struck like a slap, and you scowled. “What? I didn’t even know him. Why the hell would I—”

The moment the denial left your lips, the density around you became overwhelming. Your bones protested against the strain, achingly close to crumbling to dust. Caleb's hand slid lower, almost digging into the soft flesh of your jaw. Your face was tilted up, forced to meet his eyes. 

“Do. Not. Lie to me.” He had lost all pretense of calm. “I don’t appreciate liars. And I despise traitors.”

A strangled sound left your throat, but you could do little else. 

“You think you're the first person who’s tried to kill me?” he whispered. “You’re not. Do you want to know what happened to the last few?”

You didn’t answer, and he didn’t wait.

“Do you know what it feels like to have every bone in your body pulverized at once?”

Your blood ran cold.

“Most people assume it to be quick. Merciful and instant.” A quiet chuckle vibrated against your cheek. “It’s not. The ribs go first. You can actually hear them crack. Then your lungs collapse. Can’t scream without lungs, can you?”

You couldn't help the shudder that went through you.

“Next come the limbs. They don’t shatter all at once. Your own skeleton turns against you, and the skull…it doesn't explode, like in the movies. It implodes. Like a delicate egg in a fist.”

"You—"

“I’ve done it before,” he added lazily. “So, tell me, Engineer, which method would you prefer?”

His gloved fingers brushed over the bloodied lower lip you'd been chewing on, prying it from between your teeth. Then they trailed higher, up your cheekbone, and over the ridge beneath your eye.

“Or shall I come up with something new, just for you?”

A single tear slipped free and trailed down your cheek. You didn't even know it had fallen until Caleb caught it with his thumb. 

“Ah,” he murmured, studying your mouth like it was something he could read, “so there is something left inside you after all.”

Without a word, he took your hand. You didn’t give it to him. You couldn’t have, but he took it anyway. The same hand you’d sliced open rested in his palm now, dwarfed and vulnerable, like a broken wing.

"Still bleeding," Caleb noted to himself.

You tried to snatch it back, but the gravity around you pulsed tighter, slamming you back into stillness.

“Don’t. Let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”

Then he pressed his thumb directly into the cut.

A gasp tore from your throat, and if you had been allowed any movement, your spine would have arched in pain. The kind of pain that hijacked your pulse and burned through your veins. Your vision blurred again, not from rage this time, but from the fresh tears threatening to spill over.

Caleb's expression didn’t change, eagerly studying the way your lashes fluttered with the effort not to give him the satisfaction. His thumb dragged lazily through the torn flesh of your palm, where the blood had pooled, half-dried and tacky. The sting was unbearable, but you refused to cry out, swallowing the sound, which seemed to annoy him greatly. 

"Didn't expect you to bleed so easily," he muttered. "Didn't think traitors could...feel."

You bit your tongue so hard you tasted iron. “Get your hands off me.”

He ignored you, pressing the wound again, just hard enough to be cruel. When he raised his hand to examine his fingertips, he almost looked revenant. Then, without breaking eye contact, he brought it to his own mouth.

His thumb dragged across the curve of his lower lip with a gentleness that made your stomach churn. Now, his mouth was stained red too—not quite a kiss, not quite a cut—but something blasphemous between the two.

“Now we match,” he hummed.

And you did. No one else had ever been this close. No one had dared, and maybe he knew it. Maybe he was staking his claim before anyone else could. Before anyone else could trace their mouth with your wound and make your pain feel so horribly personal.

He was your grotesque mirror of sorts, until he licked his lips, and the blood dispersed. 

Your eyes widened in alarm, but Caleb's burned with an unexpected hunger, like something inside him had finally stirred.

"I wonder what you'll tell the Admiral during your meeting tomorrow," he mused. "If you wanted me dead, you should’ve tried a little harder. I expected better from our resident overachiever."

Then, the pressure vanished, and his hand dropped from your face, as if he’d never touched you at all. When he stood, composure wrapped around him like a second uniform once more. 

You collapsed forward, catching yourself with trembling hands, gasping in shallow breaths. Blood from your sliced hand smeared across the metal flooring, the scent of it mixing with solder and machine oil. 

You resisted the urge to retch, and when you looked up again, he was already halfway to the door. He paused there momentarily, like he, too, was trying to remember how to breathe.

"I didn't come here to fight you," he stated in place of a farewell, and you nearly flung a wrench at his head. 

"Then maybe next time, stay the fuck out of my workshop," you grunted hoarsely. 

He was gone before you had a chance to say anything else, leaving you on your knees in the ruin of what used to be your safe haven, the imprint of his hand burning on your skin, and your lungs rattling in your chest.

Eventually, your shaky breaths turned to gasps. Then sobs. Then something far worse.

You clutched your wounded hand close, wishing it could anchor you and stop the shaking in your ribs. But it couldn’t. The sting of torn flesh now burned with something fouler, as if Caleb's touch had left an infection behind. Not of the body, but the soul.

Your brother’s favourite song still played in the background, sounding so heartbreakingly bright against the wreck that you’d become.

You hadn’t cried when the message had first come, or when they handed you his medals and buried what was left of him with the wrong flowers. You'd held it all in for months, but now you were unravelling, unable to stop the ugly sobs that tore out of you. You collapsed onto your forearms, forehead against the cold floor where your blood was smeared in a shameful halo, and wept.

Everything hurt. Your body, your bones, and your pride. Your chest felt like it had caved in, and something enormous and invisible was sitting on it, refusing to move. You didn’t even know what you were crying for anymore. The pain? The humiliation? The fear? Or your little brother, whom you were supposed to protect?

Maybe Caleb was right, and he had died chasing after you. Maybe he just wanted to make you proud, and instead, you let him run toward his death. 

This was all your fault.

You should have just taken that other offer after graduation—the miserable, low-paying tech repair job. You’d have been bored out of your mind, but alive. Your brother would have been alive. 

If only you’d had the courage to say no to Admiral Harkins and his smug conspiracies. This stupid spy game of his would kill you one way or another, you were sure of it. Either he would make good on his threats when your updates remained empty and useless, or Caleb would finish what he started today. 

But maybe you deserved to die. 

You had nothing. No family. No safety. No one in your corner.

Just the memory of the Colonel's fingers in your wounds, and the Admiral’s leash around your throat. You were made entirely of memory.

The song overhead reset again, a backdrop to your weeping as you rotted away in the shadow of the one person you couldn't save.

Taglist: @astudyoftimeywimeystuff @mi-yaw @userjunhuii @yahumankdj @twismare @missybabes @elielielira @kazbrkker @sylusgirlie7 @velvtcherie

(lemme know if you want to be added to the general LADS fic taglist or just updates for this particular fic, cuz I don't wanna bother ppl with tags but I also don't want yall to miss out ❤️)

[yeompei]

emperor!sylus x apothecary!reader. inspired by the apothecary diaries.

The waft of brewed pomegranate drifts through the air. It’s a tasteful cloud that dances at the tip of your tongue even without opening your mouth. Thankfully, unlike that of mint leaves or mugwort, the emperor’s preference to the fruit allows a welcome fragrance that invites something warm. It’s a perfect facade to lure in faulty individuals under the guise of a blanket draped over your shoulders on a chilly night.

For as long as you’ve been appointed, the emperor holds himself to a reasonably fearsome reputation. Spoken of as the fiercest ruler in history’s records, he’s a relentless, merciless power who sat on the throne. Most importantly, his own court was deterred by him. They answered to every beck and call, afraid that the smallest error would have their head on a pike.

You found it ridiculous, so to speak. 

You carried yourself in the manner, for your steps towards the emperor wherever he resided is always in confident stride compared to the cowardly steps everyone else took.

Where pomegranate was pungent in the parlor where beheadings would frequent, it was sweeter the moment you stepped through the doors. Answering, out of annoyance, another summon from Sylus.

With a furrowed brow and an indignant huff, you shut the doors behind you.

Sitting behind a low table was the man himself, resting in comfort. The rest of his royal robes discarded except one. Loose pale silk that spills out to reveal his bare chest, pathetically clinging to the edges of his shoulders as his outstretched arm rests on a propped knee. 

A gold pipe with intricate, regal carvings rests between his fingers—and with your presence, he slowly turns his head.

Unlike with his other servants, the rigidness of his sharp features melts into a playful smirk when you’re within his line of sight.

His shameless display stirs warmth within you. Despite the blush tickling your cheeks, it doesn’t sway your frustrations. You lift your sleeves to hover before the lower half of your face and bow, “Your Majesty. The servants said it was urgent.”

“You don’t have to be so formal when it’s just the two of us.”

He sighs with indifference, bringing the pipe back to his lips for a brief moment before setting it down on the mahogany surface. For a moment, you think you see him puff his chest like a child who was just told no.

“Why you insist,” he continues, tilting his chin towards you. “Beyond my simple instruction… it makes you reckless. Defying me with such an attitude.”

“I am neither consort nor servant. I don’t have any reason to speak to you like the cowards you string like puppets.”

You had always been sharp-tongued in your privacies with Sylus. It was a privilege you took advantage of considerably, and for someone as mindful as yourself, you knew when the moment was right to make use of that. 

But the silence that was typically unperturbed between you two felt heavier. 

Sylus’ gaze felt sharper as he stood. 

You didn’t know whether to keep yourself grounded like always, or make a run for it.

Was this the feeling that all the attendants carried on with every day?

“You’re a foolish girl,” he exhales, chuckling as he approaches you. Dark ruby eyes find yours, then his fingers cup your chin to tilt upwards.

“So brash, aren’t you?”

You observe his disheveled appearance; but even with those long, silver tresses out of place, he looked so much more captivating. If he weren’t an emperor with deathly prowess, he’s walking temptation incarnate. Even for you, who always resisted brothels and debauched districts, Sylus carried a presence filled with nothing but silent seduction. 

Whether it was pleasure or punishment, he was irresistable.

“...Sylus,” you finally relent, your voice quieter in embarrassment of addressing him so casually. 

“Why did you call for me? You said it was important.”

“It was.”

The emperor smiles, shifting the soft grip of his fingers into his knuckles running along the side of your neck. His touch was warm, despite it being this minimal sensation. You can’t find it in yourself to pull away from his gaze.

Sylus then cups your face, pulling you from your thoughts. He had prepared himself for a rather vulnerable declaration, until his thumb brushed against your cheek. Even in the dim light of his chambers, he could make out the slightly reddened skin, giving a low hum. Gone in seconds was his playful gaze—his eyes narrow.

You were stricken only moments ago, as you were on your way to him.

“Who did this to you?”

You grimace, pushing away his hand as you turn your head.

“It was nothing. Just some of your untouched consorts. Petty jealousy and all.”

“No.” He demands, guiding you to look at him again, “Is harassment frequent for you here? I want the truth.”

It truly wasn’t bothersome. You expected the treatment in an environment like the imperial palace. And for all the tyranny that word of mouth made Sylus out to be, you encountered it more frequently with his hires than the emperor himself. It was either tyrannical ego or cowardly devotion. Both extremes at the betting hand of winning his favor.

Something that was given to you so easily. An apothecary who entertained him more than anything else in all his years of living; surviving until he wound up where he is now.

“You’ll execute them if I say yes, won’t you?”

Sylus smiles, a ferocious glimmer in his eyes. 

“Is that what you truly desire?”

© SYHLI 2025. DO NOT TRANSLATE, COPY, OR FEED TO TRAIN A/I.