hawnks

[hawnks]

word count: 5,000

rated: M

[hurt/comfort, touch starved caleb, overprotective caleb, loss of identity, gentle yandere, playing house to regain some sense of normalcy, incidental kidnapping (oops), anxiety attacks, allusions to canon-typical violence, canon-divergence]

Everything comes unraveled to a single, fragile thread. The loadstar of Caleb's life has always been you.

For better or worse.

.........................................................................................

They take his arm.

He doesn’t fight back, because how could he? Strapped to a stretcher, body ravaged by the blast. Darkness crept over him like twilight.

You’ve been taken in by a friend, they tell him — safe. The unspoken “for now” is enough to keep him docile as they wheel him into surgery, pliant to every needle they stick him with. It doesn’t matter what happens to him. Safe, he reminds himself, a mantra. You’re safe.

He does manage one question, before he goes under. “Will I be able to feel anything with it?”

“Only what you need to,” the surgeon informs him.

When he wakes, he realizes that amounts to shockingly little. Sensation is limited to what will keep him functional. Pressure, and pain, and the hideous emptiness when he pushes past the limit and the delicate circuits fry, when it goes dead in the socket. 

He doesn’t get cool spring rain, or a warm cup of coffee. Not a cat’s purr, or a velvet soft blanket.

Not your hand in his.

…

There’s no pride in it.

They praise him for his strength, his ruthlessness, his unflinching demeanor. “You have a real talent for this,” the professor tells him. “You know exactly where to apply the pressure.”

He couldn’t care less. 

It’s all transactional. He does what he has to, because he has to. To keep you alive, to keep Ever away from you. To hold everything at bay by a fraying thread.

He has a vague notion of the future. After he’s wiped out your enemies, brought equilibrium to the Farspace Fleet, he’ll come crawling back to you. Someday, he thinks, a gallows kind of longing. Fantasies of you in the early morning, sipping coffee from the same mug. A kiss goodbye at the door, love you see you soon. Both of your names on the lease. Delusions that become the tentpole keeping him from simply collapsing. 

Someday, this will all be worth it. Someday, he’ll figure out how to come home.

But then he gets the alert. Watches with white knuckled fists as you navigate the snake pit of the Fleet ship. Put yourself directly in harm’s way.

He feels untethered from himself, like he’s watching from above as he cuffs you down. He’s been in this interrogation room a hundred times, gone through these motions without a single drop of remorse. Without any emotion at all.

He forces himself into that passionless space again, boxes himself up until he can be sure he won’t fall to his knees at the precious sight of you.

He can’t be gentle with you, not with so many eyes watching, but it’s a means to an end. It’s a side of him you’ve never met before, and he can see you assessing him, making your calculations as shock turns to rueful disillusion. 

When the mag lock disengages and you’re free, you’re quick to your feet. Hands flexing at your side, itching for a weapon that’s long since been confiscated. 

You’re ready for a fight — ready to fight against him. 

He boxes himself up again before the desperation can set in, excising anything that might jeopardize this moment. 

“Hey Pip-squeak. Miss me?”

He talks to you, at you. It’s an interrogation technique, an easy fallback. Targets body languages, non-verbal response.

He loses track of what he’s saying. Words feel odd in his mouth, the shape of them strange and crass. None of them are right. None of them will stop you from feeling like a cornered animal.

You hardly react at all, but he can see the tells. A twitch of your hand, a split-second hesitation to meet his stare. He knows you. Can see you, confused and hurt and guarded. He searches for any inkling of solace, relief that you could meet him again. You return his gaze with the impassive cynicism of a stranger.

You look at him with your sweet, clear eyes, and you see right through to what’s at the very heart of him.

Nothing. 

…

He keeps you — he has to. What other choice does he have, besides losing you, which isn’t an option at all.

He can see the plans forming, how you mark the doors and windows, glance at the clock whenever he comes or goes. He never expected to be something you needed to escape from — the opposite, in fact. He wanted to make himself a safe haven, something to hide behind when the world gets too big and scary. 

When you were little, you used to do that. You came to him with your problems, your fears. There’s never been a day when he wasn’t bigger, stronger than you. You could vanish into his shadow, and only he’d know you were there.

Part of him wishes that weren’t the case, now. That you didn’t view him as a threat every time he leans over you to reach the shelf you’re struggling for. 

You shove him away, on the defensive again. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

He wasn’t trying to, but Fleet training is a hard habit to kick. 

He clutches the box of crackers with both hands, has to stop himself from hugging it to his chest. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He forces himself to laugh, wry, invulnerable.

“Sure, Colonel,” you respond. “Why can’t I leave, then?”

You hold your hand out. He places the box in your palm with the delicacy of a moth landing.

“We just reunited, and you’re already thinking about ditching me?” 

You stare at him for a moment, measuring his response. Examining every angle of it like the key to some arcane puzzle. Silent, you take your thoughts with you, back to your room, determined to solve this alone.

This time, he is the problem. He is the fear. 

…

Day seven, he sees you eyeing the window of his 64th level penthouse like you’re really considering it. 

So he makes your favorite. 

The memory comes easy, despite it all. He was always precise in the kitchen, never a dash or a pinch. The control had been both a blessing and a curse, perfect dishes with no creativity. 

With love, he’d always respond when you asked how he made something. You never stopped asking.

He’d convinced Josephine that you didn’t need to learn, he could handle the cooking. He could do the laundry, the cleaning, the shopping. And if he was around always, you’d never need to figure it out. 

When you were hungry, you came to him. He liked that. 

You recognize it immediately when he sets your plate down before you. You pause, staring down at it, your expression halfway between a grimace and a smile.

Usually you wait to eat until he’s taken a bite from your plate, just to make sure he isn’t drugging you, but he gets the sense that that isn’t what's on your mind tonight.

He wants to ask you if he got it wrong, if your taste changed since he’s been gone. You take the smallest, carefulest bite before he can get the words out.

He tries to remember who he was, back when sharing a meal with you was as simple and normal as breathing. 

He liked airplanes. He was good at flying. He had direction and passion — but it was secondary to what he really wanted. The thing about his ambitions was that everything paled in comparison to you. He’d stayed grounded forever if that’s what it took to be with you. 

He tells you about his morning. The worst cup of coffee he’s ever had. The traffic, the lady with the dyed poodle (Norman; didn’t like him). How he thought about you all day. Did you feel it? 

He doesn’t expect you to respond, though he wishes you would. The cadence is choppy, pauses for breath where at one point you would have chimed in with a quip or a question. Room for you in every mundane story, if you want it. 

How did he treat you, before all this?

People had liked him, once. Before he was the Colonel, he was friendly and trustworthy and dependable. 

He still has the muscle memory of that personality. He's quick with a joke, or to offer aid to rookies. His smile still looks the same, boyish and sweet. 

But he wears it like he wears the false skin over his prosthetic. Like something cold and mechanical, trying to be human again. That could never lure you back to loving him.

“This is good,” you murmur. 

Relief. It feels like a battle won.  “Some things never change, huh?” 

It’s the wrong thing to say, but he doesn’t know why. You excuse yourself with a quiet thank you, a look like you’ve seen a ghost. 

Maybe you have. He came back to life for you, after all. 

…

You brush your teeth side by side. You don’t talk about the explosion. You remind him that bras are done on delicate cycle. You don’t mention the arm. You wear his hoodie to sleep. You don’t ask why he never contacted you. 

Sometimes you stand in the doorway of the bathroom after he’s come home, watching as he spends long minutes washing the blood off his hands. 

You never ask. Not even when the blood is his. Just observe him in that cool, cerebral way of yours.

He wonders if he would feel better if you pitied him. If you hated him.

It’s easy to navigate the day to day with you like this, a bastion of equanimity. But part of him still balks at the fact you won’t even yell at him anymore.

He feels unhinged in the face of your composure. Restless and anxious for something tangible to latch onto, for a problem he can fix, a goal he can attain. Instead you’re in this dollhouse purgatory, days of domestic bliss passing while time seems to stand still. 

He teaches you to make bread. 

He catches you stealing glances at his hands while he takes care of the starter, so he steps to the side, giving you a better vantage. You approach in slow steps. 

“The dough is alive,” he tells you. “You have to feed it everyday, and make sure the environment is right. It’s kind of like having a pet.”

He unlids the jar, hands it to you. You take it with both hands — sniff it. 

“Yeah,” he says, laughing at your expression. “It’s not very appetizing yet.” 

He measures out the ingredients to add, careful to never block your view. You stay with him the whole afternoon, watching as he shapes it, scores the top for the crust. He does little stars, just for you. 

The interest in the bread wears off shortly, but you watch Caleb himself raptly. His movements, his little explanations. 

When the bread is finally in the oven, he sits with you at the island. For the first time since he brought you home, you stay with him, voluntarily. 

Angel, he wants to call you. Something holy, out of reach. 

He's never been religious, but most pilots are. 

Caleb's first wingman used to pass the time telling him stories. "I saw a plane become a fireball in less than a second," he said, once. "Like a trick of the light." 

Religious plot was easier to accept than sheer luck. The wingman had visited every faith, could pray to any god that might mitigate the circumstances. Most scripture is just ghost stories, though. The dead rising. The slaughter of kin. A god at the gates of heaven, who weighed every human heart on their sacred scale — a measure of sin. 

He wants to tell you this too, gets the urge to turn over every corner of himself, so you can know him again. But then he would have to tell you how his wingman went down somewhere over the ocean, not in flames, but in the crushing depths. 

What part of his life isn’t founded in tragedy? Is there anything he could tell you that wouldn’t make you terribly sad? 

He turns to you to ask — what would you want to know about him — but comes up short.

You’re already looking at him; you don’t want to know anything. 

He looks into your eyes and suddenly he's in the Deepspace Tunnel again, adrift in an endless, starless sky. 

Later, he would realize it had only taken him a week before he crashed back into mapped territory. Logically, he accepted this, but a part of him still knew he'd been lost for much, much longer. Starving, bored, alone, entire lifetimes had come and gone as hope and reality began to diverge, and he realized he would never make it out of that fathomless dark. He would die out there in uncharted Deepspace. 

It had been a relief to finally turn off his homing beacon. Death was a finite thing; the unknown was not.  

The truth is, he didn't want to follow the light that finally lead him home. Optimism felt insincere, dangerous even. It would hurt, to be let down again, and pain was the one thing he had left to fear. 

He'd never told you about that incident. Or that sometimes he thinks he never really made it out. He can still feel that creeping darkness so viscerally, sometimes he loses track of himself, forgets where he is altogether. Echoing back and forth between the kitchen table and the abyss. 

"Caleb?" you say, calling him back. "Hey." 

You press a few fingers to his sleeve. Hardly any pressure, the touch as light as a butterfly. Is this the first time you've reached out to him, of your own volition?

He wants more. Wants you to take him in your hands and squeeze as hard as you can, harder than the crushing vacuum of space. 

He wants to feel your skin on his skin. 

He wants to hold your hand. 

He manages a smile. "Hey, Kid." 

You're closer now. Not in his space, yet, but close enough that it's become an option. "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing," he says. His arm twitches, jostling your hold on him. 

It's the metal one. He's tried his best to always keep it covered when you're around. "Just... spacing out." 

He glances at you, afraid to see pity, disgust.

You look back at him with nothing but that startling clarity of yours. Something has shifted. A fraction of emotion, a sudden slant in your judgment. A realization tipping the scale. 

...

You send him off at the door the next morning, greet him when he comes home. When he asks for dinner ideas, you offer one. When he puts on a cheesy romcom, you join him on the couch. 

It feels surreal in a whole new way. 

And then he realizes that this is a death-row kiss. 

The next morning you’re at the door, in your hunter uniform. He hasn’t seen you in it since he brought you here two weeks ago. You’re just strapping into your shoes when he catches you, heart in his throat.

His body is tense, caught somewhere between fight or flight, though there’s nowhere to run, no one to fight. “You’re leaving?”

“For now.”

“Then why is my life flashing before my eyes?” The joke falls flat. He can’t even force a smile.

“You’ll live.” Finished with your shoes, you rise and face him. “Since when has the door been unlocked, Caleb?”

Since you asked. Since he can never deny you anything. “A while.”

For the first time in a long time, you smile.

“I’ll come back,” you tell him.

…

And you do.

Again, and again, and again. 

Until, finally, he believes you.

…

You see him off at the door every morning, with a wave and a warning to be good, Colonel.

He pays you a salute, and a diligent yes ma’am. 

It’s your routine, perfect and strange. 

But today, you break the mold. 

He turns to you, waits for your order. But you’re looking at him, contemplative. You take a step forward. Another. Adjust his lapels, tweak one of his buttons. With your hands already on him, it’s so easy to just slide them a little further, until your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, your face right next to his.

He’s too stunned to react, to move. It’s been so long since someone has touched him like this, with any tenderness at all. He hadn’t wanted it from anyone but you, anyway. 

“God,” you say, relieved, grateful, ”you’re so warm.”

Your voice breaks the spell, letting him escape the freeze, wrap his arms around you in turn. 

It feels like a discovery, something brand new when he realizes. 

You’re warm too. 

…

It was never something as simple as love. 

From the moment he met you, he knew you were his. Not like owned, but like responsibility. Which is why yours are the only notifications set to go through no matter the time or place.

Should he be checking his phone at morning debrief? No, but the Farspace Fleet can go to hell, if you need him. 

Can you grab some stuff for me on your way home? you text him.  

You don't wait for an answer, sending your list immediately. You always include pictures, just to make sure he gets it right. Not that he would ever let you down. 

So high maintenance :p he returns. 

But he wouldn't have it any other way. You're high maintenance because he wants you to be. Desperate for you to need any favor of him, just so he can fulfill it. 

Because he'd die for you, but you'd never ask him to. 

Picking up your pads is the next best thing. 

...

It's a delicate equilibrium. 

You chafe in his care, and you straying too far agitates him. 

You purposely wait until he's at work to tell him of your plans. Going out tonight. Be back late.

It’s the first time you’ve been out after dark since you realized the door was open.

The sun sets around him. He shrinks to the dark, numbs with it. Wonders how long it will be before he simply fades out of existence, until he's lost forever, until he's nothing but empty, empty, empty—

The door opens, sending a vault of light across entryway. You emerge from it like salvation. 

"Aren't you going to welcome me back, Colonel?" 

He takes a breath. And another. "Welcome home, Kid." 

He bends for you, a solid place to put your hands as you slip out of your shoes, stretch the feeling back into your toes. 

You drop your bag, start shucking your jewelry, dropping it to the floor in a glittering heap. You tilt your head, baring your throat to let Caleb fiddle with the tricky clasps. 

When he's done, he pulls you close, so he can curl over you, press his lips to your pulse. You smell like faded perfume and sweat and someone else's cologne.  

"Who did you dance with?" 

You tense, not liking the question. Still, you answer, "Tara's friend." 

He half expected you to deny it altogether, but the admission soothes something in him. A test, a compromise. You're both seeing how much ground you can cede before losing yourselves altogether. 

"How much did you drink?"

"A lot." 

"Was it just Tara and her friend?" 

"Some other people from work." 

"Did you have a good time?" 

You nod. "Saved a dance for you." 

He draws your arms around his neck, lifting until your toes dangle off the ground, walking you backwards into the bathroom. 

The light here is brighter, the room less shadowed. He turns on the shower, letting it warm before going back to you. 

He unzips your dress, savoring the way you shudder as his fingers slip down your bare spine. Kneeling, he wiggles it down your hips, your thighs. Your hands braced against his shoulders again as you step out of it, leaving it puddled on the floor. 

Your underwear is totally incongruous. 

He'd bought you these panties, back in his academy days. It was mostly a joke, the silly cartoon dog print too unsexy to be anything else. It was easier to convince himself it didn't mean anything, that way. 

The cut is modest, the fabric soft and faded. Not a scrap of lace in sight. The sight makes him smitten — how very you, to wear this under your clubwear. 

Only he'll ever see you like this. It's a relief. That he can peel you out of whatever you show to others, down to your secret, bare essentials. 

He kisses the little bow on the front before slipping them off too. "You kept these?" 

"They're comfortable." 

He comes to his full height again, drawing you against him. He rocks you, slowly, takes you with him as he sways.

"What're you doing?" you ask, muffled against his chest. 

"Dancing," he returns. "Didn't you save one for me?" 

Steam fills the room, gentle, warm. You let yourself be cradled, swayed. 

He knows you bought the dress to test him, to see if he'd balk at you showing so much skin, if he'd forbid it. Of course it rankled, but he'd never stop you. If you wanted to go out there and be a femme fatale wrapped in silk, you could -- just come home when you're done. 

You can be anything. 

But first, you have to be his. 

...

As much as he dreamed of going down on you, nothing could compare to the real thing. 

Sometimes he feels like a starved dog, nipping at your heels for any scraps you’ll give him. Sometimes he can’t help himself. He wants it all the time — perhaps more than is healthy, but when has convention ever played a role in your relationship? 

It starts playful, teasing. His hands tugging at the hem of your shirt, hip checking you, dragging his fingers up and down your arms until you shudder. He loves the way you yield, patient but pliant. How you make him work for it, a little. How you tease him back. 

When you're laid out on his bed like this, naked and beautiful, he thinks maybe he is a religious man. after all. He thinks he understands why men get on their knees to pray. 

"You're good at this," you say. An accusation. 

The other women had been mistakes. 

He hated thinking of them like that, that he was using them. He was always respectful, charming. He paid for the dates, and the hotels, drove them home after.  A perfect gentleman. 

He'd avoided dating in high school, in deference to you. He couldn't even think about kissing someone else and then coming home to you. He felt guilty thinking about anyone else. And he felt guilty about feeling guilty. 

And then he moved out and he didn't want to feel guilty anymore. So he slept around. A lot. 

Half of them were hunting for anyone who could satisfy him like even the mere thought of you could. He kept searching and searching for someone who could get him off, keep him present. But every time he would find himself closing his eyes, picturing your face. 

Half of them were a purge. If he could just fuck enough people, maybe it would be enough to cure him. He could dog-train himself out of whatever hold up he had about you. He could be better, he could be good. He didn't have to be a disgusting pervert, drooling over his adopted sister. 

And then none of that even mattered. 

And then the Deepspace Tunnel and the Farspace Fleet. The explosion. The experiments. 

By the time he was promoted to Colonel, he couldn't stand to be touched by anyone. Even the tuneups on his metal arm, contact he couldn't even feel, was grotesque to him. 

His own hands felt foreign and strange. He'd always used the right one on himself. He didn't care to adapt, now that it's gone. He hasn't touched himself in years. 

"You'd rather I be bad?" he says, ducking down for more. 

You grab his hair, tugging him back up so you can meet his eyes.

"Fine, fine," he murmurs. "I'll do it bad. The worst it's even been done. Just let me--"

He tries again, but you tighten your hold on him. "Caleb," you say, and the tone of your voice has him sitting back, alarmed. 

Why do you sound miserable? 

"Hey, hey." He takes your hands, squeezing your fingers.  "What's wrong?" 

His mind races, flitting through every possible point of failure. Did he hurt you? Scare you? Did the arm disgust you—

"Do you even like this?" you ask.

He can't help the incredulous look that crosses his face. "If you're asking me, I haven't done my job right."

"You like that I like it," you say. "That's different." 

You tug your pants back on, slide off the bed. 

Caleb barely catches you before you’re out the door, pinning you as gently as he can, shoulders against the wall.

"I do," he says. "Like it. Of course I do." 

"I don't believe you." 

"Why?" He’s nearly begging. "What can I do to make you believe me? 

You peer at him. Then glance down at his waist. 

"Was it like—" you make a vague, indecipherable gesture. He would laugh if you didn't look so earnestly concerned. "—in the explosion? Is that why you never take your pants off?" 

"No. I can assure you, everything is in working order." 

"Of course.” You roll your eyes. “It would have to be, for you to fuck all those other people." 

He winces. 

"Why won't you just talk to me about it?" you ask. And then, a little softer, "Why not me?" 

"I told you we could take it slow." 

"For my benefit, or yours?" When he struggles to form an answer; you say, "I knew it, you don't want to. This is humiliating." 

He doesn't know what else to do. You're hurting. He hurt you. 

Panicked, overwhelmed, he grabs your hand again and places it over the bulge in his baggy sweatpants. Hard. 

You both gasp at the contact, strange and new. You feel him through the fabric, getting a sense of the size and shape of him. Pause your exploration to nudge your nose against his.

"Is this okay?" you whisper.

"Will this make it better?" he says, breathless, desperate. "Will it fix things?" 

"Nothing is broken, Caleb," you return. "It's just me." 

He closes his eyes. Nods, once. 

It feels good. And bad. 

You slip your hand beneath his waistband, touch like a live wire. He can't ever remember being this sensitive. 

He makes a sound deep in his chest, hears the echoes of it in his own skull. Hungry whines. Starved dog, starved dog, starved dog. He keens to your hands, humping back against each careful stroke. 

Euphoria. Pulsing white hot through his veins, spiderweb cracks in a china vase. 

He doesn't recognize it. Not as he is now. His mind bucks, refusing to stay the course of pleasure. 

He feels the brush of dead Deepspace, all along the edges of his vision. Overtaken by sparks of gut-wrenching sensitivity. 

They spread and twine. Braid until he doesn't know what he's running from or to. 

In rescue training they practiced water crashes. He learned that in desperation, some people swim deeper, not knowing how to find the surface. 

That's where he is. In the delirium and crushing pressure, a coin toss between fresh air and doom. 

Until he peaks, and it's neither. Not heaven or hell. Not pain or pleasure. 

He comes apart in your hands, and it's you. 

Just you. 

...

He comes home in the late afternoon. Accepts your kisses with weary enthusiasm. Peels off his uniform. Stands under the spray of the shower until his hands stop shaking, until he could step out and his metal arm would be as warm as skin. 

You're waiting for him on the floor in the living room, a plastic bag gaping in front of you. You insisted you'd do the shopping for this week, so he sent you off with his blessing and credit card, knowing you'd probably forget a few things. You'd go back together, on his day off. 

You tug on his pant leg. 

"Sit," you order, bringing him down to you. 

He sits cross legged before you, watching as you pull a glossy sheet out of the bag. Stickers? 

You stare at them for a long minute, pouring all your concentration into choosing one. 

"I saw these in the checkout line and— You rise onto your knees to get a better vantage, carefully pressing the sticker to the middle of his bare, metal bicep. "There, perfect." 

You smooth your thumb over it, making sure it's really stuck. Then you pull back, beaming at your work. 

He glances down at it. A little blue airplane. It seems so incongruous on him, so cute and bright and innocent. 

"It's just gonna come off," he murmurs. 

You don't bat an eye. "I have more." 

And you do. Sheets and sheets of them. You pull out another one, stars and moons and clouds, arranging them on his prosthetic with the utmost care. 

You don't even ask. He doesn't want you to. 

He turns and shifts whenever you want him to, ever at your mercy. 

You tap one last star to his cheek, securing it with a tender peck. 

"It suits you," you say. 

It does. He wouldn't have believed it until you said it — your verdict simply makes it true. You could do anything to him, mold him from the dirt into any shape you please, rebuild him from the ground up. 

This body may not be his anymore, but it will always be yours. 

[hawnks]

[hawnks]

©️ @hanaidoodles 2025

[hawnks]

[hawnks]

Rafayel

[hawnks]

word count: 5,000

rated: M

[hurt/comfort, touch starved caleb, overprotective caleb, loss of identity, gentle yandere, playing house to regain some sense of normalcy, incidental kidnapping (oops), anxiety attacks, allusions to canon-typical violence, canon-divergence]

Everything comes unraveled to a single, fragile thread. The loadstar of Caleb's life has always been you.

For better or worse.

.........................................................................................

They take his arm.

He doesn’t fight back, because how could he? Strapped to a stretcher, body ravaged by the blast. Darkness crept over him like twilight.

You’ve been taken in by a friend, they tell him — safe. The unspoken “for now” is enough to keep him docile as they wheel him into surgery, pliant to every needle they stick him with. It doesn’t matter what happens to him. Safe, he reminds himself, a mantra. You’re safe.

He does manage one question, before he goes under. “Will I be able to feel anything with it?”

“Only what you need to,” the surgeon informs him.

When he wakes, he realizes that amounts to shockingly little. Sensation is limited to what will keep him functional. Pressure, and pain, and the hideous emptiness when he pushes past the limit and the delicate circuits fry, when it goes dead in the socket. 

He doesn’t get cool spring rain, or a warm cup of coffee. Not a cat’s purr, or a velvet soft blanket.

Not your hand in his.

…

There’s no pride in it.

They praise him for his strength, his ruthlessness, his unflinching demeanor. “You have a real talent for this,” the professor tells him. “You know exactly where to apply the pressure.”

He couldn’t care less. 

It’s all transactional. He does what he has to, because he has to. To keep you alive, to keep Ever away from you. To hold everything at bay by a fraying thread.

He has a vague notion of the future. After he’s wiped out your enemies, brought equilibrium to the Farspace Fleet, he’ll come crawling back to you. Someday, he thinks, a gallows kind of longing. Fantasies of you in the early morning, sipping coffee from the same mug. A kiss goodbye at the door, love you see you soon. Both of your names on the lease. Delusions that become the tentpole keeping him from simply collapsing. 

Someday, this will all be worth it. Someday, he’ll figure out how to come home.

But then he gets the alert. Watches with white knuckled fists as you navigate the snake pit of the Fleet ship. Put yourself directly in harm’s way.

He feels untethered from himself, like he’s watching from above as he cuffs you down. He’s been in this interrogation room a hundred times, gone through these motions without a single drop of remorse. Without any emotion at all.

He forces himself into that passionless space again, boxes himself up until he can be sure he won’t fall to his knees at the precious sight of you.

He can’t be gentle with you, not with so many eyes watching, but it’s a means to an end. It’s a side of him you’ve never met before, and he can see you assessing him, making your calculations as shock turns to rueful disillusion. 

When the mag lock disengages and you’re free, you’re quick to your feet. Hands flexing at your side, itching for a weapon that’s long since been confiscated. 

You’re ready for a fight — ready to fight against him. 

He boxes himself up again before the desperation can set in, excising anything that might jeopardize this moment. 

“Hey Pip-squeak. Miss me?”

He talks to you, at you. It’s an interrogation technique, an easy fallback. Targets body languages, non-verbal response.

He loses track of what he’s saying. Words feel odd in his mouth, the shape of them strange and crass. None of them are right. None of them will stop you from feeling like a cornered animal.

You hardly react at all, but he can see the tells. A twitch of your hand, a split-second hesitation to meet his stare. He knows you. Can see you, confused and hurt and guarded. He searches for any inkling of solace, relief that you could meet him again. You return his gaze with the impassive cynicism of a stranger.

You look at him with your sweet, clear eyes, and you see right through to what’s at the very heart of him.

Nothing. 

…

He keeps you — he has to. What other choice does he have, besides losing you, which isn’t an option at all.

He can see the plans forming, how you mark the doors and windows, glance at the clock whenever he comes or goes. He never expected to be something you needed to escape from — the opposite, in fact. He wanted to make himself a safe haven, something to hide behind when the world gets too big and scary. 

When you were little, you used to do that. You came to him with your problems, your fears. There’s never been a day when he wasn’t bigger, stronger than you. You could vanish into his shadow, and only he’d know you were there.

Part of him wishes that weren’t the case, now. That you didn’t view him as a threat every time he leans over you to reach the shelf you’re struggling for. 

You shove him away, on the defensive again. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

He wasn’t trying to, but Fleet training is a hard habit to kick. 

He clutches the box of crackers with both hands, has to stop himself from hugging it to his chest. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He forces himself to laugh, wry, invulnerable.

“Sure, Colonel,” you respond. “Why can’t I leave, then?”

You hold your hand out. He places the box in your palm with the delicacy of a moth landing.

“We just reunited, and you’re already thinking about ditching me?” 

You stare at him for a moment, measuring his response. Examining every angle of it like the key to some arcane puzzle. Silent, you take your thoughts with you, back to your room, determined to solve this alone.

This time, he is the problem. He is the fear. 

…

Day seven, he sees you eyeing the window of his 64th level penthouse like you’re really considering it. 

So he makes your favorite. 

The memory comes easy, despite it all. He was always precise in the kitchen, never a dash or a pinch. The control had been both a blessing and a curse, perfect dishes with no creativity. 

With love, he’d always respond when you asked how he made something. You never stopped asking.

He’d convinced Josephine that you didn’t need to learn, he could handle the cooking. He could do the laundry, the cleaning, the shopping. And if he was around always, you’d never need to figure it out. 

When you were hungry, you came to him. He liked that. 

You recognize it immediately when he sets your plate down before you. You pause, staring down at it, your expression halfway between a grimace and a smile.

Usually you wait to eat until he’s taken a bite from your plate, just to make sure he isn’t drugging you, but he gets the sense that that isn’t what's on your mind tonight.

He wants to ask you if he got it wrong, if your taste changed since he’s been gone. You take the smallest, carefulest bite before he can get the words out.

He tries to remember who he was, back when sharing a meal with you was as simple and normal as breathing. 

He liked airplanes. He was good at flying. He had direction and passion — but it was secondary to what he really wanted. The thing about his ambitions was that everything paled in comparison to you. He’d stayed grounded forever if that’s what it took to be with you. 

He tells you about his morning. The worst cup of coffee he’s ever had. The traffic, the lady with the dyed poodle (Norman; didn’t like him). How he thought about you all day. Did you feel it? 

He doesn’t expect you to respond, though he wishes you would. The cadence is choppy, pauses for breath where at one point you would have chimed in with a quip or a question. Room for you in every mundane story, if you want it. 

How did he treat you, before all this?

People had liked him, once. Before he was the Colonel, he was friendly and trustworthy and dependable. 

He still has the muscle memory of that personality. He's quick with a joke, or to offer aid to rookies. His smile still looks the same, boyish and sweet. 

But he wears it like he wears the false skin over his prosthetic. Like something cold and mechanical, trying to be human again. That could never lure you back to loving him.

“This is good,” you murmur. 

Relief. It feels like a battle won.  “Some things never change, huh?” 

It’s the wrong thing to say, but he doesn’t know why. You excuse yourself with a quiet thank you, a look like you’ve seen a ghost. 

Maybe you have. He came back to life for you, after all. 

…

You brush your teeth side by side. You don’t talk about the explosion. You remind him that bras are done on delicate cycle. You don’t mention the arm. You wear his hoodie to sleep. You don’t ask why he never contacted you. 

Sometimes you stand in the doorway of the bathroom after he’s come home, watching as he spends long minutes washing the blood off his hands. 

You never ask. Not even when the blood is his. Just observe him in that cool, cerebral way of yours.

He wonders if he would feel better if you pitied him. If you hated him.

It’s easy to navigate the day to day with you like this, a bastion of equanimity. But part of him still balks at the fact you won’t even yell at him anymore.

He feels unhinged in the face of your composure. Restless and anxious for something tangible to latch onto, for a problem he can fix, a goal he can attain. Instead you’re in this dollhouse purgatory, days of domestic bliss passing while time seems to stand still. 

He teaches you to make bread. 

He catches you stealing glances at his hands while he takes care of the starter, so he steps to the side, giving you a better vantage. You approach in slow steps. 

“The dough is alive,” he tells you. “You have to feed it everyday, and make sure the environment is right. It’s kind of like having a pet.”

He unlids the jar, hands it to you. You take it with both hands — sniff it. 

“Yeah,” he says, laughing at your expression. “It’s not very appetizing yet.” 

He measures out the ingredients to add, careful to never block your view. You stay with him the whole afternoon, watching as he shapes it, scores the top for the crust. He does little stars, just for you. 

The interest in the bread wears off shortly, but you watch Caleb himself raptly. His movements, his little explanations. 

When the bread is finally in the oven, he sits with you at the island. For the first time since he brought you home, you stay with him, voluntarily. 

Angel, he wants to call you. Something holy, out of reach. 

He's never been religious, but most pilots are. 

Caleb's first wingman used to pass the time telling him stories. "I saw a plane become a fireball in less than a second," he said, once. "Like a trick of the light." 

Religious plot was easier to accept than sheer luck. The wingman had visited every faith, could pray to any god that might mitigate the circumstances. Most scripture is just ghost stories, though. The dead rising. The slaughter of kin. A god at the gates of heaven, who weighed every human heart on their sacred scale — a measure of sin. 

He wants to tell you this too, gets the urge to turn over every corner of himself, so you can know him again. But then he would have to tell you how his wingman went down somewhere over the ocean, not in flames, but in the crushing depths. 

What part of his life isn’t founded in tragedy? Is there anything he could tell you that wouldn’t make you terribly sad? 

He turns to you to ask — what would you want to know about him — but comes up short.

You’re already looking at him; you don’t want to know anything. 

He looks into your eyes and suddenly he's in the Deepspace Tunnel again, adrift in an endless, starless sky. 

Later, he would realize it had only taken him a week before he crashed back into mapped territory. Logically, he accepted this, but a part of him still knew he'd been lost for much, much longer. Starving, bored, alone, entire lifetimes had come and gone as hope and reality began to diverge, and he realized he would never make it out of that fathomless dark. He would die out there in uncharted Deepspace. 

It had been a relief to finally turn off his homing beacon. Death was a finite thing; the unknown was not.  

The truth is, he didn't want to follow the light that finally lead him home. Optimism felt insincere, dangerous even. It would hurt, to be let down again, and pain was the one thing he had left to fear. 

He'd never told you about that incident. Or that sometimes he thinks he never really made it out. He can still feel that creeping darkness so viscerally, sometimes he loses track of himself, forgets where he is altogether. Echoing back and forth between the kitchen table and the abyss. 

"Caleb?" you say, calling him back. "Hey." 

You press a few fingers to his sleeve. Hardly any pressure, the touch as light as a butterfly. Is this the first time you've reached out to him, of your own volition?

He wants more. Wants you to take him in your hands and squeeze as hard as you can, harder than the crushing vacuum of space. 

He wants to feel your skin on his skin. 

He wants to hold your hand. 

He manages a smile. "Hey, Kid." 

You're closer now. Not in his space, yet, but close enough that it's become an option. "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing," he says. His arm twitches, jostling your hold on him. 

It's the metal one. He's tried his best to always keep it covered when you're around. "Just... spacing out." 

He glances at you, afraid to see pity, disgust.

You look back at him with nothing but that startling clarity of yours. Something has shifted. A fraction of emotion, a sudden slant in your judgment. A realization tipping the scale. 

...

You send him off at the door the next morning, greet him when he comes home. When he asks for dinner ideas, you offer one. When he puts on a cheesy romcom, you join him on the couch. 

It feels surreal in a whole new way. 

And then he realizes that this is a death-row kiss. 

The next morning you’re at the door, in your hunter uniform. He hasn’t seen you in it since he brought you here two weeks ago. You’re just strapping into your shoes when he catches you, heart in his throat.

His body is tense, caught somewhere between fight or flight, though there’s nowhere to run, no one to fight. “You’re leaving?”

“For now.”

“Then why is my life flashing before my eyes?” The joke falls flat. He can’t even force a smile.

“You’ll live.” Finished with your shoes, you rise and face him. “Since when has the door been unlocked, Caleb?”

Since you asked. Since he can never deny you anything. “A while.”

For the first time in a long time, you smile.

“I’ll come back,” you tell him.

…

And you do.

Again, and again, and again. 

Until, finally, he believes you.

…

You see him off at the door every morning, with a wave and a warning to be good, Colonel.

He pays you a salute, and a diligent yes ma’am. 

It’s your routine, perfect and strange. 

But today, you break the mold. 

He turns to you, waits for your order. But you’re looking at him, contemplative. You take a step forward. Another. Adjust his lapels, tweak one of his buttons. With your hands already on him, it’s so easy to just slide them a little further, until your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, your face right next to his.

He’s too stunned to react, to move. It’s been so long since someone has touched him like this, with any tenderness at all. He hadn’t wanted it from anyone but you, anyway. 

“God,” you say, relieved, grateful, ”you’re so warm.”

Your voice breaks the spell, letting him escape the freeze, wrap his arms around you in turn. 

It feels like a discovery, something brand new when he realizes. 

You’re warm too. 

…

It was never something as simple as love. 

From the moment he met you, he knew you were his. Not like owned, but like responsibility. Which is why yours are the only notifications set to go through no matter the time or place.

Should he be checking his phone at morning debrief? No, but the Farspace Fleet can go to hell, if you need him. 

Can you grab some stuff for me on your way home? you text him.  

You don't wait for an answer, sending your list immediately. You always include pictures, just to make sure he gets it right. Not that he would ever let you down. 

So high maintenance :p he returns. 

But he wouldn't have it any other way. You're high maintenance because he wants you to be. Desperate for you to need any favor of him, just so he can fulfill it. 

Because he'd die for you, but you'd never ask him to. 

Picking up your pads is the next best thing. 

...

It's a delicate equilibrium. 

You chafe in his care, and you straying too far agitates him. 

You purposely wait until he's at work to tell him of your plans. Going out tonight. Be back late.

It’s the first time you’ve been out after dark since you realized the door was open.

The sun sets around him. He shrinks to the dark, numbs with it. Wonders how long it will be before he simply fades out of existence, until he's lost forever, until he's nothing but empty, empty, empty—

The door opens, sending a vault of light across entryway. You emerge from it like salvation. 

"Aren't you going to welcome me back, Colonel?" 

He takes a breath. And another. "Welcome home, Kid." 

He bends for you, a solid place to put your hands as you slip out of your shoes, stretch the feeling back into your toes. 

You drop your bag, start shucking your jewelry, dropping it to the floor in a glittering heap. You tilt your head, baring your throat to let Caleb fiddle with the tricky clasps. 

When he's done, he pulls you close, so he can curl over you, press his lips to your pulse. You smell like faded perfume and sweat and someone else's cologne.  

"Who did you dance with?" 

You tense, not liking the question. Still, you answer, "Tara's friend." 

He half expected you to deny it altogether, but the admission soothes something in him. A test, a compromise. You're both seeing how much ground you can cede before losing yourselves altogether. 

"How much did you drink?"

"A lot." 

"Was it just Tara and her friend?" 

"Some other people from work." 

"Did you have a good time?" 

You nod. "Saved a dance for you." 

He draws your arms around his neck, lifting until your toes dangle off the ground, walking you backwards into the bathroom. 

The light here is brighter, the room less shadowed. He turns on the shower, letting it warm before going back to you. 

He unzips your dress, savoring the way you shudder as his fingers slip down your bare spine. Kneeling, he wiggles it down your hips, your thighs. Your hands braced against his shoulders again as you step out of it, leaving it puddled on the floor. 

Your underwear is totally incongruous. 

He'd bought you these panties, back in his academy days. It was mostly a joke, the silly cartoon dog print too unsexy to be anything else. It was easier to convince himself it didn't mean anything, that way. 

The cut is modest, the fabric soft and faded. Not a scrap of lace in sight. The sight makes him smitten — how very you, to wear this under your clubwear. 

Only he'll ever see you like this. It's a relief. That he can peel you out of whatever you show to others, down to your secret, bare essentials. 

He kisses the little bow on the front before slipping them off too. "You kept these?" 

"They're comfortable." 

He comes to his full height again, drawing you against him. He rocks you, slowly, takes you with him as he sways.

"What're you doing?" you ask, muffled against his chest. 

"Dancing," he returns. "Didn't you save one for me?" 

Steam fills the room, gentle, warm. You let yourself be cradled, swayed. 

He knows you bought the dress to test him, to see if he'd balk at you showing so much skin, if he'd forbid it. Of course it rankled, but he'd never stop you. If you wanted to go out there and be a femme fatale wrapped in silk, you could -- just come home when you're done. 

You can be anything. 

But first, you have to be his. 

...

As much as he dreamed of going down on you, nothing could compare to the real thing. 

Sometimes he feels like a starved dog, nipping at your heels for any scraps you’ll give him. Sometimes he can’t help himself. He wants it all the time — perhaps more than is healthy, but when has convention ever played a role in your relationship? 

It starts playful, teasing. His hands tugging at the hem of your shirt, hip checking you, dragging his fingers up and down your arms until you shudder. He loves the way you yield, patient but pliant. How you make him work for it, a little. How you tease him back. 

When you're laid out on his bed like this, naked and beautiful, he thinks maybe he is a religious man. after all. He thinks he understands why men get on their knees to pray. 

"You're good at this," you say. An accusation. 

The other women had been mistakes. 

He hated thinking of them like that, that he was using them. He was always respectful, charming. He paid for the dates, and the hotels, drove them home after.  A perfect gentleman. 

He'd avoided dating in high school, in deference to you. He couldn't even think about kissing someone else and then coming home to you. He felt guilty thinking about anyone else. And he felt guilty about feeling guilty. 

And then he moved out and he didn't want to feel guilty anymore. So he slept around. A lot. 

Half of them were hunting for anyone who could satisfy him like even the mere thought of you could. He kept searching and searching for someone who could get him off, keep him present. But every time he would find himself closing his eyes, picturing your face. 

Half of them were a purge. If he could just fuck enough people, maybe it would be enough to cure him. He could dog-train himself out of whatever hold up he had about you. He could be better, he could be good. He didn't have to be a disgusting pervert, drooling over his adopted sister. 

And then none of that even mattered. 

And then the Deepspace Tunnel and the Farspace Fleet. The explosion. The experiments. 

By the time he was promoted to Colonel, he couldn't stand to be touched by anyone. Even the tuneups on his metal arm, contact he couldn't even feel, was grotesque to him. 

His own hands felt foreign and strange. He'd always used the right one on himself. He didn't care to adapt, now that it's gone. He hasn't touched himself in years. 

"You'd rather I be bad?" he says, ducking down for more. 

You grab his hair, tugging him back up so you can meet his eyes.

"Fine, fine," he murmurs. "I'll do it bad. The worst it's even been done. Just let me--"

He tries again, but you tighten your hold on him. "Caleb," you say, and the tone of your voice has him sitting back, alarmed. 

Why do you sound miserable? 

"Hey, hey." He takes your hands, squeezing your fingers.  "What's wrong?" 

His mind races, flitting through every possible point of failure. Did he hurt you? Scare you? Did the arm disgust you—

"Do you even like this?" you ask.

He can't help the incredulous look that crosses his face. "If you're asking me, I haven't done my job right."

"You like that I like it," you say. "That's different." 

You tug your pants back on, slide off the bed. 

Caleb barely catches you before you’re out the door, pinning you as gently as he can, shoulders against the wall.

"I do," he says. "Like it. Of course I do." 

"I don't believe you." 

"Why?" He’s nearly begging. "What can I do to make you believe me? 

You peer at him. Then glance down at his waist. 

"Was it like—" you make a vague, indecipherable gesture. He would laugh if you didn't look so earnestly concerned. "—in the explosion? Is that why you never take your pants off?" 

"No. I can assure you, everything is in working order." 

"Of course.” You roll your eyes. “It would have to be, for you to fuck all those other people." 

He winces. 

"Why won't you just talk to me about it?" you ask. And then, a little softer, "Why not me?" 

"I told you we could take it slow." 

"For my benefit, or yours?" When he struggles to form an answer; you say, "I knew it, you don't want to. This is humiliating." 

He doesn't know what else to do. You're hurting. He hurt you. 

Panicked, overwhelmed, he grabs your hand again and places it over the bulge in his baggy sweatpants. Hard. 

You both gasp at the contact, strange and new. You feel him through the fabric, getting a sense of the size and shape of him. Pause your exploration to nudge your nose against his.

"Is this okay?" you whisper.

"Will this make it better?" he says, breathless, desperate. "Will it fix things?" 

"Nothing is broken, Caleb," you return. "It's just me." 

He closes his eyes. Nods, once. 

It feels good. And bad. 

You slip your hand beneath his waistband, touch like a live wire. He can't ever remember being this sensitive. 

He makes a sound deep in his chest, hears the echoes of it in his own skull. Hungry whines. Starved dog, starved dog, starved dog. He keens to your hands, humping back against each careful stroke. 

Euphoria. Pulsing white hot through his veins, spiderweb cracks in a china vase. 

He doesn't recognize it. Not as he is now. His mind bucks, refusing to stay the course of pleasure. 

He feels the brush of dead Deepspace, all along the edges of his vision. Overtaken by sparks of gut-wrenching sensitivity. 

They spread and twine. Braid until he doesn't know what he's running from or to. 

In rescue training they practiced water crashes. He learned that in desperation, some people swim deeper, not knowing how to find the surface. 

That's where he is. In the delirium and crushing pressure, a coin toss between fresh air and doom. 

Until he peaks, and it's neither. Not heaven or hell. Not pain or pleasure. 

He comes apart in your hands, and it's you. 

Just you. 

...

He comes home in the late afternoon. Accepts your kisses with weary enthusiasm. Peels off his uniform. Stands under the spray of the shower until his hands stop shaking, until he could step out and his metal arm would be as warm as skin. 

You're waiting for him on the floor in the living room, a plastic bag gaping in front of you. You insisted you'd do the shopping for this week, so he sent you off with his blessing and credit card, knowing you'd probably forget a few things. You'd go back together, on his day off. 

You tug on his pant leg. 

"Sit," you order, bringing him down to you. 

He sits cross legged before you, watching as you pull a glossy sheet out of the bag. Stickers? 

You stare at them for a long minute, pouring all your concentration into choosing one. 

"I saw these in the checkout line and— You rise onto your knees to get a better vantage, carefully pressing the sticker to the middle of his bare, metal bicep. "There, perfect." 

You smooth your thumb over it, making sure it's really stuck. Then you pull back, beaming at your work. 

He glances down at it. A little blue airplane. It seems so incongruous on him, so cute and bright and innocent. 

"It's just gonna come off," he murmurs. 

You don't bat an eye. "I have more." 

And you do. Sheets and sheets of them. You pull out another one, stars and moons and clouds, arranging them on his prosthetic with the utmost care. 

You don't even ask. He doesn't want you to. 

He turns and shifts whenever you want him to, ever at your mercy. 

You tap one last star to his cheek, securing it with a tender peck. 

"It suits you," you say. 

It does. He wouldn't have believed it until you said it — your verdict simply makes it true. You could do anything to him, mold him from the dirt into any shape you please, rebuild him from the ground up. 

This body may not be his anymore, but it will always be yours. 

[hawnks]

WIPS Xaveir & MC

All on Twitter & Bluesky > @/ekaymnslvs

[hawnks]

No one talk to me abt the new fic's header. Multiple people have tried to teach me graphic design and I have internalized none of it <3

[hawnks]

word count: 5,000

rated: M

[hurt/comfort, touch starved caleb, overprotective caleb, loss of identity, gentle yandere, playing house to regain some sense of normalcy, incidental kidnapping (oops), anxiety attacks, allusions to canon-typical violence, canon-divergence]

Everything comes unraveled to a single, fragile thread. The loadstar of Caleb's life has always been you.

For better or worse.

.........................................................................................

They take his arm.

He doesn’t fight back, because how could he? Strapped to a stretcher, body ravaged by the blast. Darkness crept over him like twilight.

You’ve been taken in by a friend, they tell him — safe. The unspoken “for now” is enough to keep him docile as they wheel him into surgery, pliant to every needle they stick him with. It doesn’t matter what happens to him. Safe, he reminds himself, a mantra. You’re safe.

He does manage one question, before he goes under. “Will I be able to feel anything with it?”

“Only what you need to,” the surgeon informs him.

When he wakes, he realizes that amounts to shockingly little. Sensation is limited to what will keep him functional. Pressure, and pain, and the hideous emptiness when he pushes past the limit and the delicate circuits fry, when it goes dead in the socket. 

He doesn’t get cool spring rain, or a warm cup of coffee. Not a cat’s purr, or a velvet soft blanket.

Not your hand in his.

…

There’s no pride in it.

They praise him for his strength, his ruthlessness, his unflinching demeanor. “You have a real talent for this,” the professor tells him. “You know exactly where to apply the pressure.”

He couldn’t care less. 

It’s all transactional. He does what he has to, because he has to. To keep you alive, to keep Ever away from you. To hold everything at bay by a fraying thread.

He has a vague notion of the future. After he’s wiped out your enemies, brought equilibrium to the Farspace Fleet, he’ll come crawling back to you. Someday, he thinks, a gallows kind of longing. Fantasies of you in the early morning, sipping coffee from the same mug. A kiss goodbye at the door, love you see you soon. Both of your names on the lease. Delusions that become the tentpole keeping him from simply collapsing. 

Someday, this will all be worth it. Someday, he’ll figure out how to come home.

But then he gets the alert. Watches with white knuckled fists as you navigate the snake pit of the Fleet ship. Put yourself directly in harm’s way.

He feels untethered from himself, like he’s watching from above as he cuffs you down. He’s been in this interrogation room a hundred times, gone through these motions without a single drop of remorse. Without any emotion at all.

He forces himself into that passionless space again, boxes himself up until he can be sure he won’t fall to his knees at the precious sight of you.

He can’t be gentle with you, not with so many eyes watching, but it’s a means to an end. It’s a side of him you’ve never met before, and he can see you assessing him, making your calculations as shock turns to rueful disillusion. 

When the mag lock disengages and you’re free, you’re quick to your feet. Hands flexing at your side, itching for a weapon that’s long since been confiscated. 

You’re ready for a fight — ready to fight against him. 

He boxes himself up again before the desperation can set in, excising anything that might jeopardize this moment. 

“Hey Pip-squeak. Miss me?”

He talks to you, at you. It’s an interrogation technique, an easy fallback. Targets body languages, non-verbal response.

He loses track of what he’s saying. Words feel odd in his mouth, the shape of them strange and crass. None of them are right. None of them will stop you from feeling like a cornered animal.

You hardly react at all, but he can see the tells. A twitch of your hand, a split-second hesitation to meet his stare. He knows you. Can see you, confused and hurt and guarded. He searches for any inkling of solace, relief that you could meet him again. You return his gaze with the impassive cynicism of a stranger.

You look at him with your sweet, clear eyes, and you see right through to what’s at the very heart of him.

Nothing. 

…

He keeps you — he has to. What other choice does he have, besides losing you, which isn’t an option at all.

He can see the plans forming, how you mark the doors and windows, glance at the clock whenever he comes or goes. He never expected to be something you needed to escape from — the opposite, in fact. He wanted to make himself a safe haven, something to hide behind when the world gets too big and scary. 

When you were little, you used to do that. You came to him with your problems, your fears. There’s never been a day when he wasn’t bigger, stronger than you. You could vanish into his shadow, and only he’d know you were there.

Part of him wishes that weren’t the case, now. That you didn’t view him as a threat every time he leans over you to reach the shelf you’re struggling for. 

You shove him away, on the defensive again. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

He wasn’t trying to, but Fleet training is a hard habit to kick. 

He clutches the box of crackers with both hands, has to stop himself from hugging it to his chest. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He forces himself to laugh, wry, invulnerable.

“Sure, Colonel,” you respond. “Why can’t I leave, then?”

You hold your hand out. He places the box in your palm with the delicacy of a moth landing.

“We just reunited, and you’re already thinking about ditching me?” 

You stare at him for a moment, measuring his response. Examining every angle of it like the key to some arcane puzzle. Silent, you take your thoughts with you, back to your room, determined to solve this alone.

This time, he is the problem. He is the fear. 

…

Day seven, he sees you eyeing the window of his 64th level penthouse like you’re really considering it. 

So he makes your favorite. 

The memory comes easy, despite it all. He was always precise in the kitchen, never a dash or a pinch. The control had been both a blessing and a curse, perfect dishes with no creativity. 

With love, he’d always respond when you asked how he made something. You never stopped asking.

He’d convinced Josephine that you didn’t need to learn, he could handle the cooking. He could do the laundry, the cleaning, the shopping. And if he was around always, you’d never need to figure it out. 

When you were hungry, you came to him. He liked that. 

You recognize it immediately when he sets your plate down before you. You pause, staring down at it, your expression halfway between a grimace and a smile.

Usually you wait to eat until he’s taken a bite from your plate, just to make sure he isn’t drugging you, but he gets the sense that that isn’t what's on your mind tonight.

He wants to ask you if he got it wrong, if your taste changed since he’s been gone. You take the smallest, carefulest bite before he can get the words out.

He tries to remember who he was, back when sharing a meal with you was as simple and normal as breathing. 

He liked airplanes. He was good at flying. He had direction and passion — but it was secondary to what he really wanted. The thing about his ambitions was that everything paled in comparison to you. He’d stayed grounded forever if that’s what it took to be with you. 

He tells you about his morning. The worst cup of coffee he’s ever had. The traffic, the lady with the dyed poodle (Norman; didn’t like him). How he thought about you all day. Did you feel it? 

He doesn’t expect you to respond, though he wishes you would. The cadence is choppy, pauses for breath where at one point you would have chimed in with a quip or a question. Room for you in every mundane story, if you want it. 

How did he treat you, before all this?

People had liked him, once. Before he was the Colonel, he was friendly and trustworthy and dependable. 

He still has the muscle memory of that personality. He's quick with a joke, or to offer aid to rookies. His smile still looks the same, boyish and sweet. 

But he wears it like he wears the false skin over his prosthetic. Like something cold and mechanical, trying to be human again. That could never lure you back to loving him.

“This is good,” you murmur. 

Relief. It feels like a battle won.  “Some things never change, huh?” 

It’s the wrong thing to say, but he doesn’t know why. You excuse yourself with a quiet thank you, a look like you’ve seen a ghost. 

Maybe you have. He came back to life for you, after all. 

…

You brush your teeth side by side. You don’t talk about the explosion. You remind him that bras are done on delicate cycle. You don’t mention the arm. You wear his hoodie to sleep. You don’t ask why he never contacted you. 

Sometimes you stand in the doorway of the bathroom after he’s come home, watching as he spends long minutes washing the blood off his hands. 

You never ask. Not even when the blood is his. Just observe him in that cool, cerebral way of yours.

He wonders if he would feel better if you pitied him. If you hated him.

It’s easy to navigate the day to day with you like this, a bastion of equanimity. But part of him still balks at the fact you won’t even yell at him anymore.

He feels unhinged in the face of your composure. Restless and anxious for something tangible to latch onto, for a problem he can fix, a goal he can attain. Instead you’re in this dollhouse purgatory, days of domestic bliss passing while time seems to stand still. 

He teaches you to make bread. 

He catches you stealing glances at his hands while he takes care of the starter, so he steps to the side, giving you a better vantage. You approach in slow steps. 

“The dough is alive,” he tells you. “You have to feed it everyday, and make sure the environment is right. It’s kind of like having a pet.”

He unlids the jar, hands it to you. You take it with both hands — sniff it. 

“Yeah,” he says, laughing at your expression. “It’s not very appetizing yet.” 

He measures out the ingredients to add, careful to never block your view. You stay with him the whole afternoon, watching as he shapes it, scores the top for the crust. He does little stars, just for you. 

The interest in the bread wears off shortly, but you watch Caleb himself raptly. His movements, his little explanations. 

When the bread is finally in the oven, he sits with you at the island. For the first time since he brought you home, you stay with him, voluntarily. 

Angel, he wants to call you. Something holy, out of reach. 

He's never been religious, but most pilots are. 

Caleb's first wingman used to pass the time telling him stories. "I saw a plane become a fireball in less than a second," he said, once. "Like a trick of the light." 

Religious plot was easier to accept than sheer luck. The wingman had visited every faith, could pray to any god that might mitigate the circumstances. Most scripture is just ghost stories, though. The dead rising. The slaughter of kin. A god at the gates of heaven, who weighed every human heart on their sacred scale — a measure of sin. 

He wants to tell you this too, gets the urge to turn over every corner of himself, so you can know him again. But then he would have to tell you how his wingman went down somewhere over the ocean, not in flames, but in the crushing depths. 

What part of his life isn’t founded in tragedy? Is there anything he could tell you that wouldn’t make you terribly sad? 

He turns to you to ask — what would you want to know about him — but comes up short.

You’re already looking at him; you don’t want to know anything. 

He looks into your eyes and suddenly he's in the Deepspace Tunnel again, adrift in an endless, starless sky. 

Later, he would realize it had only taken him a week before he crashed back into mapped territory. Logically, he accepted this, but a part of him still knew he'd been lost for much, much longer. Starving, bored, alone, entire lifetimes had come and gone as hope and reality began to diverge, and he realized he would never make it out of that fathomless dark. He would die out there in uncharted Deepspace. 

It had been a relief to finally turn off his homing beacon. Death was a finite thing; the unknown was not.  

The truth is, he didn't want to follow the light that finally lead him home. Optimism felt insincere, dangerous even. It would hurt, to be let down again, and pain was the one thing he had left to fear. 

He'd never told you about that incident. Or that sometimes he thinks he never really made it out. He can still feel that creeping darkness so viscerally, sometimes he loses track of himself, forgets where he is altogether. Echoing back and forth between the kitchen table and the abyss. 

"Caleb?" you say, calling him back. "Hey." 

You press a few fingers to his sleeve. Hardly any pressure, the touch as light as a butterfly. Is this the first time you've reached out to him, of your own volition?

He wants more. Wants you to take him in your hands and squeeze as hard as you can, harder than the crushing vacuum of space. 

He wants to feel your skin on his skin. 

He wants to hold your hand. 

He manages a smile. "Hey, Kid." 

You're closer now. Not in his space, yet, but close enough that it's become an option. "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing," he says. His arm twitches, jostling your hold on him. 

It's the metal one. He's tried his best to always keep it covered when you're around. "Just... spacing out." 

He glances at you, afraid to see pity, disgust.

You look back at him with nothing but that startling clarity of yours. Something has shifted. A fraction of emotion, a sudden slant in your judgment. A realization tipping the scale. 

...

You send him off at the door the next morning, greet him when he comes home. When he asks for dinner ideas, you offer one. When he puts on a cheesy romcom, you join him on the couch. 

It feels surreal in a whole new way. 

And then he realizes that this is a death-row kiss. 

The next morning you’re at the door, in your hunter uniform. He hasn’t seen you in it since he brought you here two weeks ago. You’re just strapping into your shoes when he catches you, heart in his throat.

His body is tense, caught somewhere between fight or flight, though there’s nowhere to run, no one to fight. “You’re leaving?”

“For now.”

“Then why is my life flashing before my eyes?” The joke falls flat. He can’t even force a smile.

“You’ll live.” Finished with your shoes, you rise and face him. “Since when has the door been unlocked, Caleb?”

Since you asked. Since he can never deny you anything. “A while.”

For the first time in a long time, you smile.

“I’ll come back,” you tell him.

…

And you do.

Again, and again, and again. 

Until, finally, he believes you.

…

You see him off at the door every morning, with a wave and a warning to be good, Colonel.

He pays you a salute, and a diligent yes ma’am. 

It’s your routine, perfect and strange. 

But today, you break the mold. 

He turns to you, waits for your order. But you’re looking at him, contemplative. You take a step forward. Another. Adjust his lapels, tweak one of his buttons. With your hands already on him, it’s so easy to just slide them a little further, until your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, your face right next to his.

He’s too stunned to react, to move. It’s been so long since someone has touched him like this, with any tenderness at all. He hadn’t wanted it from anyone but you, anyway. 

“God,” you say, relieved, grateful, ”you’re so warm.”

Your voice breaks the spell, letting him escape the freeze, wrap his arms around you in turn. 

It feels like a discovery, something brand new when he realizes. 

You’re warm too. 

…

It was never something as simple as love. 

From the moment he met you, he knew you were his. Not like owned, but like responsibility. Which is why yours are the only notifications set to go through no matter the time or place.

Should he be checking his phone at morning debrief? No, but the Farspace Fleet can go to hell, if you need him. 

Can you grab some stuff for me on your way home? you text him.  

You don't wait for an answer, sending your list immediately. You always include pictures, just to make sure he gets it right. Not that he would ever let you down. 

So high maintenance :p he returns. 

But he wouldn't have it any other way. You're high maintenance because he wants you to be. Desperate for you to need any favor of him, just so he can fulfill it. 

Because he'd die for you, but you'd never ask him to. 

Picking up your pads is the next best thing. 

...

It's a delicate equilibrium. 

You chafe in his care, and you straying too far agitates him. 

You purposely wait until he's at work to tell him of your plans. Going out tonight. Be back late.

It’s the first time you’ve been out after dark since you realized the door was open.

The sun sets around him. He shrinks to the dark, numbs with it. Wonders how long it will be before he simply fades out of existence, until he's lost forever, until he's nothing but empty, empty, empty—

The door opens, sending a vault of light across entryway. You emerge from it like salvation. 

"Aren't you going to welcome me back, Colonel?" 

He takes a breath. And another. "Welcome home, Kid." 

He bends for you, a solid place to put your hands as you slip out of your shoes, stretch the feeling back into your toes. 

You drop your bag, start shucking your jewelry, dropping it to the floor in a glittering heap. You tilt your head, baring your throat to let Caleb fiddle with the tricky clasps. 

When he's done, he pulls you close, so he can curl over you, press his lips to your pulse. You smell like faded perfume and sweat and someone else's cologne.  

"Who did you dance with?" 

You tense, not liking the question. Still, you answer, "Tara's friend." 

He half expected you to deny it altogether, but the admission soothes something in him. A test, a compromise. You're both seeing how much ground you can cede before losing yourselves altogether. 

"How much did you drink?"

"A lot." 

"Was it just Tara and her friend?" 

"Some other people from work." 

"Did you have a good time?" 

You nod. "Saved a dance for you." 

He draws your arms around his neck, lifting until your toes dangle off the ground, walking you backwards into the bathroom. 

The light here is brighter, the room less shadowed. He turns on the shower, letting it warm before going back to you. 

He unzips your dress, savoring the way you shudder as his fingers slip down your bare spine. Kneeling, he wiggles it down your hips, your thighs. Your hands braced against his shoulders again as you step out of it, leaving it puddled on the floor. 

Your underwear is totally incongruous. 

He'd bought you these panties, back in his academy days. It was mostly a joke, the silly cartoon dog print too unsexy to be anything else. It was easier to convince himself it didn't mean anything, that way. 

The cut is modest, the fabric soft and faded. Not a scrap of lace in sight. The sight makes him smitten — how very you, to wear this under your clubwear. 

Only he'll ever see you like this. It's a relief. That he can peel you out of whatever you show to others, down to your secret, bare essentials. 

He kisses the little bow on the front before slipping them off too. "You kept these?" 

"They're comfortable." 

He comes to his full height again, drawing you against him. He rocks you, slowly, takes you with him as he sways.

"What're you doing?" you ask, muffled against his chest. 

"Dancing," he returns. "Didn't you save one for me?" 

Steam fills the room, gentle, warm. You let yourself be cradled, swayed. 

He knows you bought the dress to test him, to see if he'd balk at you showing so much skin, if he'd forbid it. Of course it rankled, but he'd never stop you. If you wanted to go out there and be a femme fatale wrapped in silk, you could -- just come home when you're done. 

You can be anything. 

But first, you have to be his. 

...

As much as he dreamed of going down on you, nothing could compare to the real thing. 

Sometimes he feels like a starved dog, nipping at your heels for any scraps you’ll give him. Sometimes he can’t help himself. He wants it all the time — perhaps more than is healthy, but when has convention ever played a role in your relationship? 

It starts playful, teasing. His hands tugging at the hem of your shirt, hip checking you, dragging his fingers up and down your arms until you shudder. He loves the way you yield, patient but pliant. How you make him work for it, a little. How you tease him back. 

When you're laid out on his bed like this, naked and beautiful, he thinks maybe he is a religious man. after all. He thinks he understands why men get on their knees to pray. 

"You're good at this," you say. An accusation. 

The other women had been mistakes. 

He hated thinking of them like that, that he was using them. He was always respectful, charming. He paid for the dates, and the hotels, drove them home after.  A perfect gentleman. 

He'd avoided dating in high school, in deference to you. He couldn't even think about kissing someone else and then coming home to you. He felt guilty thinking about anyone else. And he felt guilty about feeling guilty. 

And then he moved out and he didn't want to feel guilty anymore. So he slept around. A lot. 

Half of them were hunting for anyone who could satisfy him like even the mere thought of you could. He kept searching and searching for someone who could get him off, keep him present. But every time he would find himself closing his eyes, picturing your face. 

Half of them were a purge. If he could just fuck enough people, maybe it would be enough to cure him. He could dog-train himself out of whatever hold up he had about you. He could be better, he could be good. He didn't have to be a disgusting pervert, drooling over his adopted sister. 

And then none of that even mattered. 

And then the Deepspace Tunnel and the Farspace Fleet. The explosion. The experiments. 

By the time he was promoted to Colonel, he couldn't stand to be touched by anyone. Even the tuneups on his metal arm, contact he couldn't even feel, was grotesque to him. 

His own hands felt foreign and strange. He'd always used the right one on himself. He didn't care to adapt, now that it's gone. He hasn't touched himself in years. 

"You'd rather I be bad?" he says, ducking down for more. 

You grab his hair, tugging him back up so you can meet his eyes.

"Fine, fine," he murmurs. "I'll do it bad. The worst it's even been done. Just let me--"

He tries again, but you tighten your hold on him. "Caleb," you say, and the tone of your voice has him sitting back, alarmed. 

Why do you sound miserable? 

"Hey, hey." He takes your hands, squeezing your fingers.  "What's wrong?" 

His mind races, flitting through every possible point of failure. Did he hurt you? Scare you? Did the arm disgust you—

"Do you even like this?" you ask.

He can't help the incredulous look that crosses his face. "If you're asking me, I haven't done my job right."

"You like that I like it," you say. "That's different." 

You tug your pants back on, slide off the bed. 

Caleb barely catches you before you’re out the door, pinning you as gently as he can, shoulders against the wall.

"I do," he says. "Like it. Of course I do." 

"I don't believe you." 

"Why?" He’s nearly begging. "What can I do to make you believe me? 

You peer at him. Then glance down at his waist. 

"Was it like—" you make a vague, indecipherable gesture. He would laugh if you didn't look so earnestly concerned. "—in the explosion? Is that why you never take your pants off?" 

"No. I can assure you, everything is in working order." 

"Of course.” You roll your eyes. “It would have to be, for you to fuck all those other people." 

He winces. 

"Why won't you just talk to me about it?" you ask. And then, a little softer, "Why not me?" 

"I told you we could take it slow." 

"For my benefit, or yours?" When he struggles to form an answer; you say, "I knew it, you don't want to. This is humiliating." 

He doesn't know what else to do. You're hurting. He hurt you. 

Panicked, overwhelmed, he grabs your hand again and places it over the bulge in his baggy sweatpants. Hard. 

You both gasp at the contact, strange and new. You feel him through the fabric, getting a sense of the size and shape of him. Pause your exploration to nudge your nose against his.

"Is this okay?" you whisper.

"Will this make it better?" he says, breathless, desperate. "Will it fix things?" 

"Nothing is broken, Caleb," you return. "It's just me." 

He closes his eyes. Nods, once. 

It feels good. And bad. 

You slip your hand beneath his waistband, touch like a live wire. He can't ever remember being this sensitive. 

He makes a sound deep in his chest, hears the echoes of it in his own skull. Hungry whines. Starved dog, starved dog, starved dog. He keens to your hands, humping back against each careful stroke. 

Euphoria. Pulsing white hot through his veins, spiderweb cracks in a china vase. 

He doesn't recognize it. Not as he is now. His mind bucks, refusing to stay the course of pleasure. 

He feels the brush of dead Deepspace, all along the edges of his vision. Overtaken by sparks of gut-wrenching sensitivity. 

They spread and twine. Braid until he doesn't know what he's running from or to. 

In rescue training they practiced water crashes. He learned that in desperation, some people swim deeper, not knowing how to find the surface. 

That's where he is. In the delirium and crushing pressure, a coin toss between fresh air and doom. 

Until he peaks, and it's neither. Not heaven or hell. Not pain or pleasure. 

He comes apart in your hands, and it's you. 

Just you. 

...

He comes home in the late afternoon. Accepts your kisses with weary enthusiasm. Peels off his uniform. Stands under the spray of the shower until his hands stop shaking, until he could step out and his metal arm would be as warm as skin. 

You're waiting for him on the floor in the living room, a plastic bag gaping in front of you. You insisted you'd do the shopping for this week, so he sent you off with his blessing and credit card, knowing you'd probably forget a few things. You'd go back together, on his day off. 

You tug on his pant leg. 

"Sit," you order, bringing him down to you. 

He sits cross legged before you, watching as you pull a glossy sheet out of the bag. Stickers? 

You stare at them for a long minute, pouring all your concentration into choosing one. 

"I saw these in the checkout line and— You rise onto your knees to get a better vantage, carefully pressing the sticker to the middle of his bare, metal bicep. "There, perfect." 

You smooth your thumb over it, making sure it's really stuck. Then you pull back, beaming at your work. 

He glances down at it. A little blue airplane. It seems so incongruous on him, so cute and bright and innocent. 

"It's just gonna come off," he murmurs. 

You don't bat an eye. "I have more." 

And you do. Sheets and sheets of them. You pull out another one, stars and moons and clouds, arranging them on his prosthetic with the utmost care. 

You don't even ask. He doesn't want you to. 

He turns and shifts whenever you want him to, ever at your mercy. 

You tap one last star to his cheek, securing it with a tender peck. 

"It suits you," you say. 

It does. He wouldn't have believed it until you said it — your verdict simply makes it true. You could do anything to him, mold him from the dirt into any shape you please, rebuild him from the ground up. 

This body may not be his anymore, but it will always be yours. 

[hawnks]

Being ADHD is actually so funny sometimes. The other day I went on a thirty minute tangent about one of My Interests and then when I was finally done I turned to my friend and was like, "Why did you ask me about that topic? 🤨 You know how I get about it."

Reader, the shock I felt when she did not even miss a beat answering, "I didn't ask you anything, you brought it up yourself."

[hawnks]

shoutout to everyone who wants to infodump but cant string together coherent thoughts to form sentences and instead just look at you like this

[hawnks]

This wouldn't happen to me if i were a huge dragon

[hawnks]

Kiss and Tell 'Em, Cutie

Ship: Rafayel x MC/reader

Summary: Jealousy is a vicious whip—especially when you're dating an artist. Yet you have some ideas to make sure his admirers get the message. He...is...yours.

Word Count: 6,879 words

Warnings: sexual content (18+, mdni), Rafayel calls reader "cutie", jealous reader, Thomas appearance, Talia appearance, Tara mention, Rafayel is once again obsessed with reader's perfume, Rafayel calls reader "sweet girl", Thomas is a nosy fucker but also a proud dad, can also be found on AO3

18+ Warnings: semi-public sex, fingering, handjob, vaginal sex, sex against a wall, bathroom sex, mirror sex, unprotected sex (please do not do this), Rafayel is a bit of a sub but also a switch, implied that reader jerks Rafayel off while he drives (please do not do this either)

Notes: For his birthday, here is a Rafayel fic! (Fitting that this is my first L&DS fic to get posted; I'm a Raf & Sylus girlie at heart.) I've seen a few other concepts similar to this that inspired me to make a fic out of it. Not actually birthday themed, though!

☟ Continue below the fold ☟

Clothes were strewn about the bedroom, the man throwing them invisible in his closet. You perched on the edge of the bed, dismissing every option he suggested with barely a second thought.

Rafayel emerged from the depths of his walk-in closet, a frown on his face. As much as he hated these exhibitions, whining and begging you not to make him go, he couldn't recall a time you'd been this reluctant to give him a yes about his suit options—especially not when tonight's exhibition was "massively important."

"Cutie? You alright?"

You looked up from the outfit you'd been staring at on the floor, a suit in a lovely blue shade that he'd worn to the opera with you what felt like ages ago. "Hmm? Oh—yeah, I'm fine," you lied, trying to sit up straighter and bring a smile to your face. It felt more like a grimace.

Rafayel's face fell into a concerned pout. "I know you better than that," he chastised gently. He sat next to you on the bed, clothing forgotten. "What's wrong?"

You shrugged. You rubbed your arm awkwardly, unwilling to spit out the reason for your glum mood.

"Talk to me," Rafayel said, taking your hand. He brought your wrist to his mouth and kissed it.

He had a way of breaking down your walls, staring at you with those big, loving eyes. You sighed. "It's stupid," you mumbled.

Rafayel grinned at you. "Stupider then my antics?" he asked. You were reminded of him sitting in a hospital bed for an injury he didn't have, griping at you.

You shrugged again. "I...guess not," you said. "It's— Well, it's more embarrassing than..."

Rafayel flopped into your lap. "More embarrassing than me?" he gasped, a delicate hand to his chest.

You laughed. "No, that's not what I was going to say," you said, pulling his hand into yours. He smiled softly at you when you laced your fingers together.

You took a second to get your thoughts together, trying to come up with a way to make yourself sound less, well, jealous. But when the problem is jealousy...

Rafayel remained content in your lap, happily nuzzling your joined hands. The soft kiss he pressed to the back of your hand dragged you out of your contemplation and you blurted out: "I don't like the women that come to your exhibitions."

He raised his eyebrows at you and you flushed. You backtracked, trying to explain it better.

"Well, it's not that— What I mean is that I don't like the way they...fawn over you," you said, the words coming out bitter. You didn't notice the smile twitching on Rafayel's lips, even as he tried to fight it. "They act like they're coming to see your art, but they're just there to giggle over you! And I'm not being jealous, I just think they shouldn't be pretending they like your work when they clearly don't give a shit and they don't know a single thing about art!" You paused briefly, then huffed and threw yourself backward on the bed. Rafayel made a sound of displeasure at being displaced from your lap. "Alright, fine, I am jealous. They don't even know you, they don't really care about you or your work, but they prance around trying to get your attention because you're cute and famous and taken but they don't care about that part!"

You sat back up in a ridiculously over-exaggerated "prim and proper" pose, pretending to hold a glass of champagne. Your threw your voice up an octave and mimicked, "Oh, Mr. Rafayel! Mr. Rafayel! Please tell us so much about the kind of paint you used, Mr. Rafayel, we definitely want to know more and aren't just trying to get in your pants! And with your girlfriend right next to you, too!"

Rafayel laughed, unable to hide his chuckle behind his hand. You glared at him. "What?! That's what they all sound like!" You crossed your arms over your chest as you fell back onto the bed. Rafayel got comfortable next to you, propping his head up on his hand. "And they don't ever stop, even after you introduce me. Or, worse, when Thomas steps in and introduces me because some—some—some hussy is taking things too far!"

When it had become clear you had run out of words (for the moment), Rafayel draped his free arm over your middle and tugged you closer to him. "I never thought I'd see you get this worked up over something like this," he noted.

You sighed. "I normally wouldn't, I mean...I trust you, Raf, this isn't about you. It's about these girls treating our relationship like it's nothing when you... When you mean the world to me."

"Cutie," Rafayel murmured, voice tender. He kissed your cheek once, then twice. He nuzzled into you and, for a moment, the two of you basked in each other's warmth, eyes closed, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Eventually, Rafayel began poking your cheek until you opened your eyes. You glared lightly at him, only to receive a pout that made you fix your face.

"We could always not go tonight," he said, in the same husky tone he usually started this debate with. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye and you knew he was ready to pull out all the stops to convince you.

You were tempted to just let him win. But the last time you'd caved so easily, Thomas had chewed your ears out as well as Rafayel's—for over two hours.

"Nuh uh," you said, shaking your head. "I promised Thomas we'd be there, and I'm not getting yelled at again for 'letting my personal feelings get in the way of a great artist's work!'"

Rafayel giggled—a true giggle that made your heart warm. "He would have been even angrier if he knew what we were really doing that night," he teased, his fingers toying surreptitiously with the waist of your pants.

Heat coiled in your belly. Your eyes met Rafayel's; his gaze was darker, alluring like the sea before a hurricane hit. "All the more reason for us to go tonight," you forced yourself to say. He groaned, his arm flopping dramatically back onto the bed. You rolled your eyes, "He'll call and call and call until we answer, and if we don't answer, he's gonna show up at the door to drag you to the exhibition himself." You rolled over and cupped his cheek; he leaned into the touch. "Raf, tonight's important. You have critics coming and an interview set up. You have to be there, it's not one of the nights you can get away with skiving off."

After a moment, you felt the bed dip as Rafayel rolled off of it. He went back to his closet and started digging through it again. "Fine, fine," he sighed. "But if we're going, we have to match tonight." He pulled a large box off of a shelf and brought it over to you. You could see the name of an expensive dress brand he liked to spoil you with printed on the box's side.

"Raf, what...?"

He held it out to you. "I was waiting for a special occasion to give this to you," he said, a tad shy, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "But I have a suit that matches it, so..."

You pulled the box into your lap and tugged at the ribbon binding it together until it fell away. You shimmied the lid off and unfolded the paper hiding the dress from your view. You lifted it out of the box and gasped.

The dress was a deep claret red, embroidered with flame lilies. The short bell sleeves were made from claret chiffon, delicate and flowy. You slipped the fabric of the dress between your fingers; it moved like water and shimmered under the light.

"Rafayel," you breathed. "Oh, Raf, it's beautiful, thank you!" You dropped the dress onto the bed, carefully, and threw your arms around Rafayel's neck. He laughed, holding you tightly around the waist.

"We can match tonight," he said softly, "and I'll keep you on my arm. Tonight, everyone will know I am yours."

I am yours. Something about the way he said it had butterflies flapping around in your heart. You pulled back to stare at him, wanting to ask...but you weren't even sure what you wanted to ask him.

You didn't protest as Rafayel turned back to the closet. He pulled. out a shirt that matched your new dress. "What do you think, cutie?"

You thumbed over the shirt. It was made from the same material as your dress. "I like it," you said. You nudged him toward his mirror. "Put it on!"

The two of you helped each other dress. Rafayel laced up the back of your dress and adjusted your sleeves so they lay nicely on your shoulders; you helped him button up the shirt and looped the fancy tie around his throat.

You sat side by side at his vanity, adding your final touches. You matched your jewelry and your makeup; Rafayel was happy to help you clip your necklace on. Once it was secure, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on the side of your neck, just below your ear. For several long moments, you admired each other in the mirror. Then you got back to applying your makeup, using a darker shade for your lip that would complement the dress.

Looking at the pale expanse of Rafayel's neck, you suddenly had an idea.

You applied a fresh layer of the lipstick. "Come here, love," you murmured, beckoning him closer. He obeyed, letting you tug him down. He smiled when he realized what you were doing and did not stop you as you adjusted his collar and moved his shirt to the side.

Your lips touched Rafayel's skin. You kissed his neck a little harder than necessary, ensuring it would leave a lipstick stain.

The mark left behind when you pulled away was perfect, complete with a movie-style sound of a kiss. It was a dark, easily noticed imprint of your lips, only partially covered when his collar was flipped up.

A soft, almost shocked gasp left Rafayel's lips—you wouldn't have even heard it if his mouth hadn't been right next to your ear. A louder sound, closer to a moan, slipped out of his mouth when you pressed a second, softer kiss closer to his collarbone, leaving a mark for only your eyes to see when you pulled his shirt off later.

"There," you murmured. You covered it with a light tapping of setting powder. "Now they'll know just how mine you are."

"Silly girl," Rafayel whispered. "They'd know just from how I look at you."

He leaned in and stole a kiss, his hand sliding down your body. He slipped it between your knees, trying to part your legs, when you pulled away. You reapplied your lipstick and slipped the tube into your clutch, along with your perfume and your mascara.

Rafayel stared at you with a dazed, almost lost expression. You smiled at him. "Come on, Raf, we'll be late if we don't leave now," you said, feigning ignorance to how turned on he was.

You took his hand as the two of you left the bedroom, headed for his car and the exhibition, a perfect kiss on your boyfriend's neck.

~❊~

People milled about the art gallery, a low hum of conversation in the air. They pointed out small details, leaned as close as they could to paintings before a guard told them to back away, marveled at the cost of each piece.

You and Rafayel stood next to Thomas in a well-lit corner of the room, your hand resting in Rafayel's crooked elbow. A steady flow of conversation between yourselves and admirers of Rafayel's art kept you alert and awake, some part of you always keen to be his bodyguard. But when there was a lull between conversationalists, you rested your head briefly on Rafayel's shoulder; every time, he bent down to kiss the crown of your head.

The difference between this exhibition and the others was astounding. You took gleeful pride in the number of times peoples' eyes dipped to Rafayel's neck, then to you, made the connection, and blushed, averting their eyes quickly.

"Mr. Rafayel!" A woman's voice cut over the din. Rafayel perked up, searching for the voice. You caught a glimpse of his Auntie Talia standing by one of his pieces—one he'd made about Lemuria.

Rafayel quickly excused himself from the conversation with his current guests and extricated his arm from yours. You nodded as he whispered, "I'll be back soon." He kissed your cheek, lingering a moment, and a woman who had been blatantly ignoring your mark on his neck to keep flirting with him turned a very deep shade of red.

For a few more minutes, she and her companion—her sister, you guessed—spoke stiltedly to Thomas about Rafayel's art, Thomas doing most of the talking to fill in their silences. Eventually, the two women shuffled away awkwardly.

Peaceful silence fell over you and Thomas. After a moment, he cleared his throat and gestured toward Rafayel with his chin. "So."

You barely kept back a sigh. "Yes, Thomas?"

"You left your mark on him, I see," he said, barely able to restrain the mirth in his tone. "For the whole world to see?"

Your eyes picked Rafayel out in the crowd as he spoke animatedly to his aunt. You smiled; even at a distance, your mark was visible on his throat.

"Yes," you said, a tad smug. "Yes, I did. Problem?"

He shook his head after a moment. "No," he said, though his tone was a tad too light.

You rolled your eyes, pulling your perfume out from your clutch. "Spit it out, Thomas. 'It's unprofessional!' 'You're risking his reputation and yours!' 'The media will have a field day!' Did I get it right?" You reapplied your perfume to your wrists and your neck, dabbing at it to spread it more. You slipped it back into your clutch, turning your attention back to Thomas.

He laughed. "No, although I suppose that's all true. We're just...going to have to work a lot harder to sell his paintings without a bunch of smitten women to sell them to."

You scoffed. "There will still be smitten women—except now they know they haven't got a chance. Who knows, maybe more women will be buying his paintings, desperate to have a piece of the great Rafayel."

Thomas fixed you with a teasing look. "You have the piece they all want."

It took a moment for it to register. You gasped softly and lightly thwacked Thomas' arm. "You had better be talking about his heart, Thomas."

He chuckled. "I am not."

You slapped Thomas' arm again, your cheeks burning.

"What are you two playing at?" Rafayel's voice interrupted. I turned to face him, pleased that he was back and mortified that he had chosen now to return. It increased when you saw Talia at Rafayel's side.

Though a laugh, Thomas started, "Your—"

"Nothing," you said, quickly cutting him off. "Auntie Talia!"

"Hello, my dear!" she said, smiling as she hugged you. "How have you been?"

As you caught up with Talia, filling her in on the most recent trip you and Rafayel had taken, showing her pictures of Tara's new cat, and listening to her tell you vaguely embarrassing stories about Rafayel, the man himself practically clung to you. He returned your hand to his arm and leaned into you.

Rafayel's breath hitched all of a sudden. He took a deep breath and exhaled shakily; you realized he'd caught scent of your perfume. Your stomach flipped at the memory of the last time he'd taken special interest in your perfume...

But he remained relatively calm. He slipped his arm around your waist and kept you tucked against his side, his eyes fixed on you. He ignored the people trying to engage him in conversation.

Thomas, upon noticing this, caught their attention and explained quietly that Mr. Rafayel was taking care of important business. Anyone with eyes, however, would know his attention was solely on you.

And you couldn't deny that it made you absolutely giddy.

A young woman—the girl who'd thrown herself at Rafayel at the last exhibition, and who'd been the breaking point in your jealousy, you realized with a start—pushed her way into the conversation. Thomas' attempts to steer the conversation away from Rafayel's personal life and back to art failed repeatedly. This time, she had no qualms about revealing she knew nothing about art, choosing instead to pry.

"Mr. Rafayel," the woman crooned, "I'd love to know more about your artistic process."

Rafayel's eyes narrowed quickly. "My artistic process? What about it?" His voice was flat. Talia raised a brow.

"Well," she said, wrapping her hand suggestively around her champagne flute, "where do you get your ideas from? What in your life inspires you?" She took a sip, subtly licking the rim of the glass. You felt your eye twitch.

"Each individual painting's inspiration is explained on its plaque," Rafayel drawled dismissively. She continued to stare at him, lips fixed in a pout. His fingers tightened on your hip and he brought you even closer to him. "But if you must know, much of my work is inspired by this lovely girl right here." He pressed a soft but lingering kiss to your jaw, one that caught yourself, Talia, and Thomas off guard. "I owe so much to my love."

Laying it on thick, you thought, but all thoughts were wiped from your brain when Rafayel turned your face to him with his fingers on your chin. He kissed you softly, shifting his position to make the lipstick on his neck visible. Possessive, yet obedient. You tried not to make it obvious you were pressing your thighs together at the thought.

The woman's expression dropped for a half a second. She brought her smile back quickly and all but sneered, "Well, isn't that cute." Now it was her eye that twitched as she looked at you, her voice shrill.

You smiled up at Rafayel, barely containing a giggle. You put your hand on his chest. "Oh, he's being modest," you purred. "Rafayel's the genius."

"I am not," he said, and you got the sense it was meant for you as much as it was the young woman. "Half of the paintings hanging in this room wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."

You cast her a quick glance, feeling your cheeks flush at the warmth in his eyes. "You know how men are when they're in love," you said, playing the part of an awkward girlfriend in public. Secretly, however, a thrill had gone up your spine. The things I'll do to you when we get home...

Rafayel squeezed your hip. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Talia smile.

Thomas cleared his throat. "Is there a particular painting you'd like to ask Mr. Rafayel about?" he asked, his gaze flicking between the woman and the pair of you. It appeared he'd figured out what was going on. "I'm sure it's all too easy to generalize when asked such a broad question." He chuckled awkwardly.

She cast Thomas a withering glance. "I'm fine, thank you." She turned on her heel and stalked off.

A moment of silence fell. You leaned into Rafayel, practically melting into his arms.

"Well," Thomas said after a moment, "she seemed lovely." He glanced at the kiss on Rafayel's throat. "I'm beginning to understand your possessive streak."

Talia laughed. She rested a gentle hand on your arm. "Don't you worry, dear. He only has eyes for you."

"Oh, I know," you assured her, your gaze on Rafayel. You were sure you looked like you wanted to eat him alive—and he knew it, judging from the redness of his ears.

Quiet swept over the whole room as two people entered: a man and a woman, both dressed for business, both with notepads. A cameraman followed. You recognized them as renowned art critics. They'd given Rafayel trouble in the past, praising his art but denouncing him for a lackadaisical attitude.

You felt him nip at the junction of your shoulder and your neck while you were distracted. Now what would they think about this...? You didn't want to find out in the morning paper.

Thomas' intake of breath was audible. He adjusted his suit jacket nervously. "They're here," he said quietly to Rafayel, who was barely paying attention. Even so, the tension in your little group heightened.

"Hmm?" he asked, slowly dragging his mouth and eyes away from you.

Talia glanced toward the reporters. Her eyes darkened and you trusted she knew their reputation with her nephew. "I'll let you take care of your official business," she said to Rafayel. "I've kept you for too long as it is." She extracted a promise out of the two of you to attend her next performance, then disappeared into the crowd.

Thomas turned on his heel, facing Rafayel immediately. As if on instinct, he started adjusting his lapels. "Alright. This is incredibly important, Rafayel, you know that as well as I do. It's a miracle they agreed to do another review for you, and we can't give them anything negative at all to report on— Rafayel, are you even listening?"

You glanced up at your boyfriend. His eyes were a little glazed and were once again locked on you. You recognized that look.

You cupped his cheek. "Raf, sweetie, the critics—"

He leaned into your touch, nose pressed to your wrist. There was a pleading look in his eyes when he looked up at you through his lashes.

"Rafayel?" Thomas questioned.

You glanced back at him. Over his shoulder, the critics were approaching.

Rafayel tugged on your arm. A mischievous glint had entered his eye. You gaped at him. "Now?" you whispered. He nodded. You stared at him for a second.

"When was the last time we had a little fun?" he whispered to you. He glanced at the approaching critics. "They can wait a few seconds for their star artist to...freshen up, can't they?"

Some part of you knew this was a bad idea. The rest of you was too easily swayed by that sweet, tempting tone in Rafayel's voice. You caved far quicker than you would have liked to admit.

"Thomas," you said over your shoulder, "tell them Rafayel will be right with them. I'm just... I'm gonna go give him a pep talk, okay? Freshen him up a little."

He glanced at Rafayel, uncertain. "Is that why he's like this? Nerves?"

"Something like that," you muttered under your breath. You grabbed Rafayel's hand and dragged him into the hallway. Rafayel was more than happy to follow you, a spark in his eye. You found a bathroom, shoved the door open, checked that the stalls were empty, and locked it behind you.

You turned to Rafayel. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" You squealed a second later as he gathered you in his arms and pushed up against the wall. He nuzzled into your neck, groaning at the smell of the perfume there.

Rafayel nipped again at the spot he'd been sucking on when the critics arrived. You let out a soft moan. Good idea or not, he had you hook, line, and sinker.

He came up for air, stared at you a second, and then crashed his lips into yours. "Need you," he moaned into your mouth. His tongue prodded at the seam of your lips. "Please."

You wrapped your arms around his neck. "You have me," you promised him. "But the critics..."

Rafayel pulled away long enough to make eye contact. "I'll be quick," he promised. Then a lopsided smirk appeared on his face and he added, "Ish."

You laughed. "Come on," you breathed, already pulling your dress up to your waist. "Take me how you want."

He groaned at the sight of you, slipping his fingers into your panties, pushing them to the side. He found your clit and pressed down on it. He locked eyes on you as he began rubbing it the way you liked best. You moaned, throwing your head back. Rafayel moved quickly to cushion your head with his other hand, protecting it from the tile wall.

"Careful," he breathed. "Don't hurt yourself, cutie."

You bucked your hips. "C'mon, please," you whimpered. "Need your fingers, Raf."

He laughed. "You don't even want me to warm you up?"

You gripped his wrist and moved his hand lower. The two of you gasped in unison as his fingers came into contact with the wetness pooled in your entrance.

"Fuck, sweet girl," Rafayel cooed. "Is this from earlier? Did showing off to that girl that I'm yours get you excited?"

Your hand slipped down his body. You rubbed over the bulge in his black pants. "Got you excited, too, baby."

Rafayel whined, leaning into your touch. He moaned softly as you squeezed him. "Cutie," he whispered, nuzzling against you. He looked down, watching as he pushed his fingers into you.

You took them easily, blushing at the wet squelch you made. He quirked his fingers inside you, searching for the spongey place that made you moan. When he found it, your legs tried to clamp shut.

Rafayel sandwiched himself between them. "Ah, ah, ah," he chastised. He brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles over it while he plunged his fingers in and out of you. "Don't push me away, cutie."

He's remarkably controlled for a man whose face is as red as a tomato... you thought.

Whining, you leaned into his arm, his hand still between your head and the wall. You kissed his wrist. "Can I touch you? Please?"

He nodded frantically.

You fumbled with the zipper of his pants, then his buttons. You shoved his pants down low enough on his hips that you could pull his cock out of his boxers. He whimpered; gone was the control you had just been admiring.

He was already leaking, milky pre-cum dribbling down his length. His tip was flushed a deep, needy shade of pink. He twitched under your admiring gaze.

"Pretty," you murmured, admiring him for a moment. You trailed a finger up the underside of his cock, eliciting a full-body shiver. His fingers faltered for only a second inside you before he resumed stroking your walls. "So damn pretty, Raf, you always are."

You spit into your hand. He gasped aloud as you wrapped your hand around him. Slowly, you moved in your hand in time with his fingers. The schlick sound of your hand on his cock, moving easily with spit and pre-cum, filled the bathroom, joining the squelching of your pussy.

Rafayel's little gasps spurred you on, encouraging to move your hand faster against his length. He whined, biting his bottom lip. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his chest hitching, his cock jumping in your hand.

"Sweet girl," he groaned. "Sl-slow down, or I'm gonna cum already." He looked up at you, his eyes dark. "And I really wanna fuck you."

Trembling slightly as your own pleasure built up, you hooked one of your legs around his waist. "So fuck me, then," you whispered. "We can take our time later."

"That's my girl," he murmured. He pulled his fingers out of your pussy and lifted them to his mouth, sucking off your wetness, moaning at the taste of you. He pulled your panties off and let them dangle from the ankle already hooked behind his lower back. He slipped his arm underneath you, helping you jump up onto him. You wrapped your other leg around him as well.

Hand still wrapped around his cock, you lined him up with your entrance. He paused and pressed a soft, asking kiss to your forehead. You nodded and he gently pushed in.

You were whining as his tip slipped into you, the barest resistance from your walls. He paused.

"You okay?" he breathed.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," you promised. "Keep going, sweetie." You let out a breath, looking down as he pushed further in, moving slowly. You pulled your hand away from his cock just as he reached down to rub your clit, helping you take him.

You let out a loud moan. "Baby," you whispered. "Oh, Raf, fuck." Your voice echoed in the empty bathroom.

Rafayel bottomed out and let out a soft breath. He held you, one arm supporting your ass and the other wrapped around your back. You draped your arms over his shoulders, one hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Can I move?" he whispered.

You nodded. "Yes, baby," you murmured. You kissed him hard, then softly again. "Want it."

Rafayel's hips started slowly, carefully. He moaned, head falling against your shoulder. "Sweet girl," he whimpered. "You're so tight today..." You whined and clung to him, gasping as his head hit the right spot. He grinned against your skin. "Is that the spot, cutie?"

You whimpered. "Y-yes," you gasped out, head falling back again.

Rafayel stumbled forward until your back met the wall, bracing you there and adjusting to thrust harder and faster into you. "Feel good?"

You answered him with a messy kiss. His next thrust hit just right and you gasped against his mouth. Rafayel's tongue swiped against yours in the next second.

You relaxed all but your legs, keeping him close to you. His rapid thrusts had you trembling harder, legs shaking around him. You buried your head in his neck, opposite the kiss mark to keep it intact, and muffled your moans with his collar.

"Mark me," he begged. "Please, cutie, mark me as yours."

Some part of you was still aware that he had a professional engagement once you were done. So you pushed his shirt down and sucked a hickey into his collarbone, where you could hide it, that matched the other you'd left earlier.

Rafayel moaned embarrassingly loudly. He was panting now, even as his hips kept up a steady pace, your walls fluttering around him.

"Are you close, sweet girl?" he purred. "Gonna cum for me?"

"Yes," you whined. "Fuck, Raf, I'm so—"

The door handle jiggled.

You and Rafayel froze, heads whipping toward the sound. Panic filled you until you remembered you'd locked the door. Even so, the two of you stayed absolutely still, eyes locked on each other, until the person on the other side of the door gave up.

Several moments passed before Rafayel started to move again, returning to the slow pace he'd begun with. You tapped his arm quickly. When he looked at you, eyes wide, you whispered, "Faster."

Rafayel giggled. "Then you gotta keep quiet, okay?" You nodded. "Good girl," he breathed. A second later, he giggled as you tightened up around his cock, growing wetter at the praise.

The two of you continued, panting and whimpering quietly, muffling each other's noises with kisses. Rafayel's thrusts grew sloppier as he grew closer. The knot in your stomach tightened.

"Close again," you murmured against his lips.

"Forgive me," he whispered in response, leaving you frowning—until he pulled out of you, effectively squashing your orgasm. You spluttered in confusion, even as your interest grew at the sight of him shoving his pants and boxers further down, his cock in his hand.

Quickly, Rafayel pulled you away from the wall and bent you over the sink. You were faced with the appetizing view of Rafayel behind you, lust in his gaze—and in his hands. He flipped your dress up over your back, exposing your ass. You grinned at him in the mirror; he wiped it off your face as he spread your legs and pushed back into your pussy.

Moaning softly, Rafayel folded himself over you, holding onto your waist as he began thrusting into you.

"Oh, fuck, cutie," he whimpered. God, you loved when he sounded wrecked like that—and you hadn't even needed to do anything to get him there. "Feels so damn good like this."

You found yourself mesmerized with the view of your bodies moving together in the mirror, your hips moving to meet his every thrust. As for Rafayel, he had buried his face in your back, jaw clenched to hide his whines.

"That's it, baby," you cooed. "Oh, holy shit... Rafayel, baby, you're gonna make me cum!"

His arms tightened around you. "Go ahead, sweet girl, please. Please, let me have it. Cum on my cock, please, please."

"Needy boy," you teased, though you were hardly in a position to judge. You shuddered, legs shaking, knees weakening as pleasure crested through you.

Rafayel's hand slipped further down, slapping away the fabric of your dress. His trembling fingers found your clit and began to rub in sensual circles. Your pussy clenched around him and you whined.

"Cum for me," he begged. "Fuck, please, please—cum for me!"

It crested like a wave through you, pleasure building to a peak but not quite going over the edge just yet. You moaned, trying in vain to quiet yourself.

Rafayel gasped in your ear. "Oh, fuck, cutie! Cutie, I'm— I'm cumming, oh shit, I'm—" He devolved into a moan, nearly sobbing as he came. Sticky warmth filled your pussy.

"Raf!" you cried out, his cum filling you, triggering your own release. You gasped, legs shaking violently. Your ears were ringing. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh, shit, baby... Oh..."

Panting, Rafayel slumped against you, his hips pumping into you a few more times. Had you been anywhere else, you were certain he would have just kept going.

Your hand found his. You laced your fingers together as you breathed, trying to recover your senses. You looked over your shoulder. "You..." Words caught in your dry throat. "You okay?"

Rafayel lifted his head and locked eyes with you in the mirror. "I'm great," he breathed. He gave you a lopsided green. "How do you feel?"

"Fantastic," you replied, matching his smile. After a moment, during which you cleared your throat and caught your breath, you added, "We should...get back."

He nodded, sighing heavily. He pulled out slowly. Both of you groaned as his cum dripped out of you and onto the floor.

"Let me clean you up," he said softly. He pulled up his boxers and pants before he grabbed a paper towel. He wet it and squeezed the excess water from it. He dabbed it gently between your legs, cleaning the slick and cum and sweat off you.

Rafayel tossed the towel and pulled your panties back up your legs. He helped you fix your dress, straightening it out. In return, you readjusted his shirt, careful to cover the hickeys you'd left on him, wiping up the lipstick marks on his neck and face. You did, however, leave the stain you'd given him for the evening.

The two of you were quiet as you cleaned up and washed your hands, basking in the bliss of each other. You could already tell you were going to be pleasantly sore for the rest of the evening.

In the mirror, the two of you tidied your hair and faces. Rafayel crouched to wipe the mess from the floor. You reapplied lipstick and mascara and, by the end of it, you had to peer closely to realize anything had happened at all.

Rafayel offered you his hand. "Ready, cutie?"

You took his head. "Are you?"

He sighed. "You and Thomas," he teased, "thinking I can't handle the press."

You raised your eyebrow. "Should I quote their last article to you?" He huffed. You squeezed his hand. "Just...pay attention. Answer their questions. Be humorous but not rude, alright?"

"I," he said, affronted, a hand to his chest, "have been reliably told that I am not rude—I am sassy!"

You giggled. "Oh, hush," you said, kissing his cheek. "I trust you with this, Raf, I do. It's going to be just fine."

His face softened. "Thank you," he said, voice fond. He gave you one last kiss on the cheek as you rounded the corner, stepping back into the exhibition.

Eyes turned toward the two of you immediately and you tried your best not to look like you'd had a quickie in the bathroom. You smiled serenely at people who made eye contact with you, giving Rafayel's hand a squeeze.

Thomas was still entertaining the critics. Thankfully, the three of them were laughing as you joined them, Rafayel dropping seamlessly into the conversation with a clever comment about his art, bouncing off of what Thomas was saying, that appeared to make them forget that they should ask where he'd been.

As chivalrous as you'd ever seen him, Rafayel guided the two critics away from you and Thomas, starting them through the exhibition's planned loop to view his art.

For several moments, you and Thomas were silent as you watched Rafayel. You had the sudden feeling that you must look like proud parents.

"I don't know how you do it," Thomas said at last.

"Do what?"

"Get him to cooperate, to put it bluntly," he said. "I've worked him for years, and I've never seen him so willing to...mingle."

You hummed in agreement, then realized that Thomas was watching you out of the corner of his eye, waiting. It dawned on you that he was hoping for an actual answer.

You hoped you weren't blushing.

When it became clear you weren't answering, Thomas cleared his throat and went back to watching Rafayel, now at a different painting, laughing with the critics. Then he cleared his throat again.

"That was, ah...quite a long pep talk you two had."

Oh, you were certainly blushing now.

Catching sight of Thomas' sly side smile did you no favors for your burning cheeks. You looked the opposite direction of him, biting your lip.

Thomas laughed behind his hand. "Oh, really? Forget the kiss mark, fucking in a public bathroom is the real risk to his reputation!" Yet he didn't seem all that surprised by it. "At least I hope you went to a bathroom and not a hallway..."

"It was a bathroom!" you said quickly, no longer caring that you were incriminating yourself, just mortified at the idea at being caught with your dress around your hips in the gallery's halls. Then you shrugged. "I locked the door, don't worry. We might be stupid but we're not that stupid."

He tilted his head, debating. "You know, stupid isn't the word I would go for."

"Oh, no? Dumb? Reckless? Idiotic?" you offered.

He rolled his eyes. "Horny," he corrected, voice low.

You glanced over at your Lemurian, several other instances flickering through you mind: water sloshing in a bathtub, rolling around in paint together, your surprise visit to his hotel room for a previous exhibition, the first time he'd shown you his tail, and the night in the desert. And that was just the beginning.

Looking back at Thomas, you said, "I don't think you know your artist that well. You'd...be surprised."

Thomas coughed. He clenched his jaw so hard you thought you heard a tooth crack. His eyes drifted over the art on display. "So when he said you were his inspiration..."

You were nodding before he could finish his thought. As his voice trailed off, you took in his suddenly bloodless cheeks with a laugh. "Don't look so shocked, Thomas. He's not lying about the other inspirations for his paintings—those are just...secondary."

"Oh, God."

~❊~

"So!" Rafayel was incredibly cheery as the pair of you left the gallery, headed toward his car. Your joined hands swung between you. "Is Thomas going to kill us?"

You laughed. "Well, I don't think so. Are your critics going to turn you into a public scandal?"

He beamed. "Not this time! They were enchanted by me. Besides, it wasn't really a scandal last time, Thomas is dramatic." You fought the urge to roll your eyes. "They caught me in a bad mood last time. But this time, I had you." He squeezed your hand, then brought it up to his lips, kissing it softly.

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. "I love you," you said quietly, adjusting so you could see his face.

Rafayel's eyes glittered in the darkness. "I love you, too, beloved."

He held your door open for you before getting in himself. The radio was playing a soft, quiet love song you would have liked to dance with him to, if you had been anywhere but the car.

The roads were quiet and empty, illuminated by streetlamps. You reached over and placed your hand on Rafayel's thigh. He smiled, glancing at you.

"Does somebody want something?" he asked, only half-teasing.

"Drive faster," you purred, looking him up and down. When he raised a brow, you elaborated, "I have a laundry list of things I'd like to do to you."

Rafayel's cheeks flared pink, but his foot pressed down on the gas and your hand slowly creeped higher up his leg.

You made it home ten minutes earlier than you should have.

☞ ❊ ☜

[Image Caption: I do not give permission to repost, translate, or publish my work on any other site or app by anyone except myself. I do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI (for audio, art, or writing).]

Love and Deepspace // Rafayel

Taglist: {comment and let me know if you'd like to be added to the L&DS/Rafayel taglist!}

[hawnks]

"Though I don't understand it, I'm more than happy to play along with your weird bunny-butler fantasy, honey 🥰"

[hawnks]

[hawnks]

WAIT FUCK. HOW DID I NOT THINK OF CALEB X CRAFT STORE EMPLOYEE READER.

[hawnks]

I think if you got sick and gross Caleb would be extra smitten that day. Wow you guys are so close, he's the only one allowed to hold your hair back, hold tissues up to your nose for you to blow into <3 Not to mention you being so dependent on him makes both his chest and pants tight.