nobi

[nobi]

one year older - caleb 夏以昼

you’ve been completely occupied during the week of caleb’s birthday—leaving caleb needy and jealous. he intends to make up for every lost moment. a birthday special for our dearest caleb. inspired by but NOT based on ‘no-return night.’ it will not follow the same plot or dialogue.

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: caleb x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with very little plot, porn with feelings

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 6.9k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, flirtatious use of ‘gege,’ drunk!caleb, jealous!caleb, possessive!caleb, mentions of alcohol consumption, oral sex m! and f!receiving, sex on the floor, unprotected sex, swallowing, tiddy sucking, possessive behavior, cum marking kinda, gideon is mentioned a lot, caleb is pouty and sulky, squirting, multiple orgasms, lots of petnames, no use of y/n

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: ao3 | original inspo | shot, shot, shot, shot! fic

━ ✧.˖ A/N: this is kinda caleb’s version of shot, shot, shot, shot! in which he is drunk and jealous and inspired by that one clip of that drunk asian guy drinking water. i may end up writing his own dedicated version—unsure as of now since this one basically is that + birthday twist.

again, inspired by but NOT based on ‘no-return night.’ it will not follow the same plot or dialogue.

happy birthday to our dearest xia yizhou. you are so unbelievably loved. i hope everyone’s been having fun celebrating caleb’s birthday! i will be pulling for no-return night tomorrow, wish me luck <3

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

[17:31] Brat: i can’t come over tonight :-( gideon needed help picking ur gift. i’m sorry, ill see you tmw birthday boy! <3

Caleb sighs, typing a quick response—thumbs flying across the screen. Amidst the privacy of his Fleet office, he doesn’t bother to hide the disappointment or simmering jealousy from his breathy exhale. 

[17:33] Caleb: Again? I’ve barely seen you this week :(

You’d come to Skyhaven, taking a whole week off, to spend his birthday with him. His first birthday since everything had become so complicated. 

And Caleb was used to sharing his birthday. Growing up, he’d always found himself throwing joint birthday parties or forgoing his birthday altogether for summer sports events. 

But it was different now. Spending nearly an entire year playing dead—living without you, altered his view on life. He wanted every milestone, every birthday, every little thing someone could have to look forward to. 

And he wanted it with you. 

Caleb’s jaw ticks dangerously when you don’t respond, pocketing his phone and turning back to the mission reports on his desk. 

But he finds concentration elusive, too distracted by the irrational possessiveness bubbling inside of him. Swearing, he pulls his phone back out. 

Nothing. 

His chest aches with an emptiness that can only be attributed to your absence. The same dull throb he feels when he can’t touch you—when you’re not in his field of vision. Which, lately, seemed more often than not.

Even for his birthday week in Skyhaven it seemed like Gideon got your attention more than he did. He knew the two of you were friends. Beyond the silly nostalgic times the three of you had shared during his time at Skyhaven University and Aerospace Academy, Gideon had been there for you during the hardest time of your life. 

Fucking Gideon.

Caleb sulks childishly to himself. The logical part of him knew that the two of you were probably meeting up to scheme something for his birthday. He trusted Gideon with his life, which wasn’t something he could say about many people these days. 

He shouldn’t be jealous. Rationally, he knew that.

But, when it came to you, he tended to be anything but rational.

“Colonel? Sir?”

An unexpected voice cuts him out of his thoughts. He pockets his phone, quickly masking his expression. The pout he didn’t even realize he wore slides off, replaced by the calculated and authoritative Colonel’s mask. He snaps without even realizing it—much harsher and sharper than he normally was with his subordinates.

“What?!”

The lieutenant standing on the other side of the desk gulps nervously, bowing his head respectfully. In less than a fraction of a second, Caleb collects himself.

“Apologies. What do you need, Lieutenant?”

God, he could use a drink. 

–

You adjust the string of twinkling lights you’d strung up on the couch in Caleb’s living room. Biting your lip, you fluff up the adorable apple shaped plushie that sat on the furniture. 

Spinning around, you take one last quick once over of the space.

The countless wrapped presents you’d gotten for him were tastefully scattered about, the projector set up against the wall just how you wanted it, every balloon meticulously placed. His living room, albeit much homier now that you’d basically taken over his life like a tornado, was normally still a bit bare. But now, it looked like something out of a dream.

Perfect.

It was the first birthday you’d be celebrating with Caleb ever since the explosion. Now that things were finally somewhat settling down into a comfortable routine, you wanted to show Caleb just how much you’d missed him—cherished him. Starting with his birthday. 

The first of a lifetime of birthdays you would share together. You’d make sure of that. 

Your phone buzzes with a text, the screen lighting up with Gideon’s contact.

[8:15 PM] Gid: Let me know how Xia reacts! Good luck.

[8:15 PM] Me: i will! thank u for helping me set up again gideon!!

Your heart clenches as you catch the unread text message from the birthday boy himself. You’d been so excited to get the house ready that you’d completely forgotten to text him back. 

Just as you’re typing out a response, you hear the familiar sound of the front door clicking unlocked. Eyes widening, you set your phone down, carefully picking up the birthday cake you’d made and positioning yourself in the entry way that connects to the foyer.

Seconds tick by, the faint sound of fumbling making you set the cake down on the console table in a mix of confusion and worry. As you’re about to reach for the handle, the door pushes open—revealing Caleb.

In the dim entryway you don’t see how slightly disheveled he is, a flush creeping up his neck. You probably wouldn’t have seen it even if the light had been flipped on, far too excited to see him. To celebrate him. 

“Happy birthday, Caleb!” you squeal, all but forgetting the uncharacteristic fumbling, bounding up to him and wrapping your arms around the back of his neck and launching yourself into his arms.

Caleb grunts in surprise, completely taken aback but catching you by your waist all the same. His lengthy fingers spread to grip you tightly, securing you against his solid body. You’re so caught up in your excitement that you miss the odd way Caleb stumbles a step backward as he catches you.

“Well, early birthday,” you giggle, glancing at the clock. 

8:37 PM. You hadn’t even noticed how late it’d gotten. You crinkle your brows slightly, wondering how Caleb hadn’t caught you in your little scheme. You were well behind schedule, considering Caleb always got home at 7:30 on the dot with his military-disciplined punctuality. 

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you,” Caleb murmurs into the top of your head, taking a deep inhale of your scent. 

You laugh into his chest, the smooth leather of his uniform digging into your cheek. You sigh happily as his hands wander up, wrapping his arms around you entirely. The entire elaborate birthday surprise is briefly forgotten as you sink into his hold, missing him terribly after not seeing him much this week as you ran around scheming.

“Smell so damn good,” Caleb’s voice is so muffled, his breath warm against your scalp. With his words obscured against your hair, you can’t hear his slight slur.

Taking a small step backward, you peer up at him. Your knuckles brush gently across his cheek, grinning as he adorably leans into your touch.

”How was work? You feeling okay?”

Caleb bends down to brush his lips against your temple, “I am now.” 

Your chest constricts, knowing you’d barely had time with him this week. Remembering why you’d had to avoid him all week, you eagerly tug him along to the living room that casts twinkling lights down the hallway like an absolute dream world. Caleb stumbles behind you, letting you pull him along.  

Just as you’re almost in sight of the surprise you’d set up, you stop in your tracks.

”Wait, wait!” You run behind him, tiptoeing up to cover his eyes with your hands, his skin hot and flushed against your palms. Distracted by your excitement, you push him along with your hands covering his eyes like a blindfold. 

Tripping against his heels due to the height difference, you whine and retract your hands, “Okay this isn't working. Close your eyes!”

Caleb chuckles breathily and complies, his violet eyes shutting, “Of course, pip-squeak.”

Once you’re sure his eyes are closed, waving your hands in front of him for good measure, you guide him the rest of the way into the once depressing living room, now a cozy paradise for just the two of you.

“Okay, open!”

Caleb’s eyes flutter open, hazy with a distinct sluggish fog that you’ve yet to fully notice. The mist clears in an instant as he takes in the scene before him.

His throat tightens at the transformation the Skyhaven house undergone. The only memories he used to have in this room were the gray storm clouds that floated just outside the floor to ceiling windows when he’d jolt awake from nightmares, covered in a cold sheen of sweat. 

Until you came back into his life.

Now, only the most pleasant memories remain. Takeout on the coffee table as you fed him dumplings cross legged on the carpet, him drying your hair as you sat in front of the glass panes watching jets fly by, you curled against his chest on the couch as movies played into the night.

The same couch that was now covered in balloons, fairy lights, and perfectly wrapped presents.  

Without a word, Caleb pulls you flush against his body, your back pressed firmly into his chest and his bicep wrapped securely around your shoulders. You burst into a fit of laughter as he buries his face into shoulder, nuzzling his nose into the side of your face. You hold onto his arm that’s around your chest, enjoying the way he leans into you. 

“So this is what you were up to, hm?” His breath is warm as it tickles you, his skin hot even under the thick layers of his uniform. 

“Yes,” you grin mischievously before turning to him with a question of your own, “What about you? You’re home late today.” 

Now facing him, the warm glow from dozens of twinkling fairy lights illuminating his handsome face, you notice how red Caleb is. 

His bright eyes finally flicker down, distracted by the picturesque scene behind you. His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, a familiar hungry glint in his violet eyes. Before wasting another second, he crashes his lips to yours and devours you like a man starved.

You moan as he gently demands entry—wanting more. His fingers hold you possessively, one gripping your hair and the other holding your chin as his tongue makes up for every minute he didn’t get to hold you this week.

But as you lose yourself in the kiss, the faint taste of alcohol snaps you back to the present. The flushed and clammy skin, the stumbling, the slight slur.

Pulling away, you take his face into your hands and look into his starry eyes,

“Caleb Xia, are you drunk?!”

Caleb blinks at you slowly, the tips of his ears pinkening at being caught red-handed. 

“No, are you?”

You burst out laughing as his eyes try their best to focus on you, “You are!”

Caleb grins crookedly at you, “No. I’m—hicc—Caleb.”

You roll your eyes at his ill-timed hiccup, dragging him to the couch and gently pushing him down onto it. He flops onto it unceremoniously, his arm resting atop one of the apple cushions and his thighs spread wide to let you stand between them. With his other hand, he loosens his tie, his Adam’s apple bobbing thickly under his uniform. 

You can’t help but dig your teeth into your lip at how unfairly attractive he’s always been, especially in a tie. The way he loosened it—the way he looked up at you with molten desire and longing flooding his features, nearly made your knees buckle under your own weight. 

“Wait here, dummy,” you brush his hair out of his eyes before turning away from him, intending to grab some water from the kitchen. 

Caleb’s fingers close clumsily around your wrist, yanking you back to face him. 

”Stay.”

He looks up at you with expectant eyes, his voice coming out soft and breathless. The plea is vulnerable as it is demanding.

”Spend my birthday with me.”

You smile reassuringly at him, stepping back toward him to press a tender kiss to his parted lips, the alcohol still lingering on his tongue.

”I’m just going to get you some water, okay? I’m not going anywhere. It’s your birthday—you get anything you want.” 

Caleb groans, almost a guttural growl, “Fuck. Don’t say things like that. N-Not when I’m like this.” 

The heat in his voice is undeniable, making your skin crawl with burning anticipation. 

“Water first,” you croak, “Then, whatever the birthday boy wants.” 

The drunken colonel pouts with distaste but lets you slip your wrist out of his grasp. Before you change your mind, you quickly make your way to the kitchen and grab a glass out of the cupboard and fill it with cool filtered water.

When you get back to the couch, Caleb looks considerably more inebriated as he plays with the silver tag of his necklace, dangling it in front of his face. When he sees you, his eyes light up and a lopsided grin appears on his face. ”Finally,” he slurs, reaching out for you, “Missed you,”

You roll your eyes, letting him hook his arm around your waist, yanking you to him, “I was gone for like two minutes.”

Caleb’s eyes scrunch as he pulls you back into the space between his legs, both arms looping around you.

”Two minutes too—hicc—long.”

Biting your chuckle back, you take his jaw into your fingers and tilt his face up at you, bringing the water to his lips, “Open up,”

Caleb’s eyes shine with mischief, “Kiss first.”

This time your laugh escapes, amused and utterly infatuated with his adorable demands. You argue, “Water first so I can sober you up. Then you can have as many kisses as you’d like.”

Caleb grumbles unhappily but obeys, his lips parting slightly and looking up at you expectantly. His breath is warm against your skin as you raise the glass back to his mouth, gently guiding his chin with your fingers.

As he drinks, you gently stroke his burning skin with your thumb. Despite protesting, he gulps the water down hungrily. 

But his sight is entirely trained onto you and not the cup, eyes flickering down the curves of your bare shoulder. In his heated appreciation, rivulets of cold liquid dribble down his chin, dripping tantalizingly down the bulge of his neck.

His thick eyelashes flutter back up, violet eyes meeting yours with unspoken heat and longing—compounded by the amount of times someone else had taken you from him this week.

With his face tilted up, drinking greedily from your hands, eyes wide and locked onto you with both appreciation and desperation, he looks unbelievably vulnerable. His thick arms still lock around your waist, refusing to let you go.

You swear you could stand there for an eternity just counting each of his long thick eyelashes as he looked up at you like his entire world revolved around you. 

When he finishes, you twist around to set the glass on the coffee table behind you. 

“So—”

You don’t get another word out before Caleb is pulling you down onto his lap and recapturing your lips in a passionate kiss. His touch is territorial and demanding, large palm cupping the small of your back, maneuvering you until you’re straddling him. His skin, damp from the spilt water, clings to yours as he picks up where he’d left off. His other hand squeezes the nape of your neck, leaving no room for escape.

The faint remnants of alcohol still linger on his tongue, but he tastes so distinctly Caleb that you can’t help but whimper and reciprocate with everything you have. His unrelenting hold makes you squirm, readjusting yourself more comfortably on his lap. 

Caleb curses, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs, trying to keep you still while he begs into your lips, “Jesus princess, please stop moving like that.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’re drunk?” you counter, murmuring into his lips when he’s forced to let you go so he can hiccup. 

Caleb kisses down your jaw until his breath is at your ear, “Went to get drinks with Liam.” 

Your eyes widen in pleasant surprise, “Liam? But you guys don’t usually—”

“I thought that I wouldn’t see you ‘til tomorrow. Needed a distraction. So Liam offered,” he grumbles, sulking, “Gideon’s been taking all your time.”

Your heart throbs at his words. 

He didn’t want to be alone. 

“Gideon’s just been helping me plan and set up. Since he’s more familiar with Skyhaven than I am.”

Caleb’s eyes narrow at you, an adorable pout playing on his lips, words still slurred, ”Don’t tell me Gideon is going to pop out from behind the couch.” 

Grinning, you shake your head, “Nope. It’s just us tonight.”

His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, a familiar hungry glint in his violet eyes. 

“Good.”

With his lips still at the hollow of your neck, his lips latch gently onto your skin, sucking a blossoming red mark right where he was sure people would see. 

“He told me to—ngh—tell you hah-happy birthday though.” 

Caleb only grunts in response, face buried in your neck and fingers crawling up your thighs, playing with the lace seam of your panties.

“Also, Gideon is coming over tomorrow to—“ 

Caleb’s chest rumbles with a growl, his teeth nipping the forming hickey in warning, which elicits a yelp from you, “Say his name one more time, see what happens.” 

You giggle at his ridiculousness, “Colonel Xia, you’re so demanding when you’re drunk.”

Caleb grips your chin roughly, forcing you to level with him, “You want to see demanding, pip-squeak?”

His voice is gravelly and completely serious, making your knees buckle, even as you straddled him. You’d almost think you were the one who was drunk.

“Demanding is what I should’ve been when someone else was stealing you away from me all week.”

His fingers tauntingly trace your jaw, eyes dilated as they drink in every morsel of your increasingly heavy breath.

“Demanding is when I remind you that I’m not a man who shares, not what’s mine.”

The heat that radiates off his body is palpable, the aura of drunken jealousy-fueled dominance and possession dripping off of him. It makes your core ache.

“Demanding is this,” Caleb takes your wrist into his hand, bringing it to the space between your bodies. He closes your finger over something warm, hard, and throbbing under his slacks. 

Your breath catches in your throat as Caleb looks at you, his eyes darkened to a near indigo. His own breaths accelerate considerably with his bulge in your delicate hands, forcing himself not to thrust into your fingers.  

“So?” he rasps, “Are you going to take responsibility for this?”

You gulp, tearing your eyes away from the way he strains against the confines of his pants, absolutely tented and bricked up. 

“Anything you want. It’s your birthday.” 

Caleb swears quietly, chest heaving as he watches your eyes flutter at him—seeing how utterly serious you are about serving him. 

“On the floor then,” he croaks, fingers softening their hold on you so you can climb off his lap and onto the floor before him, right between his open thighs.

“Get on your knees for gege.”

The carpet is rough against your skin as you kneel before him, carefully undoing his belt and freeing his throbbing erection. As it springs free, nearly hitting you in the face, you press his burning wet skin into your palm. 

Caleb groans as soon as you touch him, hips bucking off the couch involuntarily. He pants for air, unbearably sensitive from not only the alcohol, but from the simmering ache of jealousy that still lurks beneath his skin. 

You give him a few firm pumps, mesmerized as your fingers catch pearly drops of his copious arousal. He was so pent up—leaking so much need—that you’d think he’d already cum.

“Fuck—take me in your mouth,” Caleb commands, guiding you just how he liked it. You giggle at his demands, darting your tongue out to catch the beads of precum making its way down his thick shaft. 

Caleb groans, his fingers digging into the soft apple cushion, “God—that fucking tongue…”

When you finally sink him into the warm wet recesses of your mouth, Caleb threads his fingers into your hair, gripping tightly. 

“More,” he croaks—your name spilling from his lips like a prayer, stroking your scalp, “Need more.”

You hum, slowly taking him deeper into your mouth and eventually your throat. Caleb unconsciously thrusts into you, unable to control himself when you take him this well, this obediently.

“Jesus, baby,” he grunts, his restraint hanging on by a thread, “The things you do to me…”

His chest heaves as you take him fully, your lips pressed against his pelvis. You can feel your panties becoming increasingly wet as he praises you. Wanting to hear more, more of his addicting noises, more of his filthy praises, you progressively go faster. Exactly how he liked it.

“F-Fuck—fuck!” Caleb throws his head back with his slurred cries of ecstasy, “Need to flood that perfect fucking throat.”

Whining, your enthusiasm soars, the prospect of his finish fueling your own excitement. Your tongue teases the throbbing vein that crawls up the underside of his girth, knowing how insane it always drives him. 

Caleb’s pushing your head down now, his pleasure bursting the dam of restraint.

”Hah—close, princess,” he looks down at you with pleading hooded eyes, his cheeks red with both the flush of alcohol and the pleasure of your wicked tongue. 

“Look at me.”

If it was one thing Caleb loved, it was making you look into his eyes as he filled you. 

He lifts your chin just slightly, throbbing as you peer up at him through your wet eyelashes. 

“God—you’re so damn beautiful. All fucking mine.” 

At the sight of your teary eyes fluttering up at him, cheeks hollow as you devoured him, lips puffy and kiss bitten, Caleb explodes without a further warning. He coats every inch of your mouth, your throat, with himself. 

You do your best to take every single drop, but it inevitably dribbles down your lips as you choke lightly. 

“Swallow,” Caleb rasps, animalistic hunger dripping from his words. His thumb presses into your bottom lip, collecting rivulets that had escaped and popping his finger into your mouth, “All of it.” 

Even without his demand, you would’ve done just that. With your eyes never leaving his, you dramatically gulp, letting your tongue caress his digit as you pull yourself off.

As soon as your lips leave him, he’s hoisting you up by your waist, throwing you under his body and onto the plush couch. He hovers above you, using his knee to part your thighs, nearly coming in contact with your soaking panties.

“So fucking good for me. My good girl.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to speak, his lips coming down to claim yours. You gasp as his tongue invades your mouth, giving him easy access to you. You’re still salty with the taste of his own finish, yet so unbearably sweet with your own unique taste, only making him more eager. Feverish. Frenzied. 

His hands are everywhere, under your skirt, in your hair, gripping your chin. Every moan, every whimper—he consumes with desperation bordering on insanity. 

Too lost in the passion of his lips, you hardly notice when the two of you roll off the couch. You can vaguely hear the clatter of something falling, feeling Caleb’s hand move against the back of your head and tailbone—shielding you from the impact. 

“Oops,” Caleb grins, lips puffy, still hovering above you, “Got carried away.”

Laughing, your fingers reach up to take his face into your hands. He leans into your touch, turning his face so he can brush a wet kiss into your palm. The floor is hard against your back, the carpet giving you rugburn, but with Caleb above you, it feels perfect. 

“How are you feeling now?” 

Caleb’s eyes hungrily trail down your body, perfectly pinned under his. His eyes darken, hooded with desire that’d hardly been quelled. 

His voice is a gravelly slur, “Feel like…unwrapping some presents.”

Your heart races as his fingers snake up your arm, finding the black straps of your dress. 

“Caleb…”

With one gentle tug, he unravels the neatly tied ribbons on your shoulders. His throat bobs hungrily as he takes you in, fingers tracing heated paths down your skin while he pulls the bodice of your dress down slightly to expose more of you to his ravenous eyes.

“You wrapped yourself up so beautifully for me,” he swears under his breath when he unveils your intricate lingerie, your nipple visible just beneath the lace.

“Fuck.”

He can’t stop himself from dipping down, capturing your breast even through the sheer fabric of your bra. 

“Caleb–w-wait!” you cry, not convincing even yourself. Your eyes roll heavenward, arching into his hot demanding tongue even through the uncomfortably feeling of wet fabric.

He nips playfully at your sensitive peaks, looking up at you through his eyelashes, eyebrows hooded with hunger. 

His breath is so hot it makes you writhe with need as he speaks into your skin, “Wait for what, princess? I’ve been waiting all week.”

You chuckle breathily before peeling into a pleasured squeal when he bites down, gently but firmly, “F-Fine. Only because it’s your—mmngh—birthday!”

Caleb chuckles darkly, releasing your other nipple with a wet pop, “Are you sure about that, sweets?”

He makes a show of raising the skirt of your dress, the rug fibers tickling your thighs. Drinking in each and every one of your delicious mewls, he smirks, “If I recall correctly, you’re always good at taking orders from your Colonel.”

You’re about to retort, fiery sass on the tip of your tongue, when Caleb flicks your swollen clit—precise and intentional. Your cry is sharp as it is pleasured, your fingernails digging painfully into the carpet, thighs closing against Caleb's solid body. 

“Caleb!”

He grins, “Yeah, baby?”

“You know what—ngh fuck!” You’re cut off again when he lowers his head to lick a hot wet stripe down your slit, all the way to your throbbing clit, right through the fabric of the lace panties.

“Fuuuck, did you get this wet just from sucking gege’s cock?” he groans, breath hot against your trembling sensitive lips, “You spoil me.” 

As soon as the pleasure comes, it disappears, Caleb withdrawing with a crazed look of mischief in his galaxy eyes. 

“Say it.”

You whine, your hips bucking up—instinctively chasing Caleb’s touch. He pushes you back down, his palm flat against your stomach and lips latched into the soft skin of your inner thigh. So close to where you need him most.

“Say it.”

Caleb is drunk off something entirely different now, making little to no sense as his tongue darts out to sample you again. 

“F-Fuck—say what?! What do you want me to—mmngh—say?”

He lifts your ruined panties to the side, eyes dilated with pure hunger. Unable to stop himself, even when he wants to tease you, he leans back in. His tongue parts your lips, teasing your entrance. 

Words vibrating into your soul, he grunts, “Say you only take orders from me.” 

Deciding to give in, lest he take away the pleasure just as it began, you sit up on your elbows, “Only you Caleb. Only ever t-take orders from my gege.” 

Caleb’s fingers tighten around your thighs, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the weight of his desperate breaths. His eyes, delirious with hunger, lock onto yours as he leans back on—fully ready to devour you now. 

“And you look so damn perfect doing it.” 

You fall backward as Caleb tugs you forward, lifting you until your pussy was level with him as he sat up. You’re surprised when your head hits a soft apple plush, gut fluttering as you realize Caleb had used his Evol to position the pillow when he’d yanked you towards him.

He was always thinking of you—protecting you.

Just as your skull thumps gently into the cushion, he buries himself in you, so eagerly that his teeth nearly knock into your fevered skin. He’d spent so many hours which his tongue nestled inside you that he could practically draft blueprints on exactly how you liked it. 

Slow. Attentive. Devoted.

And Caleb was always an over-achiever.

With you stretched out on his tongue, his nose brushing insistently into your hardened clit, he shows you the utmost reverence, worshiping you like the absolute perfection you were.

“O-Oh god Caaleb—! Just like that. Please don’t stop.”

He grunts in approval, letting his deep voice vibrate against your quivering skin. Diligently coaxing your orgasm from you, Caleb inserts one of his skilled fingers. Then two. 

“Never going to stop,” he moans into your core, “That’s what I want for my birthday. To be inside of you forever.”

You whine at his words, his fingers easily finding your soft g-pot, “W-Want that too. Hah—please, gege.”

Caleb nearly snarls at your breathy words, fingers digging into your skin.

“That’s my fucking girl,” he growls into you, coaxing you deliberately, “You know exactly who you belong to, hm?”

You whimper, nodding eagerly as he purposely drags his nose against you. Caleb nearly goes feral at your intoxicating scent, needing your orgasm more than he needs his next breath.

“Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs, voice deep and velvety, “It’s my birthday, right? Show me how much you need me.” 

His lips gently close over your aching nub, sucking hard. Your eyes widen when the pads of his fingertips, deep inside you, stroke demandingly against your most sensitive parts, all but ensuring your heavenly downfall.  

Back arching deeply, the end of your spine digging painfully into the hard floor, your body gives him the thing he’d wanted above anything else, any other gift. 

“Nnngh—feels so fucking good. I-I can’t—no more!…Cumming!” 

Caleb’s chest rumbles as his tongue skillfully catches every drop of your climax, holding your thighs firmly as they quake uncontrollably against him. 

You’re a whimpering mess, never quite able to get used to just how devotedly he tends to you. Your chest heaves as Caleb sets you back down, wiping his shiny lips with the back of his hand. 

“Thank you, princess.”

Vision blurry, you sit up on shaky arms to watch him. He fists his cock slowly, already hard and wanting again.

“You did not just thank me for sex,” you laugh breathlessly, making a face at him. 

Caleb grins, gently pinning you back to the floor. One hand restrains both of yours while the other tilts your chin up at him. 

“Think of it as…thanking you for the best gift I’ve ever received.”

Caleb carefully chooses his words, fully intending for you to pick up on the double meaning behind them. You were the greatest thing in his life. 

“More?” Caleb asks breathlessly, his wide violet eyes desperately pleading with yours, but fully prepared to stop if you needed a break. 

“More. Don’t tell me the birthday boy is an old man already,” you grin at him playfully. 

Caleb smirks, devastatingly handsome, leaning down to brush his lips tauntingly against yours. 

“Brat.”

He firmly cups the back of your head and claims your lips—deliciously bruising and punishing. 

With both his hands, he pins your wrists on either side of your head, rendering you completely pliant at his mercy. 

“I might be one year older,” he murmurs as he kisses down your neck, selectively leaving hickeys on your most sensitive parts.

“But I am still perfectly capable of satisfying my girl.”

Caleb presses his lips to yours, consuming you entirely and irrevocably. The taste of alcohol had completely faded away, leaving only the taste of the man you’d loved all your life. The taste of excitement, desperation, longing, and possession.

You feel him use one hand to line himself up with your entrance, entering your with one measured thrust. He swallows your pleasured gasp, pinning your hands back down gently, fingers carefully intertwining with yours.

“Christ,” Caleb groans, his lips still brushing against yours as he gently rolls his hips into you, “Tight little cunt, s’all mine, right?”

“Caaleb,” you moan brokenly, a mix of your release and his saliva making it much easier to accommodate his thick girth, “Nngh—more. Please.”

Caleb growls, his pelvis hitting your thighs with a powerful pitched clap. It’s enough to fuck your breath out of you, your body sliding up against the rough rug painfully. The feeling of his leaking cockhead claiming every sensitive spot inside of you makes the pain of the friction fade away, your eyes rolling back deeply. 

Your needy words go straight to Caleb’s cock, quelling the irrational jealousy that’d been brewing inside him and fueling the possessiveness he felt over you. 

Caleb grabs a throw pillow off the couch, lifting you effortlessly to place it under your hips. The elevation gives him the perfect angle to repeatedly hit your g-spot as it brushed bruisingly into your cervix. 

“So greedy,” he whispers, groaning at the way you wring his cock, “Pussy’s so damn needy. You should see how you’re sucking me in, baby.”

Caleb straightens up, one of your legs wrapped around his waist and the other resting straight against his shoulder as he grips it to his body. He presses tender kisses into your ankle, a sharp contrast to the way he bullies himself into your tight heat.

“Hah—hear that?” he murmurs, fingers finding your clit, making the sounds of wet sinful pleasure even more pronounced, “That’s how much you need me.”

For how self-assured Caleb was in his everyday life, he sounded very much like he was convincing himself and not you.

“Course I need you,” you moan, reassuring the side of him that you know has been hurting this week, “Mmmngh—I’ll a-always need you. Always want you.

He kisses down your calf, so absolutely devoted to worshipping you—to showing you how much he needs you. When he reaches your knee, he wraps your leg back around him, lowering himself to your flushed face. His rhythm is intentional and powerful, each stroke meant to pleasure you and not him.

With your chin softly in his fingers’ grip, he croaks with finality, “You’re mine.” 

But this time it’s not demanding or possessive, but a desperate promise. 

“Show me, Caleb,” you encourage, his urgency fueling your own orgasm. Caleb’s jaw tightens, the bulge in his neck bobbing thickly. 

“Everyday,” he whispers into your mouth, nipping at your puffy lips, “I’ll show you, every fucking day.”

Closing the rest of the distance, Caleb captures you in a kiss that speaks volumes to how wholly you consumed him—how desperately he needs to be consumed by you.

You can tell he’s close, moaning unabashedly into your mouth, hips stuttering against your own trembling body. You can practically feel his cock throbbing as it tries to bury into your damn cervix, coating your walls in beads of precum. He’s pinned you by your wrists again, fingers stroking yours, needing the illusion of complete control over you.

Pulling away, saliva still connecting the two of you, Caleb groans as his balls tighten with that unmistakable tension, “Shit, you feel so good. I-I can’t stop.”

Your toes curl, digging into his back, “No–don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”

“Gonna—sh-shit—cum in you princess,” Caleb warns, “Need to fill you up. Haah—Need you to feel me for days.”

You cry out at his filthy promises, body tightening in excitement, his fingers releasing you in favor of finding both your hardened peaks, one hand at your clit and the other at your breast. 

“Jesus—don't squeeze me like that,” he pleads darkly, forcefully being pushed to his precipice, “You like that idea baby?”

Caleb’s fingers press down, eliciting the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard.

“Y-Yes!” you cry, so close to release you’d say anything if it meant you got to cum with his cock inside you.

His eyes darken, jaw ticking, your name a dangerous purr on his lips.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Caleb’s hips snap painfully into your ass, once. He collapses on top of you, catching himself by his palms on the floor framing both sides of your face.

“Fuck—you’re so fucking perfect. Feels like heaven inside of you.”

Twice.

“Gonna let gege cum inside you, right princess?”

A third time.

“Sh-shit—gonna be able to smell me on you. In you.”

A fourth, final, time.

“You can take it, right baby? My good fucking girl.”

You cum with a strangled cry of his name, back arching against the cushion, fingers digging roughly into Caleb’s hair. There’s an uncomfortable wet splash that accompanies your climax, your entire body shaking violently against his faltering thrusts.

“Christ—!” Caleb groans, “Did you just squirt for me?”

Your explosion of ecstasy thrusts Caleb into his own violent release, the thick cords of muscles in his abdomen twitching as his body unleashes into yours, powerful and mind numbing. 

A bead of sweat falls from his skin to yours, his entire body strained with the force of his orgasm. Thick hot jets of his seed coat your aching walls, still pulsing insistently against his throbbing cock.

“F-Fuck I can’t…” Caleb’s groan is strangled, falling onto his elbows, careful not to crush you.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper quietly, voice weak, groaning as he twitches inside you.

“Ngh—can’t stop cumming,” Caleb grunts, his entire body shaking as he holds himself above you.

You look down at where your bodies are still connected, his hips still thrusting shallowly into you.

“Bear with me, princess,” he rasps apologetically. Your trembling hands reach up to gently hold his face, bringing it to yours.

You press a tender kiss to his parted lips, your tongue gently teasing his, encouraging him to ride out the waves of his orgasm. 

Caleb’s cheeks are flushed adorably red as you let him go, his hips finally stilling. Carefully, he gathers you into his arms, flipping the two of you around so that you lay on top of him, his body shielding you from the floor now.

He brushes his lips to your temple, whispering softly, “Best fucking birthday.”

At the mention of his birthday, you’re reminded of the birthday cake that was left forgotten on the entryway console table. Sitting up suddenly, you gently extricate yourself from Caleb’s hold, much to his pouty dismay. 

“Stay here, I’ll be right back!”

Caleb groans as he slips out of you against his will. If it was up to him, he’d spend his entire birthday buried inside of you.

But as you walk away on trembling legs, his cum drips down your thighs, giving Caleb the perfect view as he lays on the floor looking up at your retreating form. 

He feels himself hardening at the thought of his claim running down your legs tomorrow, when Gideon—

“Happy birthday!”

Caleb sits up on the carpeted floor to watch you return with a lit birthday cake in your hands, singing happy birthday. The cake has lost its form, having melted when it was forgotten out in the warmth of the house, much of the toppers pitifully drooping against their own weight. 

And yet, as you present it to him, beaming ear to ear, hair disheveled, dress hanging off your chest, thighs pressed together in an attempt to stop the sticky mess between your legs from dripping, serenading him…

He’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly when you finish the song, “It kinda got ruined, but—”

Caleb cuts you off with a tender thumb to your lips.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

You blush, grinning up at him. 

“Make a wish!”

Caleb smiles ever-so-slightly, just the corners of his lips turning up, his fingers moving to cup your chin and tilt your face up at him. 

“What if I already have everything I’ve ever wanted?”

His violet eyes shine with a torrent of emotions that threatens to consume you whole, your own eyes stinging with feelings that threaten to escape. 

You bite your lip as he strokes your jaw, “Doesn’t matter. You have to make a wish.” 

You lift the cake so that it separates your bodies, the melting candle burning between your faces. Caleb chuckles before stepping back and closing his eyes. 

When they finally open, he leans down to blow the candle out. His eyes flutter to yours as he extinguishes the flame, conveying the magnitude of his words—his wishes. 

Every single one of them began and ended with you. 

As he pulls away, you ask him the same question you asked him every birthday. 

“What did you wish for?” 

Caleb laughs, taking the cake from your hands to set down on the coffee table, “My lips are sealed, pip-squeak. If I say, it won’t come true. And I really need this one to pull through.” 

Your eyes light up with unbridled curiosity, “Now you have to tell me!” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Nope.”

“Pleaaaaaase!”

“Quit it.” 

“Please, please, please!” 

Caleb turns to you as he pulls you down onto the couch with him, his amethyst irises bright with amusement and adoration. He couldn’t tell you what he really wished for—that in the next lifetime, he’d be able to find you and you’d let him take your hand again. If not that, then a seagull that could fly freely with you by his side, through the salty summer skies.

He chuckles, tucking your head under his chin, resting against your infinite warmth, “Fine” 

You look up at him in surprise, listening attentively, practically boiling over with curiosity. 

Caleb takes a deep breath, looking at you with seriousness that makes your heart hammer, “I wished that Gideon would stub his big toe on—“ 

Interrupting him by flicking his forehead, you tut playfully, “One year older and still a child.” 

Caleb grins, capturing your wrist before you can pull away and bringing your fingers to his lips reverently. 

“Good thing we have an entire lifetime of birthdays for me to grow up.”

© aeyumicore 2025.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

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[nobi]

IMAGINE . . . the lads LIs playing an otome game ?!

what would it be like if the love and deepspace love interests played an otome game in which YOU were the love interest instead? ⸺ heavily HEAVILY inspired by a thread on twt by @/Myaurxra_ on the same prompt!!

zayne who is strictly f2p. i cannot imagine this man spending money on the game. he occasionally plays during his breaks. he listens to the tender moments as background noise while he works. he has your affinity level at about 68 which is the culmination of many months checking in and mostly doing his dailies.

zayne who actually uses the ‘remind me’ feature to help him get some rest. nothing beats your sweet voice telling him he’s working too hard and that he needs to go to bed!!

zayne who seems like he’d be a very casual player who enjoys the sweet, soft cards. however, tomorrow’s catch-22 drops and he is a changed man!! <3

xavier who is somehow incredibly lucky without even trying?? he’s pulling your 5 star memories left and right, early pity. definitely posts his pulls on social media, which is the envy of everyone else.

xavier who enjoys the combat system the most. he clears abyssal chaos and the hunter contest with ease. it comes quite easy to him, the protocores, the substats, the playstyles.

xavier who only pays for the aurum pass, but that’s about it when it comes to his spending. he’s living off a hunter’s salary and can only offer so much to his virtual wife…

rafayel who is glint photobooth’s greatest enemy. he has all of your outfits and accessories unlocked. he didn’t buy those all for nothing. he’s spending hours on glint photobooth and snapshot, capturing your beauty just right. he’d post it on social media like the masterpiece you are <3

rafayel who actually takes the time to play the stories and read the lore. his assistant is calling him, but he couldn’t care less. he needs to know what happens next. he’s laying in bed, kicking around like a schoolgirl with a crush. he’s currently sobbing over your backstory and getting pissed off on your behalf when another character wrongs you.

rafayel who has your affinity level already maxed out. he’s flexing the ring on every outfit he dresses you up in. he’s cleared out all the story content there is to offer, besides the combat levels. he rarely plays the hunter contest, but he occasionally does abyssal chaos to read the stories and interactions.

sylus who is an absolute whale. we all know it. he is R3’ing all of your memories. lost a 50/50? doesn’t matter, his card is already out and ready to be used.

sylus who finds the game to be a rather endearing past time. you’re a welcome break in his busy day. luke and kieran will find him at his desk, looking rather amused as he pokes his phone for maybe the hundredth time tonight.

sylus who sends luke and kieran out to buy merch for him when he’s busy, sending them in his stead to fan events. he advises them to stop at nothing. online bid? he’s already won. limited edition merch item? he got it three weeks before it was even announced with his connections. on his desk, you’ll probably find a small acrylic stand of you by his computer.

caleb who actually has horrible luck. he has most of your standard 5 star memories maxed out, mostly due to losing so many 50/50s. at first he was like “psh. it’s just a game. i won’t have to spend any money.” but, then he lost the 50/50 on the anniversary banner and the flood gates opened. now, he’s willing to drop large amounts of money at a time if it means getting your precious memories.

caleb who takes full advantage of the ‘quality time’ feature. mostly to unlock your workout outfit, but he likes to have you cheering him on by the side while he completes his regimen.

caleb who gets oddly competitive during kitty cards? like he’s about to crash out the moment you cancel out one of his assist cards. his hands are gripping the phone, his palms are sweating, his breath is hitching, he’s grunting in frustration. someone looks over his shoulder to see what the hell is stressing him out so much… you just changed his teacup color from red to blue…

[nobi]

Possession, Obsession, Devotion: A Study in Five Men

Nope, I haven’t vanished. Super grateful for all your messages and the sweet support — seriously, thank you. Just swamped with work right now, so writing’s slowed down a bit. Still working on your requests, I promise! And I’m knee-deep in a pretty massive, emotionally wrecking angst based on a Songfic prompt. While that one’s cooking, I thought I’d drop another batch of my random writer notes — all bundled up in one chaotic little post.

CW/TW: Headcanons, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Love, Jealousy, Power Imbalance, Toxic Romance, Red Flags Treated as Romance, Intimacy with Control Undertones, Emotional Manipulation (Mild), Dubious Coping Mechanisms, Intense Emotional Dependency, Suggestive Themes, Mild Sexual Content, Unhealthy Attachment Framed as Devotion Genre: Romance-Infused, Erotically-Charged Drabbles with a Generous Side of Fluff Words Count: 8.6K

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Caleb’s Obsessed With You

1. You call another man “handsome” — even as a joke. You were teasing. Flirting, in that harmless, breezy way of yours. Caleb laughed. Then immediately kissed you like he needed to reassert territorial dominance with tongue and body weight. Funny how your jokes always end with your back against the wall and his hand on your throat. Lovingly.

2. You go to someone else for help instead of him. You needed tech support. A charger. Help moving the couch. And instead of calling your six-foot-two, military-trained, emotionally unstable boyfriend — you asked Xavier. Caleb didn’t say anything. Just stood in the doorway, watching, calculating how long it would take to move the entire solar system to make sure you never do that again.

3. You don’t sit on his lap when there’s clearly space.You chose the chair. Next to him. Not on him. He’s not mad. No, no. He's just questioning the entire fabric of your connection and whether you’ve lost all sense of instinct. And when you finally realize and climb into his lap? He sighs like a man being restored to life.

4. You post a photo where you're not touching him.Nice shot. Great lighting. Cute outfit. But why is he two feet away and not glued to your side like a shadow with military clearance? His arm belongs around your waist. His hand belongs on your thigh. And your caption? Should’ve been his name, followed by a possessive noun.

5. You forget to wear his dog tags. He left them for you. Carefully. On your nightstand. The same tags he’s worn through hell. And you? Walked out the door wearing a cute sweater and nothing that says “belonging to Colonel Caleb.” He’ll never say a word. He’ll just strip you slow the second you get home and fasten them back around your neck himself. With teeth.

5 Lies Caleb Tells Himself About You

1. “I don’t care that she uses my toothbrush.”You could take a fresh one. You don’t. You reach for his, same as always — like that handle belongs to you more than to him. He mutters something about germs. Then watches you rinse with that smug little smile. And later, when you're asleep, he moves it back to your side of the sink. Right where you like it.

2. “She can wear whatever she wants.”And you do. His shirt. His flight jacket. That tiny black top you swear is “practical.” He acts unbothered. Says nothing. But the second someone else looks too long? He stands behind you. One hand on your waist. That casual kind of possessive that feels like a warning wrapped in warmth.

3. “I don’t need her to text me when she gets home.”You’re a grown woman. A Hunter. You’ve neutralized things with more teeth than common sense. You say “Don’t wait up.” He says “Sure.” Then checks his phone every ten minutes like it's a heartbeat monitor and he's waiting to hear yours again.

4. “It’s fine if she flirts. I know it’s harmless.”You’re charming. It’s part of who you are. You wink. Smile. Lean in a little too close. Caleb plays it cool. Says, “She’s always like that.” Then grabs your waist in front of everyone and whispers: “Try that again, and I’ll fuck you so hard next time you won’t remember anyone else’s name.”

5. “She doesn’t need to say she loves me every day.”You say it once. In passing. A low little “love you” as you walk away, like it’s nothing. But he hears it like an oath. And that night? He holds your hand a little tighter. Pulls your body a little closer. Not because he needs to hear it again. But because if he doesn’t touch you, he might forget how to breathe.

5 Things That Make Him Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. Your hair falls in his face. Leaning over him. Stretching across the couch. Just close enough that it brushes his cheek like it has rights. You don’t even notice. But he does. Every time. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just breathes in and lets the world narrow to that one soft, smug part of you.

2. You chew on your thumb when you’re thinking. Not seductively. Not even consciously. Just a tiny bite to the edge of your nail while you’re mid-rant about your latest recon or trying to remember the name of a street vendor. It’s nothing. Stupid. Barely a gesture. And yet — he stares. Tracks it like a countdown. Fists flexing slow. Jaw tight. Because that mouth should never look that innocent.

3. You interrupt him when he’s cooking. He’s focused. Knife in hand. Half-distracted by heat and oil. And then you slide in behind him. Touch his lower back. Squeeze something you shouldn’t. Say “Smells good, chef,” with a grin that makes his whole spine forget how to hold. He curses. Tries to shoo you off. You lick something off his finger. And now dinner’s going to burn.

4. You try on his Fleet cap like it’s a joke. You lift it off the rack. Set it crooked on your head. Salute with two fingers and that smile that once made him fall off a training tower. “Colonel,” you say. And he’s gone. He should laugh. He doesn’t. He walks over, takes it off you slow, and kisses your temple like he’s reassigning you to a very different kind of mission.

5. You say “I’m yours”. Not in bed. Not in public. Just… casually. In passing. In that low voice you only use when something’s real. “I’m yours.”He looks at you like you just disarmed a bomb with your bare hands. And then he ruins you for saying it so lightly.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You’re the only one allowed to fly with him in his military jet.Clearance denied. Protocol says no. Regulations triple-confirm it. And yet — you’re in the co-pilot seat, boots up, fingers tracing buttons you’re not supposed to touch. He doesn’t stop you. Someone once asked why you get to ride with him when no one else does. He looked up from the cockpit and said, “She’s my gravity.” End of discussion.

2. You only need to place your hand on his to calm him down.No words. No pleading. No strategic de-escalation. Just your fingers, settling lightly over his, when something in him starts to coil too tight. And just like that — his spine eases. The heat in his eyes lowers by a degree. People have seen him end arguments with three words. They’ve never seen him go silent for anyone but you.

3. You’re the only person he’ll interrupt a briefing for.He’s mid-sentence. Room full of officers. Tactical projections glowing on the wall. His phone buzzes. He glances down, sees your name — and pauses. “Give me five,” he says. And walks out without waiting for permission. Someone once asked who it was.  He said, “The only priority higher than this fleet.”  No one asked again.

4. You walk in on his arm at the Farspace Fleet annual gala.He’s in dress whites. You’re in black. And the room — full of admirals, envoys, diplomats — parts like mist when you enter. He doesn’t introduce you. He doesn’t need to. You’re not just his date. You’re the one who makes him dangerous in silence. And everyone knows it.

5. You don’t need words to communicate.One glance. A tilt of your head. A tiny shift in posture across the room. He’s already moving. Already reading you like mission data. To others, it looks like magic. Intuition. Maybe telepathy. But for you two?  It’s just muscle memory — built from years of almosts, nevers, and finallys.

5 Times Caleb Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He pulled the full personnel file on a man you once smiled at.You were being polite. Friendly. The guy asked something harmless, you laughed. By morning, Caleb had his record open on a secure datapad, scrolling like he wasn’t reading a life — just calculating the risk factor. You asked what he was doing. He said, “I like knowing who wants what’s mine.” And then kissed you like he hoped you never asked him to stop.

2. He showed up at your door at 02:03 AM. Soaking wet. Furious. Silent.You missed one message. One. He waited. Thirty minutes. An hour. And then something in him snapped. No threats. No drama. Just the sound of his knock like a warning shot. You opened the door. He didn’t speak. Just stared. And then pulled you in with a grip like survival wasn’t optional anymore.

3. He scared the hell out of a junior pilot for asking your name.The kid was fresh. Eager. Smiled a little too long. Said, “Hey, what should I call you?” You started to answer. Then turned — and saw Caleb across the room. Expression calm. Stance neutral. Eyes loaded. The pilot apologized before you even said a word.

4. He slammed his hand on the table when you joked about breaking up.Just a joke. A throwaway line. Something stupid like “Guess I’ll go find someone less intense.” And his hand hit the surface before the words fully left your mouth. Not loud. Not violent. Just final. He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. Just looked at you like you’d put a knife in his ribs and smiled about it. You never made that joke again.

5. He called you “dangerous” — and meant it like a vow.It was late. You were arguing. You said something sharp. He caught your wrist and said it low, almost reverent: “You’re dangerous.” But not like an accusation. Like awe. Like worship. Like he’d already decided to stay, even if you wrecked him completely. Even if he’d have to protect the world from you. Or protect you from himself.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Zayne’s Obsessed With You

1. Someone else bandaged your scratch. Just a graze. A stupid piece of shrapnel across your forearm. A colleague wrapped it up. No big deal. You came home smiling. Told him it barely hurt. He nodded. Quiet. Then excused himself to the kitchen. Five minutes later, he returned with antiseptic, clean gauze, and the words: “Take it off. I’m doing it properly.”  You didn’t argue. Neither did he. 2. Someone at work lent you their umbrella. A man. It was raining. You forgot yours. He offered. You accepted.  Zayne didn’t say a thing when you mentioned it over dinner. Just hummed. Neutral. The next morning, you found a new umbrella in your bag. Carbon fiber. Windproof. Labeled discreetly with your initials. You didn’t ask how he knew the exact weight your bag could carry without straining your shoulder. 3. You asked the waiter to recommend a wine. It was harmless. Polite. You were curious. But Zayne was sitting right there. He didn’t blink. Just looked at the waiter, then at you. Then took the list back. “Actually,” he said, calm as glass, “she prefers reds with less acidity. I’ll order.” You nodded. The waiter nodded. And somewhere between the clink of glasses, you realized that wasn't about wine at all. 4. You didn’t invite him to your morning training. He’d had a night shift. Surgery ran late. You wanted him to rest. So you left quietly. He woke up to an empty bed, your gym bag missing, and a silence that felt like a closed door. You came back to find his routine disrupted, his pulse still too fast — and a protein shake mixed just how you like it, chilled and waiting on the table. He never mentioned it. But now, if you decide to “let him rest” again… your training starts later. And doesn’t involve clothes. 5. You called another man “smart.” It was a game show. Trivia night. Some stranger on-screen made a clever move. You smiled. “Wow. That was actually really smart.” Zayne didn’t look up from his tablet. Didn’t even shift. But ten minutes later, you found yourself in a very precise debate about probability, strategy, and why that move wasn’t that brilliant after all. You didn’t argue. You just leaned closer. He didn’t smirk, but you felt it anyway.

5 Lies Zayne Tells Himself About You

1. "I’m just your cardiologist during exams." It’s clinical. Professional. Necessary. He listens to your heartbeat, takes your vitals, asks you to breathe deeper — deeper. You unbutton your shirt. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look. Doesn’t feel anything. Except for the part where he adjusts his gloves a little too tightly. And maybe takes one extra second to remove the stethoscope from your skin. 2. "Lunch tastes the same without you." He orders the same thing. Same café. Same tea. But the pastry tastes off. The space feels louder. The table — emptier. He tells himself it’s fine. Then brings the leftovers back to his office. Doesn’t touch them. Just leaves the box where your hand might find it later. 3. "I don’t need to pick you up." It’s logical. You’re a professional. Your job runs over sometimes. So does his. But your message was short. The streetlights are on. The buses are unreliable.  He checks traffic cams. Weather. Public transit delays. Then sits very still, staring at his phone, wondering how to offer you a ride without making it sound like panic. 4. "I’m not checking. I’m sleeping." You once left while he was asleep. You thought it was kinder. Quieter. Now he says he “needed water” or “had a dream.” But every night, at 3 AM, his hand reaches. Just to feel your back. Your wrist. The smallest proof that you haven’t disappeared again. 5. "Short skirts are inefficient." He says they’re impractical. Not suited for cold weather. Definitely not for terrain with hostile wanderer activity. You raise a brow. He adds, “You’re not seventeen. Dress like it.” But the second no one’s watching, his hand is already sliding up your thigh under the table. And when you raise a brow at him, he just says, flat: “Checking for circulation.” You’re not fooled. He’s already failed the mission.

5 Things That Make Zayne Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You straighten his tie. You’re not thinking about it. Just reaching out, adjusting the knot, smoothing the line down his chest like it’s second nature. He stays still. Breath held. Eyes on your face. You step back. He doesn’t. Because now all he can think about is using that same tie to bind your wrists to the chair in his office — and how many minutes he can steal between appointments without compromising your breathing. 2. You dip your finger into the frosting of his pastry. You don’t ask. Just lean in, collect a bit of cream with your fingertip — and taste it. Oblivious. Innocent. Distracted by something else. He watches. Silently. And now the fork in his hand feels criminally unnecessary, because his mouth is dry, his mind’s gone blank, and he’s halfway to pulling you into his lap just to return the favor — with interest. 3. You take off your bra without removing your shirt. It’s casual. Automatic. You’re talking about your day, laughing, and then — One arm out. Then the other. The strap slides through the sleeve and vanishes into your laundry bag like it never existed. His brain glitches. His hands twitch. And he will absolutely spend the rest of the evening pretending to listen while picturing every technical step of reversing that maneuver with his teeth. 4. You imitate him. Badly. You’re wearing his lab coat. His glasses. Sitting at his desk, brows drawn, lips pressed tight. Your impression is awful. He should be annoyed. But instead — he watches. Sharp. Quiet. And when you finally laugh and start to take it off, he gets up. Takes the coat from your shoulders himself. And tells you, too evenly, “You forgot the gloves.” 5. You trace lazy shapes on his wrist while talking about something unrelated. You’re saying something about your neighbor’s cat. Something trivial. But your fingers are moving in a slow, absent pattern across his skin. And Zayne — who has operated on live hearts under pressure, who has held lives in one hand and death in the other — is currently struggling not to grab your wrist and drag you onto the desk. Because apparently, nothing in this galaxy has the precision impact of your fingertip.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You have a keycard to his office.Not a guest pass. Not a shared access code. A permanent, personalized, high-level card to a room most staff can’t even knock on without permission. You walked in one day mid-shift, casual, spinning the card between your fingers like it was a hairpin. Three nurses saw. One dropped her tablet. Rumors started before you even closed the door. Zayne didn’t correct them.

2. When he received a prestigious award, the first person he thanked was you.Best cardiothoracic surgeon of the year. Cameras flashing. Applause rising. Everyone expected a speech about innovation and responsibility. Instead, he said: “I’d like to thank the one person who keeps me alive enough to do this work. My partner. My favorite interruption.”Then he looked straight at you. The auditorium melted.

3. You’re both dressed like weapons. And everyone notices.He wears tailored coats, precision-cut collars, charcoal palettes like a tactical signature.You? Heels like blades. A suit that redefines “combat-ready.” And when you walk together — sharp, silent, side by side — people stop talking. Someone once tried to photograph you. The headline read: Unknown dignitaries arrive. Security does not comment.

4. You don’t argue. You duet.Someone crossed a line. Loud, drunk, smug. Zayne responded first — clean, cold, just one sentence long. The man blinked. Started to retort. You finished it for him. Elegant, sharp, no profanity required. He left. Fast. And you turned back to Zayne like nothing happened — while everyone else tried to recover from what could only be described as a linguistic orgasm.

5. He opens doors, buttons coats, and moves chairs like it’s instinct.Not performative. Not flashy. Just… precise. He adjusts your sleeve without thinking. Helps you into the car like it’s always been his hand. You barely register it. But the woman across the street? The one who saw it all from behind her coffee cup? She’s still texting her group chat about “the man in the long coat and the woman who ruined my standards.”

5 Times Zayne Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He gets live data from your heart monitor.Your Hunter’s Watch sends updates to the cloud. Zayne rerouted the feed to his private tablet. “Just in case,” he said. Now he knows when your pulse spikes. When you’re injured. When you don’t sleep. You never gave him access. You never had to. The first time he called mid-mission to say “slow your breathing” — you realized he wasn’t tracking. He was watching over.

2. He absolutely hates when you drive. Always.You're capable. Fast. Efficient. And yet — every time you take the wheel, something in him shuts down. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just goes silent. And stares at the road like it personally offended him. He says, “It’s fine.” But he holds the dashboard too tightly for that to be true.

3. He freezes every time you say “I can handle it.”You mean well. You’re strong. You are capable. But when you brush him off with a casual “I’ve got this,” he doesn’t nod. Doesn’t smile. He just stops. Eyes unreadable. Hands still. And when you come back later — even fine — there’s already a backup plan on your datapad. Three versions. In color.

4. He never replies to emotional messages right away.You send: “I miss you. A lot.” His read receipt appears. Then… nothing. For two hours. And just when you start to spiral — he sends a photo. Of your favorite pastry. Waiting on his table. With one word: “Soon.” You hate how well it works. 

5. He spoke to the man flirting with you like he was reviewing his autopsy.It was harmless. A drink. A joke. A compliment. You laughed. Zayne didn’t. He stepped in, shook the man’s hand, and said: "Tell me, has anyone ever checked your prefrontal lobe for impulse control irregularities?"The man left. Quickly. You rolled your eyes. Zayne didn’t apologize. He just took your hand. And changed the subject. Completely calm. Fully satisfied.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Rafayel’s Obsessed With You

1. Someone comments “🔥” under your photo — and you like it.He sees it. Of course he does. He sees everything. You think it’s harmless. He thinks it’s appalling that someone dared mark your beauty with an emoji better suited to grilled meat. He says nothing. But that night, you get a charcoal sketch of yourself in your favorite pose, signed with a tiny flame in the corner. When you ask about it, he hums. “Oh, just honoring your admirers’ creative input.”

2. You linger too long in front of another artist’s painting.Not just glance. Linger. Eyes soft. Head tilted. That thoughtful little breath you take when something moves you. He stands beside you, perfectly still. Smiling. Then leans in and whispers, “Cutie, if you start weeping, I may need to challenge the gallery owner to a duel.” You're not sure if he’s joking. You’re also not sure you want him to be.

3. You talk about a beautiful place you visited… without him.You’re glowing. Describing the light, the air, the view. He listens, nods, even asks questions. Then: “And did the sun taste the same without me there?” You pause. He smiles, all charm and cheekbones. “I’m just wondering how it dared rise, knowing we weren’t together.”

4. You send him a photo — and there’s someone else’s hand in the frame.You didn’t notice it. He did. He stares at the image like it’s a crime scene. Zooms in. Later, he replies: “Beautiful composition. Fascinating use of background tension. Would love to discuss the symbolism of that wrist — whose is it?” You laugh. He doesn’t.

5. You say some actor is “exactly your type.”He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just goes very still, then casually asks, “Before or after makeup?” Later, you find your datapad background changed. It’s him. In perfect lighting. Shirt unbuttoned just so. The caption reads: “Still unsure who your type is? Look into my eyes. You’ll remember.”

5 Lies Rafayel Tells Himself About You

1. “I didn’t paint you. It’s just resemblance.”He insists it’s a study of emotion. A symbol. A face from memory. But the tilt of the head, the mouth, the birthmark near the collarbone — they’re all yours. You ask, teasing: “Is that me?” He blinks. Smiles slowly. “Cutie,” he says, “I wouldn’t paint you without permission.” And then changes the subject. Very deliberately.

2. “I don't reread your old messages.”He’s far too elegant for that. Far too composed. Except on quiet nights. On long flights. In museums where the silence scratches at his skin. Then he opens the archive. Just for the rhythm of your words. The accidental poetry. The way you once wrote “come home soon” like it meant more than time and place. He says it’s for “emotional reference.” He lies beautifully.

3. “I don't watch your mouth when you talk.”He’s an artist. A visual thinker. Of course he looks at faces. But not like that. Not at yours. Not like he’s memorizing the shape of every syllable just to feel them later against his throat. Not like he’s fantasizing mid-conversation about shutting you up with his tongue and tasting the sentence off your lips. No. Never. He’s listening.

4. “I haven’t memorized your scent through every season.”He claims not to notice. But he knows the spring version of you — soft rain, citrus skin, the aftershock of lilac. He knows the winter version — leather gloves, cinnamon breath, quiet wool. He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t chase the memory. But when you walk past — his eyes close. Briefly. Automatically. Like he’s gathering air before going under.

5. “I don't imagine your name with mine.”He’s not that romantic. Puh-lease. Marriage is a construct, surnames are politics, and love is beyond paperwork. He says all that with a flourish. And yet — there’s a notebook. Tucked under his mattress. Full of signatures. Yours. His. Just to see how it would look. Just in case.

5 Things That Make Rafayel Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. When you eat something juicy. Fruit. Fingers. With zero awareness.You bite into it slowly, distracted. Something sweet. Ripe. Juice glides over your lower lip, and your tongue follows without thinking. He watches, motionless. Not breathing. Not blinking. You glance at him. He tilts his head. Smiles. Says lightly: "That peach is about to become my personal enemy." You laugh. He doesn’t. He’s too busy wondering how it’s possible to be jealous of the fruit.

2. When you kiss his hand instead of his mouth. He leans in, expecting lips. Contact. Heat. And instead — you take his hand. Press a kiss into his palm. Soft. Deliberate. His breath catches. His throat tightens. Because that wasn’t affection. That was submission. And now he’s wondering just how far you’d let him take it. 3. When you tease him with your voice. Not the words. The tone. The whisper. You say his name like silk sliding over glass. You ask “You think so?” like it means “prove it.” You laugh — not loudly, but just enough to make his chest hurt. He could diagram it, break it into sound waves, prove the seduction in math. But instead, he just steps closer. And says, low: "Say that again. Slower." 4. When you sit on the floor, barefoot, flipping through his sketches — looking like you belong there. You’re humming something. Knees tucked up. No shoes. No guard. You tilt your head, study a piece, murmur: “I like this one.” He doesn’t even remember drawing it. He just remembers the way your hair spills over your shoulder and how the studio feels suddenly too small for how much he wants you. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He just watches like a starving thing. Memorizing the moment in case he dies of it later. 5. When you say “more.” In any context. “More sugar.” “More time.” “More.” That’s all it takes. One syllable. One open door. You never mean it the way he hears it — but he takes it as a promise. Like permission. Like a match tossed onto something already too dry to survive. And the next time he touches you? He makes damn sure you say it again.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. He painted a self-portrait — with you reflected in his pupils. Not your full form. Not a shared composition. Just his face. Direct gaze. And in both eyes: you. Looking at him. Always. When the painting debuted in the gallery’s main hall, critics called it “a study in obsession.” He called it accurate. 2. In an interview, he said you’re the only one who gets his sketches. The host asked who his work goes to first — gallery, agent, press. He smiled lazily and answered, “Her.” The room stilled. “The raw ones. The incomplete. The brutal drafts no one else deserves to see.” He didn’t say your name. He didn’t have to. The moment he said it, you were already trending. 3. He delayed his own exhibition opening because you weren’t there yet. The venue was full. Lights ready. Guests murmuring. But he stood at the entrance, fingers laced behind his back, perfectly calm. “She’s on the way,” he said. “She had a prior engagement.” No one questioned him. Later, when you finally arrived — graceful, composed, in a deep sapphire gown that matched the evening — only he noticed the tiny scratch on your knuckle. The faintest shadow of something darker, just beneath the perfume. You smiled. He took your hand. And the doors opened like they’d been waiting for you all along. 4. Someone flirted with him. He looked at you. Then said: “I’m already spoken for. Permanently.” It was charming. Playful. Someone touched his wrist, laughed softly, leaned a little too close. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t react. Just turned his head toward you. Found your eyes. Then said it — quietly, cleanly, like a closing signature on a finished masterpiece. 5. At a charity auction, he sold a painting titled: “Painted Between Her Breathing and Mine.” The crowd didn’t know what to do with that. Some laughed nervously. Some applauded. The bidding started high and ended astronomical. But as the winning guest walked past you, holding the canvas with reverent hands — he still glanced back. At you. As if to say: That canvas holds the image. But I keep the original.

5 Times Rafayel Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He can disappear for three days and return with, “I just needed to stop being jealous.” No warning. No calls. Just silence, like he fell off the planet. You panic. Rage. Rehearse five speeches. And then he walks in — composed, scented like night air and oil paint. “Sorry,” he says softly. “I was being irrational. Had to… recalibrate.” You want to scream. Instead, you breathe him in like he’s home. 2. He destroyed the career of a critic who called your photo “poorly lit.” It wasn’t even a real insult. Just a throwaway line in a blog. But Raf read it. Once. And within a week, that critic was blacklisted from three galleries, publicly corrected by five curators, and accidentally misquoted in a viral controversy. You found out much later. He just looked at you and said, “No one calls shadow a flaw when it falls across you.” 3. He faked an illness so you wouldn’t leave for a mission. Nothing dramatic. Just a cough. A warm forehead. You hesitated. Postponed. Stayed. The next morning, he was radiant. Healthy. Annoyingly smug. You narrowed your eyes. He only shrugged, kissed your wrist, and whispered, “I needed one more night. Forgive the performance.” You did. Of course you did. The guilt felt almost like foreplay. 4. He left your clothes wet in the wash so you’d wear his shirt instead. Accident, he claimed. Timing. Cycles. But somehow, your entire outfit was still in the machine — cold, damp, and useless — while his favorite linen shirt lay folded neatly on the bed. You put it on. He watched you button it. And smiled like he'd won a silent war no one else even knew was happening. 5. He reads your messages without asking. Calmly. You know it. He knows you know. He doesn’t deny it. Just traces your jaw one evening and says, “You don’t hide anything from me. That’s why it doesn’t count as intrusion.” And the worst part? He’s right. You stopped hiding a long time ago.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Xavier’s Obsessed With You

1. You nap on the wrong side of the bed.You nap on the wrong side of the bed. Not wrong, exactly. Just… not his. You’re curled up in the late-afternoon light, peaceful, quiet, unaware. He doesn’t wake you. Doesn’t move you. But when you stir, there’s a weight in the silence. His side of the bed is untouched. Pillow perfectly aligned. No warmth. No scent. And your blanket — tucked just a little tighter — like a quiet reminder that even when you’re here, something’s missing. Something he’s not sure how to ask for without sounding ridiculous. Like: your perfume. On his pillow. Where it should be.

2. You tell him about a dream. Someone else was in it.You describe it absently. A mission. A flash of danger. And a man — not him — at your side. He listens. Nods. Doesn’t blink. But that night, when he kisses you, his hand stays on the back of your neck longer than usual. And his mouth says I want you, but his grip says: you don’t forget me, even in sleep.

3. You keep something old, worn, unnamed.A keychain. A patch. A folded slip of paper. Nothing dramatic. But it’s always near. He asks, once: “What is that?” You smile. “Just something from a long time ago.” He nods. Never brings it up again. But two days later, he leaves something else beside it. Not to replace. Just to match the weight.

4. You let the barista choose your drink instead of him.You smiled. Said “sure, why not.” Took the new coffee without hesitation. He was beside you. Holding your usual. You didn’t notice. But when you left the café, his own drink sat untouched. And he walked a little faster. A little quieter. As if recalibrating the fact that maybe someone else knows your taste. Even if it’s just in coffee.

5. You close your laptop too fast when he walks in.“Just a movie,” you say. Too quickly. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t tilt his head. Just nods and sets his gloves on the table like he didn’t notice the flicker in your tone. Later, while checking your tabs, he sees the paused frame — teeth on skin, hands holding wrists, someone begging. Silently. His breath doesn’t change. His expression stays neutral. But when he finds you, hours later, he doesn’t speak. Just pins your arms above your head and kisses you until you can’t remember what the scene looked like — only what it felt like when it became real.

5 Lies Xavier Tells Himself About You

1. “I’m not jealous of whoever taught you how to fight like that.”He knows it doesn’t matter. It’s skill. It’s history. Efficiency passed from one warrior to another. He tells himself it’s irrelevant. But when he watches you move — precise, lethal, beautiful — something coils in his chest. Not because of the technique. But because someone else saw you become this version of yourself. And he didn’t.

2. “It’s logical to sleep apart sometimes.” You need rest. Space. Post-mission decompression. He understands. It’s healthy. Statistically sound. But the first night you say “I’ll sleep in my own apartment,” the bed feels wrong. His internal balance off by degrees he can’t quantify. He tells himself it’s fine. Then stares at the ceiling for hours, heart syncing to a rhythm that isn’t there.

3. “It doesn’t bother me when you keep things to yourself.” You’re independent. He respects that. Boundaries are natural. But you say “I’m fine” with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, and he catalogs ten micro-expressions that say otherwise. Still, he nods. Doesn’t push. Then replays your words in his head for the next three days, trying to solve you like a puzzle that refuses to open.

4. "I could walk away, if it ever came to that." He tells himself he’s rational. Detached. If you chose something else — someone else — he would adapt. But deep down, he knows: he’s already memorized your weight in his arms, the way your name fits inside his silence. If it ever came to leaving… he wouldn’t walk. He’d stay exactly where you left him. Quiet. Waiting. Ruined.

5. "You wouldn’t lie to protect me. Would you?" You say “it was nothing,” “I’m just tired,” “I handled it.” And he accepts it. On the surface. But his mind starts building alternate versions. Safer ones. Worse ones. Ones where you bled and said nothing. He tells himself you’d never hide real danger. But he still checks your vitals in the logs. Every time.

5 Things That Make Xavier Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You walk in wearing a bright yellow duck kigurumi.  Absurd. Fuzzy. Zipped up wrong. You yawn, mumble something about tea, and pad across the room like comfort incarnate. He looks up. Blinks once. And forgets what he was doing. The beak hood. The bare ankles. The way you scratch your neck, half-asleep. None of it should be seductive. But now he can’t look away. His gaze tracks you like threat assessment — only it's not danger he’s calculating. It’s proximity. Access. How long he can pretend he's unaffected… before you end up against the wall. Still wearing the duck. For now.

2. You adjust the chest plate of his armor.  No rush. Just fingertips over matte metal, sliding a buckle, pressing a clasp. Your hands linger longer than they need to. You don’t even realize you’re doing it. But he does. He’s counting your seconds, your pressure, the exact placement of your thumb. If anyone asks why his next shot missed the center by half an inch, it’s because you touched him like a secret no one else was allowed to see. 3. You peel off your combat gloves with your teeth.  It’s efficient. Quick. Practical. But the way your mouth closes around the strap and your fingers flex once, twice, before they’re bare — He’s staring before he knows he is. Processing nothing but the curve of your jaw and the memory of that same mouth around his length. The second glove doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does he, honestly. 4. You wear a thin black choker.  No explanation. No warning. It’s not part of your gear. Has no field utility. But it’s there, snug against your throat like a promise no one else knows about. He sees it once and looks away. Sees it again and swallows too hard. The third time, he doesn’t look at all — he just shifts in his seat like everything in his world needs immediate recalibration. 5. You say “later” when he leans in.  Just a little. Enough to feel the pull. And you smile, soft, apologetic, not teasing — just... not now. He nods, like he understands. He always does. But from that second forward, every calculation, every breath, every cell in his body becomes attuned to the moment you say now. And when you finally do — he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t ask. He just takes, like patience was never part of the equation to begin with.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You moved in perfect sync — without saying a single word. In the training hall, you didn’t say a word — but moved like a mirrored code. You shifted, he adjusted. You reached, he passed. No signals, no commands. Just two bodies in absolute sync. Someone watching whispered, “Do they rehearse this?” Someone else muttered, “No. That’s just them.” And suddenly, no one wanted to spar with either of you. 2. Someone called him “too quiet.” You didn’t let it slide. It was a throwaway comment —“He’s so silent, it’s weird.” You didn’t even look up from your drink. “Then you’ve never heard him breathe next to you.” The room went still. Xavier didn’t react. But you felt it — how he went still too, the way his attention locked fully on you. As if your words changed the temperature. 3. He braided your hair for three weeks while your wrist healed. At your desk. Between reports. No comments. No hesitation. Just practiced hands and quiet efficiency, like it belonged in the schedule. And maybe it wasn’t romantic. Or loud. But after that, no one ever looked at you the same way — because somehow, without trying, the two of you had redefined what closeness looked like. 4. You didn’t ask for his jacket. You didn’t have to. A shift in the wind. Goosebumps on your arms. No complaint, no drama. He just stepped behind you, slid his cardigan onto your shoulders like it belonged there, and said nothing. The couple walking by paused. Stared. You didn’t. You were already reaching for his hand. 5. There’s a photo of you on his desk.  Just you, caught mid-laugh, in natural light. Among tactical reports and encrypted drives. He never explains it. Never acknowledges it. But everyone who enters that room sees it. And no one ever asks if he's serious about you. They already know.

5 Times Xavier Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He monitors your meals like it’s a clinical trial. “You didn’t eat enough protein today.” “That pastry had no nutritional value.” “Are you hydrating?” He says it softly. Calmly. Like a doctor. Like someone who cares. And yet — you’ve seen him survive three days on black coffee and whatever snack bar was closest to his hand. You mention this once. He pauses. Then says, “That’s different. I’m used to operating under stress. You’re not.” End of discussion.

2. He didn’t argue. He made the argument disappear. You disagreed about something small. Nothing dramatic. Just opposing views. He didn’t push back. Just nodded, quiet. Said, “If that’s what you think.” Later, you realized the entire issue — schedule, person, condition — was gone. Resolved. Removed. Replaced. No apology. No discussion. Just silence... and a solution that left you with nothing to win.

3. He never asked where you’d been.Not once. Not even after you were late. Not even when your message came hours too late. He didn’t accuse. Didn’t guess. He already knew. Tracked your path, logged your signal drift, checked your pulse history. All without a word. And still held the door open when you arrived.

4. He always calls via video when you’re in another city.He never misses a day. Never just texts. Always video. He says he likes seeing your face. That it “grounds him.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe. But every time the screen lights up, you notice how carefully his eyes scan the room behind you. How his voice sounds different if there’s movement. How he never quite hangs up until you say, “I’m alone. It’s quiet here.” Only then does he relax. A little. Maybe.

5. You told him, “Sometimes, you scare me.” He said, “Good.”It slipped out. Low. Uncertain. Not a joke, not an accusation — just the truth. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t soften. Just met your eyes and said, calm as ever, “Good. Then you’ll stay alert.” And for a moment, you weren’t sure if he was warning you… or protecting you from something only he could see coming.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Sylus’s Obsessed With You

1. You didn’t tag him. He made sure the world knew anyway.You posted a photo. Cute. Stylish. Perfect lighting. But no mention of him. No tag. No trace. He reposted it within minutes. Same photo. New caption: “Correction: mine.” It got five times the reach. And suddenly, everyone knew better.

2. Someone else made you laugh. Sylus didn’t.The waiter was charming. A little too witty. You laughed — loud, unfiltered. Sylus just raised a brow, pulled out his wallet, and handed the man $2000. “For your last night in customer service,” he said. He smiled. You choked on your wine. The waiter never came back.

3. You called some man a friend. Sylus ran a background check.“He’s just a friend,” you said. Lightly. Barely thinking. Sylus smiled. Tilted his head. “I’m just a man with access to his tax history.”And that was the end of that conversation.

4. You said another man had a nice voice. Sylus gave you no air.It was innocent. Harmless. “His voice is kind of nice.”  Sylus said nothing. Just waited. That night, he read you poetry in three languages, one line at a time — mouth against your neck, breasts, stomach, thighs — until you begged him to stop. Not because you wanted him to. Because you physically couldn’t take more.

5. You forgot to wear his ring. He didn’t forget anything.It wasn’t intentional. You were rushing. Distracted. But he noticed. Of course he did. He said nothing all day. Then, that night — when you were breathless, undone, on your knees — he took your hand, kissed your finger, and slid the ring back into place. Slowly. Deliberately. Like sealing a deal you forgot you signed.

5 Lies Sylus Tells Himself About You

1. “I didn’t pick your outfit to match mine. Must’ve been the stylist.”It was just coincidence. That your lipstick matched his cufflinks. That your dress followed the same line as his collarbones. That when you walked in together, people paused — like royalty had arrived. He didn’t say a word. Just looked at you once. And didn’t look away for the rest of the night.

2. “I’m not furious that I wasn’t your first.”He says it doesn’t matter. Shrugs. “I’m not a teenager.” And yet, the thought of someone else touching you before him? It coils in his chest like smoke that won’t clear. He tells himself you chose him now — and that’s what counts. But the next time you moan his name, he fucks you hard enough to make sure no one else’s ever mattered.

3. “I don’t answer your messages instantly. I’m just always holding the phone.”He just… saw it. Right away. Just happened to be holding his phone. Just happened to pause mid-meeting, mid-deal, mid-war — to write: “Be safe.” You tease him for how fast he replies. He teases back. And never mentions the part where your name makes him drop everything.

4. “I’m not obsessed with the way you say my name when you’re annoyed.”You do it without thinking. That exact tone. That breath. That syllable dipped in heat. He rolls his eyes. Says, “What now, kitten?” But every time it happens — he shifts closer. Hears it again later in his head. And stores it next to the version you whisper when you want him most.

5. “I wouldn’t beg. If it came to that. …But only for you. And only once.”He’s not that man. He doesn’t plead. Doesn’t bend. But when he thinks of you leaving — really leaving — something dark and fragile coils behind his ribs. He tells himself he’d let you go. That he wouldn’t chase. But even in the lie… he’s already halfway down the hallway.

5 Things That Make Sylus Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You ask him to zip your dress. Then don’t wear anything underneath. It’s casual. Innocent. “Help me?” You turn your back, lift your hair, and wait. He moves slow — almost reverent. But when his fingers meet bare skin where silk should be… he doesn’t finish the zip. He turns you around, steps in close, and says, “You came dressed for trouble. Good. So did I.” 2. You say “don’t be gentle” with a smile that promises you’ll say it again, louder. He always controls the pace. The heat. The rhythm. But when you lean in, lips brushing his ear, and whisper those words — something in him fractures. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t give you time to change your mind. He just obeys. And makes sure you feel the echo for days. 3. You use his tie to pull him into a kiss. He likes power. Centered, composed. Collar straight, voice cool. But when you grab that perfect silk tie, wrap it around your fingers, and yank — he stumbles into you like a man starved. You kiss him once. He kisses you back like vengeance. 4. You say “yes, sir” in a tone that means the opposite. You drawl it. Sweet. Defiant. Like you know exactly what it does to him. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t smile. Just leans in, voice low against your throat, and says, “Keep using that tone, kitten. Let’s see how long you last when I take it seriously.” You don’t last long. Not that night. 5. You put on his ring and ask, “So what does this buy me?” It’s a joke. Almost. You twirl it on your finger, playful, reckless. He watches. Then smiles slow, wicked. “That?” he says, stepping closer. “That buys you a night where I don’t stop until you forget your own name.” And just like that, you do.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. The earring incident at the casino. You dropped it. Somewhere between the blackjack table and the bar. Nothing dramatic — until your face shifted. That quiet flicker of loss. Sylus didn’t sigh. Didn’t scold. Just raised a brow. And a dozen seasoned criminals began crawling across the velvet floor. They found it in twenty minutes. You wore it for the rest of the night. He wore the look of a man who’d moved the world back into place. 2. The arrivals are always his favorite part. You come back from missions — tired, sore, alive. And there it is: his sportscar. Engine humming. He’s waiting with a bouquet of roses so rare you don’t recognize half the species. The entire terminal watches. You don’t. You’re too busy smiling. He says, “Welcome home.” And just like that, the war disappears from your shoulders. 3. The seat at the head of the table. It was a high-stakes meeting. Old money. Dangerous names. Sylus led you in by the hand — then pulled out his chair. You blinked. He said nothing. And while you sat at the head, calm and poised, he stood behind you like a king who knows exactly where real power sits. No one even dared raise a brow. 4. The auction. Your hand. His silence. He gave you the paddle. Not instructions. You bid on instinct — numbers rising, tension thick. The item? A rare protocore with blackout-level clearance. Sylus didn’t flinch. Not once. And when the gavel dropped — he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, and said, “You can spend my money however you want, kitten. Just make sure they see you doing it.” 5. The moment the room lost him to you. It was mid-negotiation. Tense. Crucial. Every word counted. But across the table, your fingers tapped. Your eyes glazed. You were bored. Sylus watched. Then stood. “Deal’s done,” he said. “You’ll take our terms.” And somehow, they did. Because the only person in the room whose attention he wanted — was already drifting.

5 Times Sylus Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He knows what’s in your delivery before you do. No one told him. But every time you order something — clothes, tech, vitamins — it’s re-screened. Not stopped. Not blocked. Just… “verified.” You only noticed when your favorite moisturizer showed up improved. New formula. Better scent. Hand-selected. Of course. 2. He said he’d put you on IV if you skip another meal. You were busy. Distracted. He asked what you’d eaten. You said, “Does coffee count?” He laughed. Once. And muttered something about installing a medical station in your apartment. He was “joking.” Until you saw the discreet courier bring an IV stand the next day. Just in case. 3. He took you to dinner at a place you hadn’t been since Academy. You didn’t realize where you were — until you saw your ex across the room. The one who cheated. Sylus just smiled. You were in a dress that made people stop breathing. He ordered champagne. Lobster. Left a four-digit tip. And made sure your ex saw everything. Including the way you kissed Sylus on the way out. 4. He froze your accounts. Just to prove a point. You said you didn’t need his money. You insisted on “independence.” So he waited until your card declined at the pharmacy. Then texted: “You have my black card. Use it. Or stay home.” You gave in. He sent flowers. 5. He apologized like a storm front. You fought. It was ugly. The next day, a gift arrived at HQ. Then another. Then six more. By day four, your car was full. You marched to his door, furious. He opened it, leaned against the frame, and said, “Took you long enough. Come yell at me. I’ll pour the wine.”

[nobi]

caleb loves your curves.

he loves the way your plush body fills out your clothes, catching peeks of your soft belly when your shirt rises as you bend over or stretch, ears going red as he admires the way your belly bulges in a fitted dress after a particularly filling meal.

he loves the way you feel against him, soft plush against his firm muscle, oftentimes coming up behind you to engulf you into a hug just to feel you against him.

he loves showing off his strength to you, proving his giant build isn't just for show, picking you up with zero trouble and carrying you around his apartment like you're his trophy.

he loves coming up behind you and caressing any part he can reach: your thighs, your stomach, your chest, and when his fingers linger a couple seconds too long you know what he's in the mood for, squeezing your fleshy thigs between his large hands and pleading with that perfected puppy look.

and then he's on his knees for you, worshipping you in his favorite way, drinking you up and eating you whole with no regards to his own "problem," happily slurping and licking at your wet heat, invisible tail wagging at your sounds of pleasure.

and when you reach that peak, unconsciously wrapping your thighs around his head and squeezing in order to keep him close to you, he feels his eyes roll to the back of his head, borderline staining his sweats with the way you come undone on his face and hold him close.

he could die happily like this.

and when you come down, breaths evening out and realizing what you've done, quickly releasing him, sitting up enough to pull his face up with your hands, checking his red face and asking if he's okay does he simply give a lazy grin at you, his own breaths heaving out as his hands plant themselves firmly on your thighs once more.

"do that again, baby."

only after he manages to get his fill of you does he ask what you're in the mood for, happily cooking up your cravings for you before feeding it to you, watching with heart eyes as you happily chow down on the hard-earned meal, admiring the result of his labor of love for you in the form of your pretty body, all for him.

-

some braindump.... this was sitting in my drafts for awhile and i miss writing these on this blog soooooo more to come cause i have more............. this was supposed to be longer but will write more later hehe

[nobi]

No one noticed — Nanami Kento

warning: mentions of emotional neglect, past toxic relationships, emotional trauma, s*xualized, no detailed explicit content below, but this may be heavy for those processing past hurt. Please, read with care! : )

a/n: this is written in honor of SA Awareness Month — a reminder that love should never feel like a debt. this can be read with any characters you have in mind, I just thought of him when the word love comes to mind <3

art by sogalus

Thinking about Nanami Kento who's literally the first man who ever looked at you like you were human.

Not weak.

Not broken.

Not a thing.

Just... you.

In a way that deserved patience. In a way that was worthy of being held with care.

The kind of love that didn’t make you feel like you were asking for too much by simply existing.

And after everything? That kind of gentleness felt weird.

Unfamiliar.

Uncomfortable, even.

Before him, love was a struggle.

You were always too something... whether it's being too loud, too emotional, too clingy, too expressive, too “dramatic.”

You were always “too much” for people who simply weren’t enough.

They said they cared. But flowers?

“Why spend money on something that’s gonna die in a few days?”

Sure. flowers do die. But so did their affection.

You had lovers who only showed up when it benefited them but is gone when you needed them most.

The ones who called you “hot” “sexy” even “beautiful”

But never “enough.”

You were always pleading for something small: A bit of attention, a text back, a day where you didn’t have to guess if they still wanted you.

You weren’t asking for the world—just a reason to feel like you mattered. You weren’t their person. You were their option.

They liked the way you looked when you dressed up.

But not when you were raw and real and vulnerable.

Not when you cried over dinner on a random Tuesday.

Not when you asked for something that required effort.

You had to ask—If they’d set the controller down for a second. If they'd look at you when you spoke. If they'd hold you without expecting anything in return. If they’d ever love you when there wasn’t anything physical to gain.

Then came him.

And suddenly, love stopped being a transaction.

You didn’t have to chase. Didn’t have to tone yourself down. Didn’t have to beg. Didn't have to be someone else.

He brought flowers—Not just ones from a shop.

He made them.

Folded paper into petals.

Took restaurant napkins, candy wrappers, things others would throw away—and shaped them into reminders that you were cherished.

He held your hand like it was sacred.

Listened to every word—even the ones buried in silence, even the ones that came out between sobs and long pauses.

He didn’t flinch at your darkness. He stayed. Especially on the days when you didn’t feel like you deserved it.

Were you really too much?

Or were you just too real for people who only wanted themselves satisfied?

With him, you weren’t a fantasy. You weren’t a body to touch and leave behind.

You were a human being.

A soul.

A woman.

Someone with feelings.

Someone worthy.

No one noticed.

How you ached to be seen.

How every small rejection left bruises no one could name.

How it wasn’t about lust—it was about being respected.

You didn’t want to be loved in a way that made you feel like you had to undress to earn it. You didn’t want to be touched out of expectation. You didn’t want “spice” to be the only flavor they cared about.

You wanted to be loved in silence.

In stillness.

With clothes on.

With messy hair and morning breath and no pressure to be anything but yourself.

And now, maybe you’ve found that.

Because none of your past lovers ever waited.

No one stood at your door with patience.

They came in like they owned the place, like you were a room they could enter without knocking. Like you were theirs.

But with him?

You felt like you were yours.

Your space.

Your choice.

Your time.

And when you opened the door that day, still in your oversized shirt and sleep clinging to your skin,

You didn’t expect anything.

But there he was.

Not holding beers.

Not cigarettes.

He was holding a bouquet—A large, stunning bundle of your favorite flowers.

Not excuses.

Not the ones people always assumed you liked. Not the basic, generic ones you were told you should love.

But your flower.

The one that felt like you.

Soft, rare, misunderstood, flawless.

He knew. Somehow, he just knew.

“I thought of you and bought these.” He said.

No dramatic speech.

No trying to impress.

He didn’t need to explain.

You felt it.

You didn’t reach for the flowers.

You didn’t need to.

You reached for him.

Wrapped your arms around him like your body knew something your heart wanted that mouth couldn't utter.

And he hugged you back like he always did—with his whole being.

With a kind of stillness that felt like safety.

With a kind of warmth that whispered, “this is love, not lust.”

You’d been touched before.

You’d been held.

But never like this.

...

..

.

To anyone reading this, please note that your body is not an invitation.

Your silence is not consent.

You are not hard to love.

You are not and never too much.

You deserve the love that sees you, hears you, honors you.

Not one that only reaches for you when it’s convenient.

This month, and every month—

Speak up.

Be loud.

You don’t owe your body for love.

You never have.

You never will.

© [ adorekento ] do not steal, repost, or translate my work.

[nobi]

・❥ CALEB'S FAVORITE TOYS !

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: the top 3 toys i think caleb would use on himself / reader! (based on this ask)

a/n :: tysm for the wonderful individual for putting this idea in my headdd!!! mwamwa

1. FLESHLIGHT :: just like anon said, he is most DEFINITELY using a fleshlight and pretending it's us instead. he typically doesn't like to masturbate without you so usually he'll only do it if you ask him to during mutual masturbation, but some nights, he's just so desperate for something - anything - to touch his disgustingly needy dick that he can't help it. don't fret, though, cause he will always ask you if he can touch himself if you're not there. sending you voice notes of himself begging, videos of his cock twitching into his hand, pics of tears rolling down his face... he'll put a whole show on for you just to get your approval to do so little as go near the toy. and while he really does feel bad for doing something so naughty without you in his presence, once that fleshlight is in his hands... hes not stopping. his eyes are shut tight, head pushed deep into the pillows, back arched, hips stuttering, knuckles turning white from the force of his grip on the sheets.. it just feels so damn good! unapologetic whimpers and moans come in between his cries of your name, his last bit of strength practically disintegrated. when he's about to cum, he'll either spam your phone with tons of facetime calls or messily set up is phone to record, feeling obligated to show you how good he makes himself feel thinking about you.

2. COCKRINGS :: okay, hear me out. he absolutely despises cockrings with a passion.. but only because you bring it out when he needs to be punished. he actually quite likes the concerning amount of pleasure that they bring him, he just hates that every time he uses one is when hes being edged or overstimulated. there are rare occasions that you allow him to use it during his personal time, but theres a very big emphasis on rare. you have only one ring for him that vibrates, while all the others are just there to stop him from cumming whenever he feels like he might. it's pathetic how desperate he gets when he's begging for you to take it off. big crocodile tears stream down his face as his stupid little cock twitches and thrashes against your hand, brain turned to mush. literally all he could think about is good it'd feel to cum, how sexy you are when you deny him... it's so bad to the point where quite literally nothing could stop him from cumming. he didnt even ask for fucks sake!! he doesn't realize how much more trouble he just got in for orgasming when he was explicitly told not to.. :(

3. VIBRATORS :: caleb is for sure a sucker for a good vibrator. he doesnt just use it on himself (..his tip) , no, hes not that selfish. he adores keeping it on your clit while he pounds into you in missionary, or even letting you sit in between his legs, your back to his chest, torturing your bud of nerves with that delicious sensation. he'd have you in a headlock, not allowing you to shy away from the toy if it becomes too much; his legs hooking around your calves to get your legs to stay open. he cannot have you be anything but spread open, that just isn't allowed!! on another note, he would without a doubt buy a bunch of those little tiny vibrators that fit perfectly onto your clit & into your panties that are controlled by an app on his phone. he loves taking you to a restaurant just to play with you, watching you fall apart in front of everyone knowing he'll be punished heavily for it. he doesn't care about the consequences.... in the moment. once you two are finally home it's then that he begins to really care. it was all fun and games until you have him tied up, sprawled out in a star position on the bed, fighting against the restraints as you abuse his most sensitive parts with your own vibrator. your panties would be shoved into his mouth, drool dripping from the corner of his lips down his face. he's literally on the verge of passing out because of how many times he's came, his eyes basically permanently crossed and eyebrows furrowed tight. you don't stop until the toy dies... and caleb does too.

[nobi]

This fic ruined me for life

THE COLONEL'S SAINT.

in wartime, there are no saints. only broken souls, like yours and his, both scarred by battles fought in a world that has forgotten mercy. but perhaps peace was simply never meant for everyone. perhaps it only ever comes at a cost—freedom paid for by the ruin of another.

➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

➤ genre. heavy angst, smut, historical au, 18+

➤ tags. colonel!caleb, nurse!reader, reader is not l&ds!mc, ooc, wartime, unrequited love, profanity, violence, explicit smut, depression, PTSD, recollection of extremely traumatic events, allusions to sexual assault (not from caleb), obsession, possessiveness, jealousy, injuries, blood, killings, death. themes contain material that are heavy and disturbing—reader discretion is advised.

➤ notes. 9.8k wc. divider by thecutestgrotto. all i can say is i enjoyed writing this au so much :)) reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

➤ previous. 001 the colonel’s keeper | colonel caleb playlist

“I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m here now. I’ve killed every single one of ‘em for you,” he said in a tone so affectionate you almost wondered if it was a dream. “I’ll take you home. No one’s gonna touch you ever again.”

The irony, however, presented itself the moment Caleb touched you. Because rather than feeling a sense of relief in his own way of apologizing, a deep, all-consuming dread wrapped around your bones instead.

Because this wasn’t salvation. This wasn’t a rescue. This was a return to a different kind of prison.

Your battered body trembled in his grip as his presence, something you once ached for, now loomed over you like a final, cruel joke. You thought being here—being dragged through hell, used, and discarded—was the worst fate imaginable.

But, no.

The true horror was returning to Caleb.

Because you knew now. You finally understood. There was no future for you. Not in his arms. Not in this world. And the look in his eyes, that dangerous, unhinged gleam that he would never let you go. Not now. Not ever.

So before he could react, before he could drag you back into the nightmare of his possessive grasp, your trembling fingers wrapped around his gun.

His own gun. His own weapon.

For the first time, his cold, calculating gaze faltered, widening in shock as you tore it from his holster with the last of your strength. “Y/N—”

The barrel was already pressed to your temple.

…

…

…

But you couldn’t pull the trigger.

You thought you could. You had rehearsed it in your mind over and over again—how the metal would feel in your hands, how your fingers would squeeze the trigger with defiance instead of hesitation. In the fantasy, it was clean. Controlled. Almost poetic as you would have told him he deserved to be left by the women he loved.

Reality wasn’t like that, however.

Because the moment Caleb dropped to his knees before you, his face contorted into something grotesque, something desperate, something inhuman, and you froze. Not out of fear. Not exactly. It was something deeper. You lay there, your heart thudding like a drum as your trembling fingers closed around his gun. You could still feel the warmth of his hand on the grip, still smell the gunpowder and oil. The heavy weight of the weapon wasn’t just from the metal, it was the amount of men he killed with it. With an obsession for power and control.

In another life, maybe you did it.

In another life, you imagined yourself pulling the trigger without flinching. In another life, maybe you were brave enough—or broken enough—to leave like that. To end the story on your own terms.

But in this one?

You couldn’t. God, you just couldn’t. You were a coward. And when Caleb whispered your name—his voice cracked, soft, pleading. It shattered the illusion completely. “Don’t do this, baby,” he begged. “I’m taking you home.” 

And you didn’t run. You didn’t scream. You didn’t even look away. You just let him. You let him take your hand, let him lift you to your feet as if your bones hadn’t turned to ash. You let him wrap his coat around your shoulders and murmur something unintelligible against your hair, his breath warm, his touch careful.

“I’ll protect you, Y/N.” 

You didn’t believe him, of course. But you let him.

You let Caleb bring you back to the base—not because you forgave him, not because you trusted him, and certainly not because you still loved him, but because you were done fighting. Because your body moved without you, like something detached from soul and will. You weren’t a woman anymore. Not in that moment.

You were something to be carried. Something to be watched and managed and contained. You were no longer a person. You were property of a war, of a man worse than the devil.

And still, you walked beside him.

Because sometimes survival doesn’t feel like victory.

Sometimes, it just feels like surrender.

~~

Back at base, the atmosphere was more chilling than you remembered. Or maybe you were just too far gone to feel warmth. Maybe you’d become so detached, so hollowed out, that even warmth refused to settle in your bones anymore. The world moved around you like normal. People walked, spoke, ate, lived—but you? You couldn’t feel a part of it. You were merely a presence. 

Yet, everyone stared. They always did. In passing, in the corridors, during drills, in the infirmary. Some in pity, others with quiet contempt. A few just looked because they could. Because even bruised and broken, you were a spectacle. Like you always were.

“Has she gone crazy?” “Is it the PTSD kicking in?”

You didn’t meet their eyes. You stopped meeting even your own in the mirror. And as the days passed, Caleb didn’t leave your side. He was always hovering, always watching you in silence, always studying the catatonic expression on your face as you moved with listless effort. Perhaps he was watching you out of guilt, or perhaps out of something sinister. Did he enjoy the look of desolation in your eyes? Did he think he’d won this war, now that you no longer fought him?

The whispers followed you even into the mess hall, the one place people pretended to be too busy to gossip. Except now, they didn’t pretend at all. Not when it was you sitting there, quietly picking at your food like a prisoner fed only to stay alive. Today’s rationed meals were stale bread and bland starchy soup—a probable reason why they’d rather channel their energy towards you than their food.

“She brought it on herself.”

“Should’ve stayed in her place.”

“He only wants her because she reminds him of the wife.”

The spoon in your hand paused midair, with your eyes fixed on the dull metal surface, seeing your reflection warped and small in the curve. You set it down slowly, and let out a short, broken laugh. There was nothing funny, of course. But for you, the humor was in the hell you returned to. Did they think the worst had already happened? They were wrong. The worst was this. Coming back. Living.

And while in your hysteria, silence suddenly filled the hall. A strange stillness swept through like a cold wind, and you didn’t even need to look to know why. As boots stomped across the tiled floor, you already knew what caused the sudden silence within the slate grey walls. 

Caleb, stern as ever.

Surely, he never came here before. High-ranking officers often ate in private rooms or their quarters, never with the rest of the unit and the civilians. But here he was now, his commanding presence turning heads and stiffening spines. No one dared look your way anymore. Not when he was near.

And as for him, he approached you slowly like how he would to a skittish animal. Yet you kept your gaze on your tray, eyes glazed over, expression unreadable. The frenzied smile left your face the moment he was near. It was as if he didn’t exist. 

He stood there for a moment. Then, to everyone’s quiet horror, he sat beside you. No, he lowered himself beside you, crouching so his face was nearly level with yours.

“What are you doing eating here?” he asked softly. “You know the food’s better in my quarters.”

You didn’t answer. You never really spoke to him. You hadn’t even opened your mouth to say anything at all since the day he ‘rescued’ you, and simply because words had abandoned you. Everything had. And the odd part about this was the fact that Caleb was openly speaking to you like this. Because before everything fell apart, he never acknowledged you in public. Not once did he show everyone that you were someone he cared for. So, what cruel actor was crouching down next to you now?

You stared forward like he wasn’t even there.

And you could hear him sigh, at least before his voice dropped even lower, gentle enough that only you could hear it. “Let me take care of you,” he murmured. “Let me nurse you back to health. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything. Just stop tuning me out.”

And still, you said nothing.

Because what could you want from a man who said he wanted you, but only knew how to possess? From a world where the only safety you were offered came in the shape of your captor’s hands, life was absolutely brutal. You sat in silence, surrounded by soldiers, nurses, and civilians who couldn’t even look at you anymore. And yet, the only person who truly saw you—saw the hollow, broken wreck you’d become—was the very man who helped destroy you.

~~

Night flight was always the quietest kind of hell.

The sky was an endless stretch before him, a black void littered with stars he no longer believed in. Inside the cockpit of the FY-29, the most advanced multirole fighter in their fleet, the world shrank down to the hum of electronics and the flickering glow of digital readouts. HUD projection blinked green against his helmet visor. Altitude holding steady. Speed: Mach 1.4. Engine thrust calibrated to optimal efficiency.

“Colonel, enemy radar ping detected. Recon drone at ten o’clock, altitude three hundred feet below,” came the voice in his comms.

“Visual confirmed,” Caleb replied flatly, adjusting his yoke with one hand. “Engage radar dampeners. Veer five degrees north. Let the bastard scan a ghost trail.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sharp tilt of the aircraft rolled the horizon sideways. Caleb barely noticed.

He’d done this too many times—cutting through foreign airspace like a silent reaper, completely invisible in the dark. His hands moved with muscle memory, flipping switches, adjusting trajectory. But his mind… 

His mind drifted.

To you.

To the way your voice once sounded when you still spoke to him with warmth. The way your eyes used to light up when he returned from missions. Now, they were empty. Now, they didn’t even flinch when he entered the room.

Guilt had lodged itself into the pit of his stomach and made a home there. He told himself he had brought you back to protect you. He told himself you needed someone to hold you up. But lately, he couldn’t tell who was holding whom hostage.

You had begged him once, asked him to love you, asked him to forget about his dead wife and just be with you. Now, with the way you were acting, it felt as though he was no better than the monsters who took you.

The truth was—he knew he had made a grave miscalculation. He never truly meant for the punishment to go that far. It had been anger, impulse, the heat of a moment he should’ve controlled. He should’ve gone to the frontlines sooner. He should’ve been there before the enemy got to you… before they shattered the sanctity of your body and stole the softness that once defined you.

Goddamn it. 

A flicker on the monitor snapped him back. One of the secondary comms flashed: High Priority Incoming – Ground Squad Gamma 4. He tapped it.

“Colonel,” came the crackling report, “we’ve captured a batch of civilians—all women, army wives. Enemy ranks. Found hiding in one of the ravaged villages, just outside Sector 11. Orders?”

Caleb didn’t answer at first.

Instead, his jaw clenched. He closed his eyes briefly, long enough to picture your face contorted in sleep; how you cried out some nights from dreams you never remembered, or maybe remembered too well. How sometimes you whispered “Please don’t touch me,” to a room that was empty but for him. How you devastatingly screamed, “No more! No more!” as the memories of traumatizing hands touching you over and over, flooded back to you in a form of a nightmare.

His voice, when it came, was cold steel.

“Do what you want with them,” he said in full conviction. “Leave none behind.”

There was a pause on the other end. Hesitation.

“Sir…?” the voice wavered.

“You heard me,” was Caleb’s firm response. “Whatever they did to ours—we’ll repay it in kind.” 

He didn’t wait for confirmation. He cut the channel, flipped the frequency, and angled the jet into descent mode.

Everything you do is morally justified during war, Caleb.

~~

Lights flickered overhead as he walked through the empty corridor of the officers wing, the soles of his boots bouncing too loud against concrete. He didn’t bother knocking the second he arrived at his quarters, seeing that his room was dark, and you lay curled under the thin blanket, hair stuck to your face from cold sweat. Seeing you like that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

And then the screaming started.

You thrashed—kicking off the sheet, twisting against invisible restraints. Your cries weren’t words but whimpers, pleading, raw sounds from your throat like you were being torn apart all over again. Caleb froze in the doorway. For a second, his legs wouldn’t move. The war inside his chest, the storm he unleashed with just a single order—it all paled in comparison to the agony carved into your sleep. When he finally stepped forward, his hand twitched as it reached out.

“Hey,” he whispered, kneeling beside you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re not there anymore.”

You didn’t wake, and neither did you calm. You just screamed harder, fingers digging into the mattress like it was the only thing keeping you shackled to this world. Caleb embraced you in his arms like a fragile object he was protecting, but nothing comforted you at this point. Not his storm-violet eyes nor his saintly face. 

Even when he wiped your sweat, brought you tea, and sat in silence.

And perhaps, he finally understood. The reason for your silence hadn’t been just the trauma. It wasn’t just the violence or the bruises or the way your voice cracked when you said nothing at all. No, it was simpler than that. More human. It was because he had never actually said sorry.

Sure, he remembered whispering it in a shattered breath when he pulled you out of the enemy’s grasp—covered in bruises, half-alive, delirious. But that wasn’t the kind of apology you needed. That had been panic. Guilt. A bandage over a wound that needed surgery. And you, you deserved something slower, softer, and more honest. Something earned.

And so he found himself sitting at the edge of your bed now, studying the glazed look in your eyes. You weren’t with him. You were locked somewhere far inside yourself, behind doors he had helped bolt shut.

“You feel hot,” Caleb murmured as he reached for your forehead, calloused fingers brushing your clammy skin with an unexpected tenderness. “Should I call one of the nurses? They can wipe you down with a cold towel.”

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have allowed anyone near you. His protectiveness knew no bounds, especially not after what happened. But tonight, he understood. You didn’t want his touch. Maybe you couldn’t bear it. Maybe the thought of his skin on yours only reminded you of everything you had survived.

So he offered space, even if it killed him.

But you didn’t respond. You just quietly rose from the bed like a graceful ghost. Your bare feet padded across the cold floor, not a sound made with every step. The moonlight slashed across your face as you entered the bathroom, and then you undressed slowly, wordlessly, under its silver glow.

He knew better than to follow. But he still did. Only to make sure you were safe. Only to watch over you, because watching was all he could do now. From the doorway, he saw your silhouette curled under the cascade of water. You weren’t washing. You were scrubbing. Frantically. Desperately. Your fingernails dug into your own skin as you scrubbed, over and over, rubbing raw the places where their hands had once been. You weren’t trying to get clean. You were trying to disappear. As if your skin still remembered the hands that touched you. As if water could erase what the world had done to you.

You sobbed without sound, and that was somehow worse. Because your pain had learned to stay quiet.

Without thinking, Caleb stepped inside. His boots soaked instantly, and the water darkened the fabric of his uniform in seconds, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a towel from the rack and walked toward you slowly.

“Y/N,” he said quietly. “You’re going to make yourself bleed.”

You didn’t flinch when he wrapped it around you. You kept scrubbing even when he gently pulled you into his arms and let yourself cry like someone who had run out of ways to survive. 

He just held you in silence. In stillness. And in that moment, something in his gentleness made you snap. Your hands shook violently and your voice cracked into a shriek. “You m-monster!” you sobbed, your throat raw from disuse and despair. It was the first time you spoke to him again since… “Y-You animal!”

“Y/N—”

“You let me—” your voice choked on grief. “You let them do that to me! You left me! And now you act like y-you… like you care—?”

Caleb took every word, every blow, and let it tear through him. He didn’t know how to fix something so broken. It was like a shattered glass that can never be repaired. The cracks would always show, no matter how hard he tried to put them all back together.

You collapsed against him, the towel sliding loose. “Why n-now?” you whispered, tears flooding your eyes. “Why are you pretending like I still matter? Isn’t this w-what you wanted?”

“I’m not pretending,” he said hoarsely, barely able to speak past the guilt in his throat. “And no, I didn’t want this, Y/N. I didn’t.”

You shook your head violently, water flinging from your hair. “No. No, I’m dead, Caleb. You won. This is what you wanted me to become—someone who’s been passed around like a rag. I’ll never be like your wife!”

While he held his breath, you must have expected him to deny it. To recoil. To offer some hollow line about how you were still you and that he didn’t care about his dead wife anymore. Instead, Caleb wrapped your body again with the towel, tighter this time around, before he carried you out of the bathroom. 

“I still grieve for her every day,” he said. “But I’m not leaving you again.”

You shut your eyes and refused to meet his again. His words seemingly have no effect on you anymore. 

I should’ve gone sooner, he thought to himself. I should’ve lowered my pride and reached you faster. I should’ve said sorry when it still mattered.

“I can’t take back what happened,” Caleb said, chest rising and falling raggedly. “But if there’s a version of hell where I can stay with you, then I’ll take it. I’ll live there. With you.”

He would learn how to love you gently, if you’d let him.

He would speak with actions now: the soft blankets, the untouched side of the bed he never crossed, the way he learned the names of every nurse you trusted, the way he installed new locks on your door so you would feel safe again, the way he trained the soldiers himself—brutally—so no one would ever think of hurting you again.

And when he wasn’t looking, when you were too tired to keep your eyes open, he would sit at your bedside every night and whisper a prayer. Not for redemption.

But for your peace.

~~

A YEAR AGO — INFIRMARY

“This might sting a little, sir.” 

A gentle furrow settled between your brows as you dabbed at Caleb’s shoulder, cleaning the angry gash that sliced through his skin. He sat still, shirt peeled halfway down, and his jaw tense, but not from pain. He wasn’t even looking at the wound. His gaze, all of it, was fixed on you like he was considering a thought.

Your hand paused.

“…What?” you asked, a nervous laugh escaping.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “You’re just… very good at what you do.”

You smiled faintly. “You say that every time you come in here half-dead.”

“I like repeating things that are true.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks were warm. He saw that, too. You tried to turn your back to his shoulder, resuming your task, or rather, to hide the heat that suffused your cheeks. “Do you ever get tired of coming back here wounded?” you asked. “I know you're high-ranking and invincible and all, but maybe don't catch bullets with your body next time.”

He chuckled. “But didn’t you say you wanted to see me a lot?”

“Well…” You looked away, blushing. He knew about your silly little crush on him, that’s for sure. “Not in this way, sir.”

There was a long pause. Comfortable, almost. So comfortable that you could almost hear Caleb’s breathing. And then, like it had been on his mind the whole time, he asked, “Do you want to move in with me?”

Your hand froze again, gauze hovering just above the wound. “…I’m sorry?”

He turned slightly to face you, wincing only a little. His voice was calmer than you expected. “It’s cold in my quarters. Too quiet. And I keep thinking how I’d rather have you there.”

You stared at him, stunned. You knew what he wanted. You knew why he asked for it. 

“You barely know me,” you whispered, heart racing in your chest.

“I know enough,” Caleb replied, eyes searching yours. “I know you care more than most people do. I know you’re smart, and patient, and you smell like peppermint and laundry soap.”

Your lips parted, caught between surprise and disbelief.

“And I know,” he added, softer, “that I feel a lot less lonely when I’m around you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was warm. Tense, but not in fear. And when your eyes flickered to his lips, just for a second, he noticed. He took that as a sign to lean in slowly. Like a man trained to read danger, but still willing to take the risk. His hand, still rough and bloodied, hovered at your cheek, asking without words.

You didn’t stop him.

The kiss was soft and hesitant at first. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as his lips pressed gently to yours and moved with perfect sync. For a moment, you forgot the war. Forgot who he was and what you were. You just remembered what it felt like to be wanted.

When you pulled away, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead to yours before pecking your lips once more.

“I’ll look forward to your answer, Nurse Y/N,” Caleb whispered through your lips. “You’ll live a more comfortable life if you’re with me.”

~~

INT. CALEB’S PRIVATE QUARTERS – NIGHT

The storm outside was brewing with anger, but it didn’t reflect in the way he kissed you.

He was right, sleeping in the private quarters was much better than the bunkers, but that wasn’t the main prize. It was him, Caleb, the man you offered your heart and yourself to, knowing full well that he wanted you just the same. 

“Mmh—Caleb!” 

The room only carried the flicker of an old lamp forming shadows over military-issued sheets and disheveled clothes strewn across the floor. Your bodies were tangled in the warmth of each other, breathless, bare. Caleb had you laying sideways, and him positioned at your back, lifting your leg so he could get better access. His skin was slick with sweat, his hand moving to squeeze your mound, anchoring you close like he couldn’t stand a single inch of distance.

It wasn’t rushed this time. Neither desperate.

He moved with reverence. As if he wanted to memorize the exact shape of your body, the slope of your waist, the sound you made when his member hit your sweetest spot. And you, you let yourself melt into him, allowing him to fill you in for as many times as you both wanted, so long as you still had the strength. 

“Caleb,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair.

His grip tightened on your hip. This time, he was increasing his pace. Ramming into you sideways might be his new favorite thing, because whenever he was near, he would usually go for the traditional missionary. Not this time, however. 

“Fuck. You’re so tight for me, baby.” And just when you were at the peak of your pleasure, he suddenly whispered another woman’s name.

His wife’s name. 

You froze.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did—and just kept kissing your neck, as if saying her name didn’t gut the room into silence.

You didn’t say anything. Not that night.

Even when it was over. You cuddled deeper into his chest, heart twisting, the back of your throat stinging. Maybe he didn’t mean it. Maybe he wasn’t even fully awake. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself his body was warm, his arms wrapped around you, his breath even and calm—and that should be enough.

You told yourself you were alive, and she wasn’t. 

~~

INT. CALEB’S PRIVATE QUARTERS – AFTERNOON

Supper was quiet. Too quiet.

You sat across from Caleb at the small table he rarely ever used—usually preferring to eat on the go, or not at all. But tonight, he had insisted you two start dining together so you didn’t have to leave the room. The portions were modest: military rations dressed up with a little too much seasoning, but it was so much better than MRE, or even the ones served at the mess hall. And you could ask for seconds if you wanted to. 

Yet, no matter how abundant your table was, the silence was what was making you full. Your fork scraped softly against the plate, wondering why Caleb wasn’t eating much. He was just pushing food around with the edge of his fork, his eyebrows furrowed after what appeared to be a terrible day in the skies. 

You cut into the silence with the question that had been gnawing at you since dawn. “Do you think you’ll ever remarry?”

Caleb’s body stiffened. His fork stilled mid-motion. His features were blank, but something behind his eyes tightened, like he wasn’t sure he had heard you right that he even had to repeat it. “Remarry?” 

You nodded, keeping your tone as casual as possible, though your hand trembled just slightly where it gripped the stem of the water glass. “I mean, the war can’t last forever. Things might calm down someday. You’re still young. Still capable of—”

“Stop.” He cut you off, voice low and firm.

You swallowed. “It’s just a question, darling.”

“No, it’s not,” he muttered, dropping his fork with a quiet clatter. “You’re tryin’ to make me say something I’m not ready to say.”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” you replied, your voice soft. “I just want to know where I stand.”

His expression hardened, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Don’t turn this into some kind of—what, a proposal? A plea for commitment? Because if that’s what this is—”

“No, Caleb… I just,” you paused, looking away and exhaling through your nose. “I don’t want to feel like I’m competing with a dead person.” 

Silence.

He didn’t like it. Your words, how callously you called his wife a dead person. The sharpness of his eyes seemed to have considered ways of killing you. But Caleb stood abruptly, and his chair scraped back with an ugly screech.

“Lost my appetite.” He didn’t look at you as he said it. He just turned, grabbed his coat from the hook near the door, and walked out—quiet, controlled steps, like if he didn’t leave now, he might say something he couldn’t take back. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth and don’t talk about this bullshit with me ever again.”

~~

You were staring at the ceiling again.

Stiff sheets under your back. The sharp antiseptic sting of alcohol soaked into gauze. Somewhere far off, a nurse was whispering instructions—Claire. You recognized her voice all too well. 

She never liked you before. She loathed you even more now.

“She’s acting like some kind of war princess,” she scoffed not even a meter away. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s carrying every disease known to man. After what she’s been through? God, Colonel should’ve left her to rot.”

You didn’t react. You simply shut your eyes, allowing her words to come and go without making an impact. Empathy was a luxury no one could afford in wartime, and you’d long stopped expecting it from anyone, least of all her.

“She lost a lot of blood. The glass… it was lodged deep—”

“She’s lucky she didn’t hit an artery. If she wants to kill herself, at least do it right.”

Lucky.

You almost laughed.

Because it wasn’t your first time trying.

They thought Caleb had it all figured out. They thought that locking you away in his quarters, removing every shard of metal, every sliver of risk, every ounce of danger would be enough to keep you alive. You were a silent prisoner under the guise of protection. Doors locked from the outside. Soldiers who shadowed your every step when you were allowed to walk beyond four walls. They even took your combs, your mirror, your goddamn belt—anything that could snap or slice or wrap around your throat.

They watched you like you were sacred.

But no one realized that glass, when cracked the right way, could become a weapon, too.

It had started with something so small, during the time when Caleb had to leave base for a few days. It was from a small picture frame that had Caleb’s formal military photo inside. During an intense, heavy bombing outside, you were alone, unsupervised for the first time in days. The entire base shook with a violent thud, and the picture frame fell on the floor. You tried to pick it up and aimed to put it back.

Only to see that the glass had shattered.

And you had just… stared. At the jagged edge sticking out of the frame. At the glittering fragments on the floor.

You didn’t hesitate.

You grabbed a shard like it was salvation, and before your brain could catch up, your arm was already bleeding. The kind of bleeding you don’t come back from if you were left alone long enough. You slumped against the wall. Felt the warmth of it leaking down your skin, soaking into your lap. You welcomed the numbness, the strong smell of iron gushing out of your open wound. 

But someone found you too soon.

You remembered the soldier’s face as he stumbled into the room—young, horrified, hands shaking as he shouted for help. “She’s cut—fuck, she’s bleeding bad! Get the medics! Get the fucking medics—!”

Now, back in the present, one of the guards paced at the edge of your hospital bed, too afraid to look you in the eye. “The Colonel might kill us for letting it happen. For not watching you close enough.”

You blinked slowly, eyes unfocused, lips cracked.

“Then he should kill himself, too,” you whispered.

The room fell silent. You turned your head slightly toward the door—the new one they’d installed. Reinforced. Bulletproof. No cracks this time. Just a clear view of the world you weren’t allowed to be part of anymore.

“We can’t reach Colonel Caleb—he’s at the outposts, but he’ll be back soon,” was the last thing you heard from him before the medicine took over. “As for what happened to you in enemy territory, miss… don’t worry about it. The Colonel made sure to return the favor.”

~~

Caleb stepped into the room, the heavy door creaking as it closed behind him. His footsteps were deliberate, yet silent, as he made his way toward the bed where you sat, eyes cast downward and clearly avoiding his gaze. The silence between you two was suffocating, so much so that he forgot he had ears for a second. 

He didn’t say anything at first. His gaze swept across the room, lingering on the bandages wrapped around your arm to look at the remnants of your self-inflicted wounds that he had heard about during the day. His jaw tightened, but he remained silent, studying the way the white bandages were stained with a deep red. Finally, eventually, his voice cut through the thick air. “When are you going to stop hurting yourself?”

Your heart clenched, and without lifting your eyes to meet his, you muttered, “When you die.” 

The grudge had been simmering inside you for so long. Now, spoken aloud, you couldn’t look at him. You didn’t want to see the effect it had on him. But you also couldn’t stop yourself from continuing. 

“Every time you’re out there, I pray…” you paused, closing your eyes. “I pray that a bullet finds its way to you or that your jet crashes somewhere far from here.” 

Even if it was the darkest part of your soul that had spoken, it felt true. The thought of him gone, of being free from the torment, it made your chest ache and flutter at the same time.

Caleb’s lips, on the other hand, pressed into a hard line. His gaze narrowed ever so slightly, though the pain in his eyes was undeniable. He didn’t speak right away. His hand moved toward the bandage on your arm, fingers brushing over the rough cloth. “You really want me dead?”

“I do.” You met his gaze then, your eyes bloodshot, heart raw. “I want you dead and forgotten.” 

Strangely, Caleb’s fingers lingered on your skin, a tender touch that felt out of place given everything that had happened between you. His thumb brushed over your bandaged arm, then gently cupped your face, tilting your chin up so that you had no choice but to meet his eyes. The distance between you two felt like a chasm, a vast emptiness, and yet, somehow, his touch still grounded you. It made your heart race, and you hated it.

“You hate me that much?” His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him. You closed your eyes, and for a good minute, it was almost peaceful. The quiet of the room, the warmth of his hand on your skin. But then you remembered the things he had done, the way he’d broken you down and built you up again, only to crush you once more. You pulled away slightly, but Caleb wouldn’t let you. He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ve killed everyone who touched you. And will continue to do so for as long as I’m alive.”

You didn’t say anything. The words were stuck in your throat, the ones that you really wanted to say. The ones that would’ve made it easier to break away, to cut the ties that had bound you together for so long.

But out of everything he could have done, he chose to kiss you. Not like the first time. Not passionate or filled with fire. This kiss was different. It was filled with regret, with longing, with all the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say. It was slow, gentle, like he was afraid to break you even more than he already had.

When he pulled away, his eyes were filled with something more than guilt. “I’m sorry,” Caleb whispered, but the words didn’t fix anything. Nothing could. Even if your tears were falling freely now. You didn’t even know what you were crying for—him, or the person you used to be. The one you had lost along the way. Still, he wrapped his arms around you, pressing you to his chest like you were something fragile he wanted to protect, even if he’d been the one to break you. You could feel the slow, steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. At least, until he pulled away, tucked the blankets around you with care, and planted a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I have business in the morning,” he murmured, like you were a wife he needed to give an update to. “I might not come home for a few days.”

~~

When he said he wouldn’t be home for a few days, you welcomed it as a small mercy. A pocket of peace. Because his absence was like hell quieting down, as if the demon retreated to its shadows. And yet, despite the relief, you couldn’t help but feel a strange unease curling in your stomach. A gut feeling whispering that maybe he was up to something far more than he let on.

And just as you suspected, the muffled sound of soldiers’ voices filtered through the door carried everything you ought to know. Their words were barely distinguishable as they spoke in low tones. But something—an instinct, maybe—had your heart racing, and you could swear you caught bits and pieces of their conversation. 

“The medical convoy has been rerouted. New order,” one of them said, his voice hoarse. “No explanation. A few nurses, including one named Claire..."

The fragments of the conversation hit you like a punch to the gut. Then and there, every muscle in your body tensed. Claire. Claire was one of the nurses that had been tormenting you ever since you had been back at the base. And then there was Caleb whose orders were law. It all clicked into place.

You could feel the edges of your mind unraveling as the pieces fell together. Caleb wasn’t just holding you hostage here. He was controlling everything. Manipulating the people around you like pieces on a chessboard. The convoy rerouting wasn’t some minor shift—it was a move. A dangerous one. And you weren’t sure if you were ready to know what it meant, but you had to. 

Swallowing down the nausea rising in your throat, you took a deep breath and turned toward the guards outside your door. You didn’t have time to waste. Whatever Caleb was planning, whatever he thought he was going to do, you had to stop him.

“I want to see Caleb,” you demanded sharply, a command that left no room for argument. The guards didn’t even flinch. They just stood there, their backs rigid, as if they were expecting you to say something like that.

“You know we can’t do that, miss,” one of them said. “Orders.”

“Then, I’ll tell you what,” you snapped, narrowing your eyes, “I’ll tell him that you touched me. I’ll tell him that you hurt me, and forced yourself into me.”

The look in their eyes was one of pure terror and scandal. It was as if you just sentenced them to death. One of them even shifted uncomfortably, but neither of them moved toward you. They were afraid—afraid of Caleb and everything that had to do with him. But you knew something they didn’t. They were afraid of losing their position, of Caleb’s wrath, but you? You had nothing left to lose.

“He had ordered to burn a traitor alive once,” you threatened, your voice dangerously calm now. “And had the remains be fed to the dogs.”

They hesitated, glancing at each other. You could see the way their eyes flickered, like they were torn between their orders and the realization that you meant what you said. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the taller of the two guards stepped forward.

“Fine,” he hissed, the words practically escaping his lips against his will. “But if this gets out of hand, it’s on you.”

You didn’t care. You were past caring about the consequences.

They led you down the dimly lit corridors, their footsteps echoing ominously as you moved deeper into the compound. You could feel it, the sickening feeling of being trapped, and for the first time since everything had gone to hell, you felt a spark of clarity. This was your chance to stop him, to put a stop to whatever Caleb was planning.

The guards led you into the central area of the base, a sterile, almost mechanical hall, and you could see the tension in their faces as they approached the place where their colonel was. In the shadows of a hangar they thought no one would check, Caleb stood with his pistol raised, and the muzzle? It was pointed directly at Claire’s quivering skull. 

She was on her knees, sobbing, shaking, the usual scorn from her lips long gone. “Colonel, I never meant it, please—I didn’t mean it! I won’t be n-near her ever again!”

“Do I shoot you in the mouth instead?” For Caleb, it wasn’t a question. It was mockery wrapped in death, even though his face remained cold and terrifyingly composed. “You certainly had a lot to say before. But has anyone ever told you that I’d kill every single soul that dared insult my woman?” 

Even though Claire had never treated you with decency, never once acknowledged you as anything but filth—the issue wasn’t about defending her. It was about stopping Caleb before he added another life to his ledger. Not for you. Not because of you. You’d already seen too much blood spilled in your name.

You couldn’t bear to be the reason again.

And you were tired of bleeding for a man who only knew how to destroy.

So you ran. You ignored the pain screaming through your body, ignored the way your knees buckled with every step. You ran until you were standing between his gun and its target. “Caleb.” Your voice cracked. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flicked to you, and for the first time in weeks, he looked startled. “Why are you here? Go back to your room,” he ordered, sternly. “I don’t want you interfering with this.”

“No more killing!” you shouted, your voice louder than you thought you still possessed. “Not for me. Not because of me!”

“I’m doing this for you,” he said flatly. As if it were a universal truth. As if murder could be dressed up as love. “These people will never respect you, not until I give them all a lesson.”

You laughed. Respect? How ironic of him to say. 

But you weren’t listening anymore. You were done with being his puppet. You were done with the pain, the manipulation, and the suffocating control he had over everything in your life. “I don’t want your protection. I don’t want anything from you anymore!” you spat. “I’m done chasing your love. I’m disgusted with you and things you’ve done! They’re not love, Caleb. Do us all a favor and go to hell!” 

For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he faltered. He stood in the crossroads of his own making: one path paved in control and power, and the other, threatened by the woman who once shivered under his icy stare.

And to everyone’s surprise, he lowered the gun.

Just as you asked. 

~~ 

Everyone knew and could feel that the war was winding down. Slowly, like an old machine losing steam. Gunfire no longer echoed through the mountains. Missives came in with fewer red marks. Still and all, the air around Caleb remained tense, as if he was standing at the eye of a storm. 

You hadn’t seen much of him in recent weeks. At least, not as much as he let you. He came and went in silence, never bothering you or speaking to you since the day you asked him to go to hell. But the good outcome from that last interaction led to no more outbursts in the days that followed, no heated arguments. Just long hours spent in the shadows of the base, pouring over confidential papers, taking hushed calls with unnamed officials, signing things he didn’t let you see.

What you didn’t know was that he had spent the last few weeks building you a way out.

An escape plan masked as a gift: forged new identity papers with your maiden name, a secluded property far from the wreckage of war, monthly financial deposits that would keep you fed for decades, and official documents that ensured no one, not even the government, could drag you back into this life.

He was sealing off every door behind you. Quietly, meticulously.

And you? You were doing your best to pretend you still belonged to the world of the living.

You volunteered at the children’s infirmary more often. Spent time folding clean sheets and organizing medicine cabinets just to feel useful. You didn’t talk much. You weren’t trying to heal—you were just trying not to rot.

That night, you were in your shared quarters, folding the same shirt three times over just to get the sleeves right, when the door creaked open. You didn’t bother turning around. Caleb had been in and out, never staying long. Most days he’d never even greet you. Some days, he would come home and take a shower, slipping into his side of the bed without a word, his back turned to you as he tried to get a wink of sleep. There wasn’t even any eye contact to be shared. 

But this time was different.

Although he still didn’t say anything. He walked in, closed the door behind him with a soft click, let you feel his presence before you saw him. He was closing the distance, sure. But what surprised you was how he wrapped his arms around you from behind. Tightly. With his face buried in your shoulder. You froze at first as his embrace was firm, almost desperate. One hand gripped your waist, the other pressed flat against your stomach like he was anchoring himself. His breath was warm against your neck, but his voice never came.

“Let me go,” you murmured, not moving.

“Just five minutes,” he whispered at last. “Just… stay still. That’s all I ask.”

You did. Your fingers uncurled from the fabric in your hand, and for once, you let your body rest against his without resistance, while he held you like a man trying to memorize the shape of something he could never return to. Time stretched between you like a slow heartbeat. An extremely, dangerously slow heartbeat. 

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t let go entirely. He just placed a kiss on your cheek. No explanation. No apology.

“I’ll make it right, Y/N,” he simply said, holding your face with a gentle hand and running his thumb across your cheek. His stare was earnest as he looked into your eyes. “I’ll make sure you never have to think of me again.”

And just as quietly as he came, he turned and left the room. You knew something in your chest tightened, the way it does when you sense someone saying goodbye without actually saying the words. But you didn’t run after him. You stood there for a long time after the door closed… wondering what, exactly, he was leaving behind. And what you were about to lose.

~~

Caleb had always preferred solitude during these moments before a mission—just him, the whirr of his jet’s engines, and the distant thrum of his thoughts. And tonight, a rare calm and quiet night, was exactly what he wanted. The sky was unusually clear for wartime. There were no anti-air guns firing in the distance, no buzz of enemy drones, just the cold serenity of the atmosphere wrapping around him, welcoming him. 

He sat in the cockpit, surrounded by the soft blue glow of the control panel. His gloved fingers adjusted the dials with precision, movements rehearsed a thousand times over. Everything was ready. Everything had been planned.

And yet, his thoughts couldn’t stay present. They drifted, inevitably, to you. You had been on his mind constantly, every minute of every day. The hatred in your eyes when you told him to go to hell, when you told him you wanted him dead. He couldn’t blame you. After all, he had stolen your peace, your happiness, and maybe even your will to live. 

The comms in his ear cut him from his trance. “Specter-01, this is base command,” came a low voice. “Caleb, what’s your heading? You’re a few degrees off course.”

He tapped a switch, cleared his throat. “Still en route. Just adjusting for wind drift.”

There was a pause before the voice returned—Gideon. One of the few people Caleb could stand to have at his side. Loyal to a fault. And too sharp for his own good. “Don’t bullshit me, Colonel. You’re not following protocol.” There was tension in his voice now, the kind that could only come from fear. “This isn’t like you.”

Caleb exhaled slowly, the breath fogging inside his helmet. “I’m fine, Gideon,” he replied, voice calm, almost detached. “Just needed some air. That’s all.”

“But you're flying into a dead zone. No support, no backup, no exit route. If something goes wrong—”

“I know,” he cut in softly.

Another long silence stretched between them.

“...Don’t do this.”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the radar, the blinking dots, the calculated trajectory. Everything had been mapped out—every lie, every angle, every detail to make it look accidental. So that no one would question. So that no one would stop you from moving on.

“Take care of ‘em, Gideon,” he said at last, and his voice made it clear—this wasn’t just a briefing anymore. “Take care of the team. And… her. Make sure she gets what I left behind. All of it.”

“Caleb—” Gideon’s voice was sharper this time. “Caleb, don’t do this. You pull that throttle one more degree and you’re not coming back. You hear me?”

Caleb didn’t respond immediately.

He stared ahead, the horizon fading into black. Then he glanced down at the radar, his destination marked in red, blinking faintly like a dying heartbeat. His fingers danced across the console with quiet certainty. There was no trembling now. Only resolve.

He flicked the comms one last time, the channel still open to Gideon.

“This is Colonel Caleb Xia,” he began, voice steady, almost ceremonial. “Serial Number A-01. Former DAA Fighter Pilot. Onyx Division. Head of Tactical Recon. Shadow Commander of the Ninth Flight. Loyal son of the war.”

While Gideon was holding his breath on the other line, Caleb exhaled on his. 

“Signing off.”

“Wait—Caleb, don’t you fucking dare—!”

Then he switched the comms off.

Silence flooded the cockpit again, but it was a cruel relief. The kind that felt like surrender. He gripped the joystick and pushed the throttle forward, feeling the jet surge under his hands. The roar of the engines was deafening now. He wasn’t afraid. In fact, the familiar vibrations of the jet beneath him felt oddly soothing. The plane climbed higher, slicing through clouds like paper. The city below looked small now, insignificant—like all the things he used to care about. A dot among dots. A place where people still hoped, still dreamed.

And you were somewhere down there. Breathing. Alive.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could picture your face one last time. As if he could imprint it onto whatever eternity waited for him. Then, his fingers hovered over the control panel, the slightest tremor in them now. He entered the override, veered sharply, and… the jet dipped lower.

There would be no mayday. No beacon.

Just one last act of penance.

With a faint smile—equal parts grief and relief—Caleb let go.

~~

1 MONTH AFTER

The somber grey clouds had a mission today. Not stormy, not weeping—just still. And heavy. 

Unlike the usual stark white uniform you donned as a war nurse, you stood in an all-black attire before a modest grave now, staring at the name etched into the headstone that was so clean it could’ve been carved yesterday.

(MC) Xia

Beloved Wife. Devoted Friend. A Soul That Endured the War.

A month had passed since the ceasefire, since the war gasped its last violent breath, since the tower’s red lights blinked for the last time. They no longer raised the war ensign, and instead, replaced it with a regular flag. It was a month full of hope, of joy, of good news. A month of normalcy. Of peace. 

It had also been a month since Caleb’s jet spiraled off the radar, only to never land again.

You were in his quarters when the news arrived—delivered not with ceremony, but in a voice worn thin by grief. It was his closest friend Gideon who told you, his eyes bloodshot and hollow, aged more by sorrow than war. Caleb’s jet had gone down, he said. It was too late to save him. His jet turned into a comet over the mountains, and that was the last anyone saw of him. They told you the wreckage was scattered beyond recognition. That there were no remains to bury. No bones to hold the ceremony over, not even fragments for a grave. Only soot, swallowed by wind, vanishing like vapor. 

At first, there was no reaction. Just silence. An unbearable stillness. You stood motionless, eyes dazed, like everything was just a part of a cruel dream. Isn’t this what I wanted? you asked yourself, again and again, trying to summon a feeling—relief, peace, something. But nothing came. Not even the tears.

Instead, your legs gave out. You collapsed to the floor with trembling hands and an aching heart, but remained dry-eyed for most of it. Grief had not yet found its shape. It simply throbbed inside your chest, like something inside you shattered so loud you thought the world could hear it.

Moving on didn’t come easily, either. A month may have passed, but it wasn’t enough. It was too soon, too early to even expect yourself to be fine again. And how could you begin to accept death, when it had left no trace behind?

So, you came here instead. To her grave. To return him to her. 

Caleb’s first love. His wife. The woman who haunted the corners of his mind like a fading photograph and whose memory bled into everything you had shared with him. This was the only place that felt honest. The only place where both your griefs could sit side by side without judgement.

The wind danced with the soft rustling of leaves as you stood still beneath the shadow of a tree, the kind that had lived through more seasons than any of the soldiers buried here ever would. The grave in front of you was well-cared for, and the flowers beside it were fresh—carefully arranged lilies and white chrysanthemums, the ones Caleb always said reminded him of peace. Maybe he brought them. Surely, he did. Your hand rested gently on the headstone, fingers tracing the grooves of her name as if they were familiar and sacred. 

“Please take care of him.” You spoke softly, too softly as if she was one with the wind. “I’m sure he’s with you now. That’s where he always belonged.” Glancing down, you blinked past the sting behind your eyes. “I used to wonder why he never looked at me the same. Why he always held me like I was glass but never gold. But I understand now. You were his home. And when you died, he lost the only map he ever followed.”

A small, bitter smile flickered across your lips.

“He loved you. So fiercely. So painfully.” A pause, only for you to swallow the weakness forcing its way up your throat. “If only you had survived the war… he wouldn’t have turned into what he became. I was just the aftermath. I was the damage. But still, I hope you can forgive him. And I hope you can forgive me, too.”

As you took a deep, cathartic exhale, footsteps broke the silence behind you.

“Still raining,” said Dr. Zayne, holding the umbrella over your head. You let the drizzle kiss your cheeks like tears from the sky. “She was our childhood,” he added quietly. “Mine and Caleb’s.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t on good terms with him,” he admitted. “I loved her, too. But I set it aside because I wanted to be happy for them.”

You finally looked up at him. His expression was solemn as he reached into his coat.

“Before he left… he asked me to give you this.”

A letter. Plain. Folded like an airplane. Your name written in his unmistakable, sharp script. You took it with trembling hands.

Zayne didn’t say more. He simply nodded at the grave, and then at you. “We should go. The roads are closing soon.”

You nodded, lips parting but no words falling. The letter simply grew heavier in your hands, and your fingers itched to open them. You knew this wasn’t closure exactly. 

But it was something close enough to carry forward.

To my sweetest girl, If you’re reading this, I probably don’t exist anymore. I don’t know what state you’ll be in when this reaches your hands—if you’ll cry, if you’ll laugh, or if you’ll crumple this letter and curse my name like I deserve. I don’t expect forgiveness. I never did. But I need you to know what I’ve done. Not to earn your love, but to settle a debt that I created the moment I took your life and bent it into something unrecognizable. Inside the envelope I left with my friend, Zayne, you’ll find everything you need to start over. A full civilian identity under your maiden name—clean records, a background, even a fabricated work history. There���s a house registered to that name in a quiet part of the world where no one will know you, where the war won’t reach, and neither will I. I’ve transferred assets to accounts only accessible by you and under your new credentials. The funds should last you a lifetime, or maybe two. You’ll find documents for land ownership, health coverage, and immunity against any wartime tribunal trying to drag your name through the dirt. You won’t owe anyone anything. Not even me. It’s not enough. I know it’s not enough. There is no currency in the world that can pay back the things I did to you—directly or by consequence. But this… this is the only form of apology I know how to give. My death is not redemption. But I know it’s your freedom. You once told me you prayed for the war to end and for me to vanish with it. So here I am, granting your prayer. A little too late. A little too broken. But still yours, in whatever way this bitter world will allow. I don’t want you to mourn me. I just want you to live. Live like the girl who smiled before she met me. Live like the woman I watched patch bullet wounds and hold broken men together with shaking hands.  And if you ever look up to the sky and wonder where I went, I hope the stars lie to you. I hope they tell you I made it somewhere better. That way, you won’t carry the burden of my passing. Only the start of your beginning. Don’t look back. Don’t come searching for ghosts. Just go. And never stop going. Yours in another life, Caleb

[nobi]

the marriage contract | rafayel

synopsis : When your mom said, “Come out for dinner.” You expected just a normal meal, filled with laughter and your mom’s usual sarcasm. Not her dropping an atomic bomb on you—she already signed your marriage to the playboy of the century, the Lemurian Heir.

content : comedy, fluff, implied smut, arranged marriage!au, model!reader, rich heiress!reader, wealthyaf!rafayel, and just, rafayel being rafayel

writer’s note : i had so much fun making this oml I wanted to make this like a rom-com (full of sarcastic undertones and jokes that this fic shouldn’t even be taken seriously)

“You’re getting married to the Lemurian heir.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Surely, you misheard. It’s the only reasonable explanation.

Maybe it’s the soft clink of silverware, the low hum of jazz from the restaurant speakers, or the fact that your mother said it like she was commenting on the weather.

She flips the menu with one manicured hand, as if she just told you the risotto was good tonight.

A beat passes.

Then another.

“What??” you blurt, half-standing in your seat so suddenly that your thigh bumps the table and nearly sends your water glass toppling.

Your mother doesn’t even flinch. “Sit down. You’re drawing attention.”

“I am attention,” you hiss through gritted teeth, hastily steadying the glass and sinking back into your chair. “What do you mean, I’m getting married? To who?”

“I literally just said—to Rafayel. The Lemurian heir. Don’t make me repeat myself, darling. It’s exhausting.”

You stare at her, your mind screeching to a halt like stilettos on marble. Rafayel.

You know that name. Everyone knows that name.

Playboy. Arrogant. Insufferable.

That Rafayel.

You’ve seen his face plastered across magazine spreads—smirking, shirtless, probably whispering lies into someone’s ear.

He’s the definition of a tabloid headline.

A scandal waiting to happen.

The man has an entire section on social media dedicated to his worst quotes, and a separate one for his abs.

You, a model with a rising career and a deep love for routine, green tea, and sanity, are apparently now contractually obligated to marry the human embodiment of chaos.

“No,” you say flatly.

Your mother finally glances up, her brow lifting with polite disbelief. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, more firmly this time. “I’m not marrying a man who once got banned from a yacht party on his own yacht.”

“That was blown out of proportion,” she replies, waving a dismissive hand. “He was merely expressing himself artistically.”

“By setting fire to the dessert table?”

“Flambé is fashionable now.”

You gape.

“This is a joke,” you say, reaching for your phone. “Is this one of those weird publicity stunts? Did he put you up to this? Is there a hidden camera—?”

“It’s real,” she cuts in, her voice cool and clipped. “And finalized. Our lawyers signed the agreement yesterday. The ceremony is in a month. Try not to look so surprised; this sort of thing used to be standard practice among noble houses. We’re just… reviving tradition.”

You press your fingers to your temples. “We own resorts, Mom. Not kingdoms.”

“Same thing these days,” she murmurs, glancing at the wine list.

You pause. “Wait. Is he even okay with this?”

Your mother’s lips twitch. “He said—and I quote—‘She’s pretty. I can work with that.’”

You nearly fall out of your chair.

“He can work with that?!”

“That’s what he said, yes. I found it charming. Shows he’s open-minded.”

“Mom,” you say, through what you’re sure is a burgeoning aneurysm, “he’s been photographed with a different woman on his arm every week.”

“And now he’ll have just one,” she replies, taking a sip of her water. “Progress.”

You stare at her, chest rising and falling like a storm tide. “I don’t even know him.”

“Perfect,” she says. “No baggage. A clean slate.”

You inhale sharply, about to launch into a very eloquent monologue about autonomy and personal choice when your phone buzzes. You glance down at the notification—and freeze.

Unknown Number.

You free tomorrow at 4? Let’s get this doomed romance started. I’ll bring flowers. Or bribe you with dessert. Whatever works.

You don’t even have to ask who it is.

Your mother looks immensely pleased with herself. “He got your number from his assistant. Isn’t that romantic?”

You turn your phone over and look at her, horrified. “This is blackmail.”

“No,” she says. “This is high society.”

She flags the waiter with a perfectly timed smile.

Meanwhile, you lean back, mind spinning with visions of silver-haired smirking heirs and one very unwanted bouquet.

So this is how it starts.

An arranged marriage.

With him.

You’d rather fight a swarm of seagulls in six-inch heels.

But still…

You glance at the text again, at the cheeky way he signed it off.

—R.

Trouble.

Wrapped in silk and flames and smirking punctuation.

And somehow, despite yourself, the corners of your lips twitch.

Just a little.

—•

Rafayel is attractive, no doubt.

But it’s his insufferable playboy attitude that really irks you.

The door swings open, and there he is—leaning against the frame like this is a cologne commercial, not your new apartment.

One hand in his pocket. Shirt slightly unbuttoned.

Expression set to come hither, like he didn’t just waltz in fifteen minutes late to your very first meeting as an almost-married couple.

“Didn’t know models kept such tidy homes,” he says, gaze trailing over your minimalistic living room. “Where’s the chaos? The broken champagne glasses? The disgruntled photographers?”

“Where’s the punctuality?” you shoot back, arms crossed.

He grins, sharp and unapologetic. “You’ll learn I like to make an entrance.”

“Maybe next time make it through the door on time.”

He steps in, unbothered, and takes a casual look around like he owns the place.

He probably does.

His family has enough wealth to casually purchase countries, let alone condos. He flops onto your sofa, long legs stretched out, hands behind his head.

“So,” he says, eyes flicking to yours, “how do you want to do this?”

You blink. “Do what?”

“This whole marriage thing.” His voice is smooth like honey left too long in the sun—sweet, but dangerous.

“We pretending to be in love for the cameras? Sneaking off with secret lovers behind closed doors? Scheduling monthly dinners so our families don’t throw a fit?”

Your nostrils flare. “That’s your idea of marriage?”

“It’s the practical one. Less risk of broken hearts. Or broken dishes.”

“Thanks, but I’m not interested in being one of your PR arrangements.”

“Ouch,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “And here I thought you were the soft-spoken one.”

“Not when I’m being married off like a parcel.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for the first time, something flickers across his face. Not mockery. Not amusement.

Something quieter. Maybe even guilt.

“I didn’t ask for this either, you know,” he says, eyes drifting to the window. “My family’s been trying to clean up my image ever since I lit that cake on fire.”

You raise a brow. “So the rumors were true.”

He smirks. “Technically, the flambéed cherries caught the tablecloth.”

“Very dignified.”

He chuckles. “You should’ve seen the flames. It was glorious.”

Despite yourself, a laugh nearly escapes.

You clamp it down. Hard.

“We’re not doing this,” you say, shaking your head. “I need rules. If we’re stuck with each other, there needs to be rules.”

“Rules?” he echoes, as if the word is foreign.

“Yes. Boundaries. Expectations. Terms and conditions.”

“Like a contract?” he asks, amused. “How very unromantic of you.”

“Call it self-preservation.”

He sits up, intrigued. “Alright then. Lay them on me.”

You grab a pen and your planner from the table—because yes, you’re that person—and start scribbling. He watches, bemused.

You hold it up.

Rules of Engagement

1. No touching.

2. No flirting.

3. No overnight guests.

4. Shared public appearances only when necessary.

5. No falling in love.

Rafayel whistles low. “Number five. That one hurts.”

“It’s for both our sakes,” you say firmly. “We don’t do feelings.”

He leans forward, taking the paper from your hands. His fingers graze yours. You pretend not to notice.

“Fine,” he says, folding it neatly and slipping it into his coat pocket. “But if you break a rule first, I get to choose the honeymoon destination.”

“We’re not having a honeymoon.”

“We are now.”

You open your mouth to argue—but stop. Because somehow, he’s already standing, heading for the door like he didn’t just derail your entire week.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“To buy toothpaste. If we’re living together, I’m not sharing yours. I draw the line at dental hygiene.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Leaving you standing in your spotless living room, rules in hand, reality crashing down around you.

You’re engaged to Rafayel. Heir of the Lemurian dynasty.

Public menace.

Serial heartbreaker.

And now, your flatmate.

You sigh and flop onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Rule Number Five echoes in your mind.

No falling in love.

Easy enough.

Right?

—•

You’d like to clarify—this is not a date.

You were tricked. Lured.

Bribed with lunch and the vague promise of an stress-free afternoon.

Also, he said dessert was on him, and you, tragically, are only human.

So now you’re walking beside Rafayel, trying very hard not to look like someone who willingly spends time with a lilac-haired demon in designer sunglasses and a smug attitude.

Which is difficult, since he keeps flashing that perfectly calculated I-don’t-care-but-I-look-good smile.

“People are staring,” you mutter.

“They’re always staring,” he replies breezily. “The key is to give them something worth photographing.”

As if summoned by his own ego, a girl in oversized glasses practically skids to a stop in front of you.

She clutches her phone like it’s a sacred relic and looks between you and Rafayel like she’s about to faint.

“Are—oh my god—you’re—can I—?”

“Of course,” Rafayel says, already tilting his head for optimal lighting.

The girl shoves her phone toward you. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

You blink. Smile. Take the phone. Absolutely do not roll your eyes.

He drapes an arm over the girl’s shoulder, leans in with that practiced grin, and you snap the picture—twice, because she begs for one ‘candid’ and Rafayel, never one to waste an opportunity, dips his chin like he’s starring in a fragrance ad called Sins and Champagne.

“Thank you!” she squeals, bouncing away.

You hand his sunglasses back wordlessly.

“What?” he says as you start walking again. “It’s good PR. Plus, she’ll post that with some ridiculous caption like ‘he’s even hotter in person’ and we’ll both benefit.”

“From your cheekbones?”

“From my brand,” he corrects, slipping the glasses back on. “You should try being nicer to my fans. Builds character.”

“I have character,” you mutter. “I just choose not to market it on sidewalks.”

You arrive at a rooftop café—his pick, obviously.

Something about the natural lighting and imported oysters.

You’d been hoping for sandwiches. Maybe fries.

This place looks like it charges extra for butter.

The waiter seats you, and Rafayel slouches into his chair like he owns the skyline. “Order whatever you want,” he says, tossing the menu aside. “My empire can afford it.”

“Oh good,” you say sweetly. “I’ll take the most expensive dish and two of whatever you hate.”

He laughs—actually laughs.

Not the smug kind. Not the flirtatious chuckle.

A real, amused sound that makes you pause, just for a second.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

“Let me guess. You thought I’d be some breathless heiress desperate for your attention?”

“I was hoping for breathless,” he says, smirking. “The desperation was optional.”

You flick a sugar packet at him. He catches it.

The food arrives—too pretty to eat, but you dig in anyway because being around Rafayel burns calories in emotional energy. A few bites in, the conversation unexpectedly… shifts.

“I hated it growing up,” he says, sipping his wine. “The pressure. The expectations. Every move watched. They groomed me like I was some… polished statue to roll out at galas.”

You arch a brow. “So naturally, you set things on fire.”

He grins. “Exactly. They wanted a prince. I gave them a wildfire.”

You study him, fork paused mid-air.

For a moment, he’s not the Lemurian Heir. He’s just a guy raised in a glass cage, throwing stones for fun and freedom.

“What about you?” he asks. “You’re not exactly low-profile either.”

You shrug, suddenly more relaxed than you expected. “Modeling wasn’t supposed to be a career. I did a few gigs to annoy my parents. Then I actually liked it. Go figure.”

“Why did it annoy them?”

“They wanted me in finance,” you deadpan. “Crunching numbers. Marrying someone boring with a yacht and a title. Instead, I wore latex on magazine covers and dated a drummer who spoke exclusively in song lyrics.”

He chokes on his wine, laughing. “You’re full of surprises.”

“So are you,” you admit. “Unfortunately, most of yours are lawsuits waiting to happen.”

He leans back, watching you with an unreadable expression. “You know, you’re different when you’re not trying to strangle me with your eyes.”

“And you’re tolerable when you’re not being a narcissist.”

There’s a pause.

A comfortable one, oddly enough.

The sun’s lower now, painting his purple hair in warm light.

For a moment, the city noise fades and it’s just the two of you, seated between who you were and who you’re pretending to be.

You don’t swoon.

You just… notice.

Briefly.

He reaches for the dessert menu.

“Rule-breaker,” you say.

He smirks. “I promised you dessert, didn’t I?”

You raise a brow as Rafayel waves down the waiter like he owns the establishment—honestly, at this point, he probably does.

“You realize ordering dessert is a clear violation of Rule Number Five,” you say, watching him flip the dessert menu like he’s reading War and Peace.

“Rule Number Five was about feelings, not fudge,” he says, without looking up. “Unless you’re telling me a slice of tiramisu is going to make you fall in love with me.”

You level him with a look. “You’re not my type.”

He grins. “Not yet.”

The waiter returns, and Rafayel orders two desserts without consulting you.

You don’t even protest.

You’re too full and mildly annoyed and slightly curious what dessert a Lemurian heir thinks will ‘win’ a lunch date that was never a date to begin with.

“Why do I get the feeling you do this often?” you ask, drumming your fingers on the table. “Lunch with models. Public flirting. Slow seduction via sugar.”

“I don’t do public flirting,” he says, affronted. “It’s vulgar. My seduction strategy is much more refined.”

“Oh, forgive me.” You roll your eyes.

“You’re forgiven,” he says smoothly. “Though you should know—this is the first time I’ve taken someone to this place.”

You snort. “You expect me to believe that?”

He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand, smile still present but softened around the edges. “Actually… yes.”

Something in his voice changes—just a shade quieter, a little more honest.

“I usually avoid these places,” he continues. “Too many cameras. Too many expectations. But I thought maybe… this time, it could be different.”

You pause.

Not because you’re swooning—obviously—but because you weren’t expecting him to say that.

And because it’s unnervingly close to something real.

“I didn’t think you were capable of sincerity,” you mutter.

He shrugs. “I fake a lot of things. But not everything.”

You look at him for a long moment, unsure what to do with the sudden shift in temperature.

He’s still smirking, still smug—but there’s something else underneath.

Something quieter. Like even he doesn’t know how to hold it properly.

The desserts arrive, thankfully breaking the moment.

Yours is a delicate slice of pistachio cake with honey drizzle.

His is a dramatic tower of chocolate and edible gold leaf because of course it is.

You pick up your fork.

He watches you. “What?”

“You ordered this just to show off.”

“I ordered it to see if you’d smile.”

You almost choke. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs again, biting into his mountain of sugar and ego. “You’re always so put together. All edges and clever comebacks. I wondered what you’d look like if you actually enjoyed something.”

You stare at him, stunned.

And, annoyingly… flattered.

Which is worse.

“You’re exhausting,” you say.

“And yet, here you are.”

You do not dignify that with a response.

Instead, you take a bite of the cake—and damn it, it is good. Soft, rich, and just the right amount of sweet.

You glance at him and catch him watching you like he’s won something.

“I’m not impressed,” you lie.

“Of course not,” he says, licking chocolate from his fork. “That’s why you’ve finished half your plate in two minutes.”

You narrow your eyes. “You are a menace.”

“I’ve been called worse. Usually by people who later invite me back.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He laughs again—deep, genuine—and you hate how easily it fills the space between you. Hate that, for one stupid second, you don’t hate being here.

That the sun feels warmer, the silence feels easier, and the sarcasm feels more like a shared language than a wall.

And maybe you let yourself relax. Just a little. Maybe you let your smile slip out, crooked and fleeting.

Not because of him, of course. Because of the cake.

Definitely the cake.

—•

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since your life turned into a weirdly expensive soap opera.

Three weeks of shared living arrangements, awkward press appearances, passive-aggressive coffee orders, and one increasingly complicated non-relationship with the Lemurian heir.

It’s not like you’re counting, of course.

You just happen to know how many times he’s left his socks in the hallway.

Or how many times he’s fallen asleep on the couch after some late-night meeting, suit jacket draped over the armrest like he’s auditioning for a melancholic perfume ad.

You’ve settled into a rhythm. Of sorts.

Which is exactly why the shift—when it happens—feels like slipping on a patch of black ice in heels.

It starts with a knock on your door. Not the loud, arrogant kind Rafayel usually delivers when he wants to borrow something—more like annoy you.

No, this one’s soft. Hesitant.

You’re already annoyed.

“Yes?” you call.

The door creaks open.

He steps in, a little more disheveled than usual.

His tie is gone, shirt half-buttoned, hair a wind-tousled mess.

You blink. “Did you get in a fight with a hurricane?”

“Dinner ran late,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Some board meeting with my uncle. Lemurian politics. Very thrilling stuff. Would’ve invited you, but I figured you’d rather stab yourself with a breadstick.”

“You’d be correct.”

He doesn’t leave.

You glance up. “Something else?”

He hesitates. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

Ah. So that’s what this is about.

You slide your phone out and wave it. “I was working.”

“You left me on read.”

“I didn’t realize I owed you a response to ‘Is the curry still in the fridge or did you emotionally eat it all?’”

“That was a serious question,” he mutters. “I had a long day.”

“And I’m not your personal food tracker.”

His brows knit, and for the first time, the familiar teasing spark isn’t there. Just quiet frustration.

“You’ve been shutting me out lately,” he says. “Every time we talk, it’s like I’m… irritating background noise.”

“Maybe because you are.”

He flinches—just barely. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

There’s a beat. You think maybe he’ll walk away. But instead, he does something worse.

He sits on the edge of your bed.

“I’m trying here,” he says, voice low. “I know I’m not… easy. Or conventional. Or whatever it is you want. But I show up. I stay. I’m not out there making headlines anymore, I’m here—with you. And sometimes it feels like you’re still waiting for me to screw up.”

You cross your arms, defenses rising on instinct. “Don’t act like you’re some martyr. You signed the same contract I did.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect to actually like you.”

That stops you cold.

The air goes still. Your heart trips over itself. You hate that it does.

You laugh—short, sharp, sarcastic. “Well, that’s your mistake.”

He stares at you. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. Pushing me away. Acting like none of this matters.”

“Because it doesn’t,” you snap. “Because the second I start thinking maybe you’re not the egotistical headline I assumed—maybe you’re real, and messy, and sincere—you’ll remind me exactly why I should’ve kept my distance.”

He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“Has someone hurt you like that before?”

You look away.

“That’s not your business,” you say, but it sounds thinner than you meant it to.

He nods slowly, like he hears what you didn’t say.

“Well,” he says, standing, “I’m not here to be another person who lets you down. But I’m not going to spend the next six months proving I’m harmless just because you’ve decided I’m a walking red flag.”

“Don’t worry,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

He exhales.

And for the first time, you see him really tired.

Not in the usual I partied too hard way.

In the I don’t know what else I can say way.

He turns to leave. Stops at the doorway.

“For what it’s worth,” he says without looking back, “I didn’t touch the curry. Even after the board meeting. Because I thought maybe… you’d want to share it.”

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You stare at the space he left behind.

Empty plate. Empty room.

And for the first time, your chest feels just a little too full.

You don’t move for a while.

The room feels quieter without him in it. Like his absence took something with it—heat, maybe. Or air.

You stare at your phone for a moment, then at the door.

Then at the fridge.

Dammit.

You find him where you always seem to, sprawled on the couch like he owns the universe, remote in one hand, eyes half-lidded.

The TV is on, muted. A documentary about space or fish—hard to tell.

He doesn’t look up when you step into the living room, barefoot, bowl of reheated curry in your hands.

“I didn’t come to apologize,” you say flatly.

“Didn’t think you did.”

You hold out the bowl. “You were right. I ate half. But I saved enough for two.”

He glances over.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

He takes it anyway, and for a while, you eat in silence.

Shoulder to shoulder on the couch, knees brushing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just shared proximity. Shared food. Shared silence.

And yet.

“You don’t really like curry, do you?” you ask after a moment.

“I like that you made it.”

You glance at him, only to find he’s already watching you. The light from the TV flickers across his face, casting shadows across the sharp line of his jaw. His silver hair is tousled, eyes softer than they have any right to be.

You look away first.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That.”

“Looking at you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it feels like you’re trying to see me.”

“I am trying to see you.”

You set your bowl down on the coffee table, suddenly tense. “Don’t.”

He leans back, mirroring your posture. Still close. Still too close.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says softly.

You laugh—dry and a little bitter. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I think you’re afraid of what it might mean to actually trust me.”

The silence stretches like thread pulled taut.

And then—softly, so softly—you ask, “Why are you trying?”

It’s not sarcastic.

Not accusatory.

Just quietly, achingly sincere.

He pauses.

“I don’t know,” he says after a beat. “Maybe because this—you—is the first thing in my life I didn’t win by being charming or rich or reckless. Maybe because, for once, I want something that doesn’t come easy.”

Your chest twists. You hate how much you feel it.

You shift, meaning to stand. Or move. Or just get some space.

But then he catches your wrist.

Not hard. Not demanding. Just… there.

You freeze.

His fingers are warm against your skin. His touch gentle. Uncertain, even.

Your eyes meet.

The moment hangs.

And there it is—that unbearable closeness. That electric, breath-stealing almost.

You hate that your pulse stutters.

That your throat goes dry. That something unspoken curls beneath your ribs like smoke.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he murmurs. “Not unless you want me to.”

You swallow.

Hard.

And then, deliberately, you pull your hand away.

His face doesn’t fall—but you see the flicker of something retreating. The door he cracked open quietly swinging shut again.

You stand.

Smooth your hands down your shirt like it matters.

Like it helps.

“I’m going to bed,” you say.

He nods. Says nothing.

You make it halfway to your room before you stop.

“Rafayel.”

He glances up.

“Thanks for saving me half the curry.”

His mouth twitches. “Anytime.”

You close your door gently behind you, back pressed against the wood, heart pounding a little too loudly in your chest.

You didn’t swoon.

You didn’t.

But god, you almost did.

—•

It starts with a harmless visit.

Or at least, that’s what Rafayel tells himself when he shows up at the studio, hands shoved in his coat pockets, sunglasses perched like armor, and a single iced coffee balanced in the other hand.

The assistant at the front desk gives him a look that says oh god, it’s him again—but hands him a visitor’s pass anyway.

He doesn’t know why he came.

He just… wanted to see you.

Maybe bring you coffee.

Maybe tease you about how serious you get during fittings.

Maybe catch another one of your rare, unguarded smiles when you’re not being ‘the model’ or ‘the reluctant fiancée’ or whatever it is you pretend to be when you’re not curled up beside him eating leftover curry.

But then he sees you.

And you’re not alone.

You’re smiling—laughing—with some guy who’s tall and objectively handsome in a ‘men’s fragrance ad’ kind of way.

Shirt unbuttoned just enough for it to be indecent.

He’s standing too close, helping adjust a clasp on your dress, his fingers brushing the back of your neck.

It’s innocent.

Of course it is.

Rafayel knows that.

But logic is no match for jealousy.

He turns around before you can see him, coffee forgotten on the edge of a table, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

When you get home that night, the first thing you notice is the silence.

The second is Rafayel.

He’s sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes dark.

And glaring.

No sign of the boyish, playboy grin that he usually dons.

You blink. “Hi?”

No answer.

“Okay,” you say slowly, dropping your bag by the door. “Did someone die or did you burn another diplomatic dinner?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“I came by your shoot today.”

That stops you cold. “You what?”

He uncrosses his arms, pushes off the counter. “I thought I’d surprise you. Bring you coffee. Be supportive, or whatever it is couples are supposed to do.”

Your heart stutters. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

He’s pacing now, hands raking through his hair.

You’ve never seen him like this—tense, clipped, frustrated in a way that’s not performative.

“I saw you,” he says. “With him.”

You blink. “Who—? Oh my god. Leo? The other model?”

“Is that his name?” Rafayel snaps. “Fantastic. Now I know what to engrave on the urn.”

You stare. “You’re jealous.”

“No,” he lies. Terribly.

You blink again, slowly. “You thought something was going on?”

He says nothing.

You fold your arms. “Seriously? You’ve been photographed half-naked with actresses for years, but the moment a guy helps me zip a dress—”

“It’s not the same,” he growls.

“Oh? Because I’m supposed to be the good one?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer now. “Because you matter.”

The words hit like a punch.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You matter,” he says again, softer this time. “And I hate that I care. I hate that I see you smile at someone else and feel like I’m about to lose something I never even had.”

You can’t speak.

“I didn’t want to fall for you,” he says. “But here I am. Completely wrecked.”

Silence.

It stretches between you like a live wire.

And then you say the stupidest, bravest thing you’ve said since this whole arrangement started.

“Then kiss me.”

His eyes widen.

“Rafayel.”

You step closer. “If you mean it. If you’re not playing. Then kiss me.”

A second passes.

Then another.

And then he does.

He surges forward like a man starved for something he didn’t know he needed, hands cupping your face, mouth crashing into yours with enough heat to burn.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not careful.

It’s weeks of tension unraveling in one breathless, heated pull.

You gasp against him, fingers fisting in his shirt.

He presses you back against the wall, lips trailing down your jaw, your throat, before coming back up to kiss you again, slower this time.

Deeper.

Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours.

“No more rules,” he says.

You nod, dazed. “No more pretending.”

He laughs, breathless and shaky. “God, I’m in so much trouble.”

You kiss him again.

Because yes—so are you.

And you don’t care anymore.

Your back hits the bedroom door.

You don’t remember walking there.

Or maybe he carried you.

Or maybe time just folded in on itself the second you kissed him.

Either way, the world’s a blur and he’s the only thing in focus.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice husky, lips brushing your jaw.

You smirk, breathless. “Is this the part where you ask for written consent?”

“I like to be thorough.”

You curl your fingers in the front of his shirt and tug. Hard. “Consider this my signature.”

“Very professional,” he murmurs, leaning in again.

His kiss deepens—hotter now, lazier.

Like he’s savoring it.

Like he has all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth and exactly what makes your breath catch. His hands find your waist, thumbs sliding under your shirt like he’s tracing a map.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, “I expected you to resist a little longer.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, come on. I’m irresistible. It’s in my genetics.”

You laugh—actually laugh—while he fumbles with your top, cursing under his breath when it gets stuck halfway over your head.

“You undress like a man who’s never taken a bra off without summoning a priest,” you tease.

“It’s a complicated mechanism!”

“Is it though?”

You reach back, unhook it yourself, and toss it onto the lamp. He pauses, visibly impressed.

“Show-off.”

“Amateur.”

He grins—wolfish, cocky, entirely himself—and you hate that it only makes you want him more.

The bed hits your knees.

Then you’re down, tangled in sheets, heat blooming across your skin like wildfire. Rafayel moves like he’s memorizing you with his hands, like he’s collecting data for some unholy research project titled Ways to Ruin Her on a Tuesday Night.

And okay, fine, you’re definitely not not enjoying it.

“You’re staring,” you murmur as he hovers above you, breath uneven.

“I’m admiring.”

“Same thing.”

“Not when it’s you.”

For once, the sarcasm fades. Just a flicker.

Because the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re something rare, something his—makes your chest ache.

You reach up, fingers tracing his jaw. “You’re so smug.”

“You like me smug.”

“I tolerate you smug.”

“Mm.” He kisses your collarbone. “Let’s see what else you tolerate.”

What follows is a blur of heat and friction and whispered curses—mostly yours.

He’s infuriatingly good at this. Predictably. And yet, somehow, every touch feels more like discovery than performance.

No games.

No roles.

Just him. Just you.

And the sharp, dizzying ache of something that might be real.

Later, when you’re tangled together under your ruined sheets, the room heavy with silence and post-storm warmth, he says, “You know I’m never letting you go now, right?”

You hum against his shoulder. “Good thing I’m contractually obligated to stay.”

He snorts. “Romance. Alive and well.”

You grin. “Just wait until I start stealing all the covers.”

He laughs quietly, arm tightening around you.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, you think, maybe this won’t end in flames.

Maybe, just maybe, you’re already home.

—•

You wake up to an empty bed.

For a second, it feels normal.

The way sunlight filters through the curtains, the warmth lingering on the sheets, the scent of something distinctly Rafayel—cologne, mischief, and sandalwood.

But then the silence registers.

And the fact that his side of the bed is cold.

You sit up, heart doing that annoying thing where it tightens even though nothing is technically wrong.

You find him in the kitchen.

Leaning against the counter, mug in hand, hair mussed, jaw tense. He’s staring out the window like he’s waiting for the apocalypse or a dramatic soundtrack to kick in.

“Hey,” you say, voice still rough with sleep.

He doesn’t look at you.

You pad in barefoot, wrapping one of his shirts tighter around your body.

“I checked the mirror,” you add. “Still stunning. You can stop brooding now.”

Nothing.

That’s when the dread creeps in.

“Okay. Are we pretending last night didn’t happen? Because I’ll need time to emotionally detach from the blanket fort we made with our bodies.”

His jaw clenches.

You stop teasing.

“What happened?”

He finally looks at you.

And it’s not the same look he gave you last night—hungry and tender and slightly awed. This one’s guarded. Cold around the edges.

“You got a call.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“From Leo.”

You frown. “The model?”

He nods once. Tight.

“Oh my god, are you still on this?”

“He called you babe.”

You stare. “He calls everyone babe. He calls his cat babe.”

“You smiled.”

“I smiled?”

“You were different with him.”

You set your mug down with a sharp clink. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“I let myself believe it,” he says, voice low. “That this was real. That maybe we weren’t just playing house until our families got what they wanted. But maybe that’s all this is. A beautiful lie.”

You freeze.

It’s not what he’s saying—it’s what he’s not saying.

It’s the fear in his eyes. The old wound resurfacing in a prettier suit.

“You think I’d sleep with you, laugh with you, fall asleep in your arms—just for show?”

“I don’t know,” he says. And that’s worse than if he’d said yes.

The silence feels colder than his words.

You exhale shakily. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust myself,” he corrects. “I’ve ruined everything good I’ve ever touched. Why would this be any different?”

Your voice is quiet. “Because I’m not them.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that.

But can’t.

Not yet.

“I need air,” he mutters.

You move aside as he brushes past.

The door closes behind him.

And for the first time since all of this started—since the first headline, the first sarcastic quip, the first rule scribbled in your planner—you feel completely and utterly alone.

Hours pass.

You don’t call.

You don’t text.

You want to.

God, do you want to.

But some stubborn part of you—some still-bruised fragment—refuses to be the one to chase him.

If he wants to walk away from this, from you, he can.

You’ve survived worse.

Right?

…Right?

—•

The door creaks open just past midnight.

You’re on the couch, pretending to read a magazine.

You don’t look up.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then.

“I’m an idiot.”

You flip a page. “We agree on something.”

“I panicked.”

You close the magazine.

He steps further into the room, looking wrecked. Hair windblown, shirt rumpled, regret in every inch of him.

“I saw something that scared me,” he says. “And instead of asking, instead of trusting you, I lashed out.”

You stand, arms folded. “You think that fixes it?”

“No,” he says. “But maybe this will.”

He pulls something from his pocket.

Your planner.

The one with the Rules of Engagement.

He opens it, flips to the page with your old list, and crosses out the last rule.

“No falling in love,” he reads aloud. Then draws a thick, dark line through it. “Too late.”

Your heart skips.

He looks up at you. “I’m in love with you.”

It’s not smooth. Not polished. Not smirking or smug.

It’s raw.

Vulnerable.

Terrified.

You cross the room slowly.

Take the pen from his hand.

And next to where he crossed it out, you write, “Me too.”

When you look up, he’s already pulling you into his arms.

This kiss isn’t fire—it’s gravity.

Like you were always meant to fall.

And finally, finally, you stop fighting it.

—•

The wedding is in three days.

The guest list is ridiculous.

The venue is twice as ridiculous.

There’s a seven-tier cake named after constellations and an entire chandelier that had to be flown in with a crane.

And you? You’re on the windowsill, veil forgotten, staring at your phone like it might offer clarity.

It doesn’t.

The door creaks open behind you.

You don’t look. “Nice of you to show up.”

“Thought I’d be mysterious,” Rafayel says. “You know. Add drama.”

“You’re late.”

He steps beside you. “I was going to call it off.”

That gets your attention.

“What?”

“The wedding,” he says. “I didn’t want you marrying me out of obligation.”

You stare. “I wasn’t.”

“I know. But I panicked. Because this is the first time I actually care what someone thinks of me.”

He pauses.

“I love you,” he says. “And it scares the hell out of me.”

You take a slow breath.“I choose you, Rafayel. Not for the headlines. Not because I have to. But because somehow, you’ve become the only place I feel like myself.”

He looks like you just handed him the stars.

The wedding was pure chaos.

Too many cameras. Too many roses.

Rafayel’s suit shimmers ever so slightly—he claims it’s subtle.

A drone nearly crashes into the flower arch during your vows.

But none of it matters when he squeezes your hand and says, loud enough for the world.

“I choose you. No matter how many rules we break.”

You can’t help smiling.

“Even when you leave your socks everywhere?”

There’s laughter. There’s confetti. There’s a signature cocktail named after your first public argument.

You slip away from the reception to breathe, heels dangling from your hand.

Of course she finds you.

Your mother, dressed immaculately, holding a champagne flute like it’s part of her anatomy.

“I told you so,” she says, smug as ever.

You groan. “Seriously, Mom?”

“I told you you’d like him,” she says. “Eventually. Once you got over your tragic taste in musicians.”

You stare. She sips. And walks off, victorious.

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself.

Then Rafayel appears—tie undone, hair a little messy, smile all soft edges.

He holds out his hand.

You take it.

And just like that, everything falls into place.

“Do you like curry now?”

“No.”

[nobi]

clueless clueless clueless | rafayel

synopsis : After weeks of hiding your feelings for your best friend Rafayel—who appeared to be dating someone else—you learn he was only pretending to make you jealous. In a clumsy but heartfelt reunion fueled by late-night confessions and stolen kisses, you two finally confront your feelings, breaking through all the missed signals, sarcasm, and emotional chaos to find each other.

content : fluff, rafayel being rafayel, college!au, a sprinkle of comedy

writer’s note : sksksk i had alot of fun writing this too, i toned down the humour just a little because I wanted to make this half-angst-half-fluff XD (what he does in this fic is definitely something I see rafayel doing, that sneaky little-)

“Is it just me, or are there two of you?” Rafayel slurs, his lips curling into a lopsided smile that makes your heart do something very inconvenient.

You sigh, adjusting your grip on his arm as you half-carry, half-drag him through the quiet campus halls. He had made a grand declaration at the party—“I will sleep on your sofa tonight!”—and you, fool that you are, hadn’t stopped him.

“I’m going to kill you when you wake up,” you mutter under your breath, though you’re not sure if it’s more out of frustration or fondness.

Of course you had feelings for him.

Why else would you be hauling his drunk self back to your dorm, when half the girls at the party had been throwing themselves at him?

But no, he’d latched onto you, slurring nonsense and grinning like an idiot.

“There’s two of you~” he repeats dreamily, eyes glassy as he leans heavier against your shoulder.

You groan. “God, shut up.”

He was always cute. Sober, he had that quiet charm.

But drunk? Drunk Rafayel was a different breed—clumsy, affectionate, and infuriatingly endearing.

The kind of cute that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t want to think about.

You finally manage to get the door open and guide him inside, his feet stumbling over the threshold.

He hums something unintelligible about how having two of you must be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Great. I’ll clone myself just for you,” you mutter as you lower him onto your bed. Not the sofa, but whatever.

You crouch down to grab the water bottle near your nightstand, sitting beside him as he sprawls across your sheets with a dopey grin.

And still, despite everything—despite knowing better—you can’t stop the way your gaze lingers on him just a second too long.

You tilt the bottle to his lips. “Drink up.”

He doesn’t argue—just blinks up at you with dazed eyes and drinks, swallowing each mouthful like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world.

His throat bobs with every gulp, and for a moment, you forget to breathe.

He finishes your water with a loud, satisfied, “Ah~”

It shouldn’t do anything to you, but it does. You feel your heart clench—tight and traitorous—as if it’s reacting all on its own.

You set the bottle aside, swallowing the lump in your throat, and quietly move to pull the blanket over him. His hair’s a mess, shirt untucked, cheeks flushed with warmth and alcohol.

He looks impossibly soft like this.

Too soft.

You lean over and squish his cheeks between your fingers, giving them a firm, mocking pinch. “Why’d you drink so much if you can’t hold your alcohol, you dumb fish?”

He lets out a dramatic whine, flailing weakly at your hands like a disgruntled kitten. His effort is pitiful at best—more like a lazy swat than an actual protest.

Then, finally, his eyes crack open into a hazy glare. Well, an attempt at a glare. It’s more of a sleepy squint.

You burst out laughing. “Wow. Terrifying. I’m shaking.”

“It’s the only way I can get your attention,” he mumbles, lips puffing into a pout.

You freeze.

Oh no.

There it is again—that annoying, involuntary flutter in your chest. You have to physically stop yourself from melting right into the mattress.

Stupid fish.

You sigh, the fight leaving your voice. “You get my attention either way,” you mumble, almost too quietly, as you rise to your feet.

But before you can take a step, his fingers wrap around your wrist, warm and hesitant.

“Don’t go,” he says, and his voice—soft, slurred, and just a little pitiful—hits you right in the gut.

He sounds like a puppy left out in the rain.

You glance down at him, cheeks puffed in a pout, eyes barely open, still clinging to you like you’re the last solid thing in his spinning world.

And damn it, he’s really not playing fair tonight.

For the umpteenth time tonight, you sigh—long, dramatic, and utterly defeated—as you give in and slide into bed beside him.

The moment your weight dips the mattress, he lights up like he just won gold at the Olympics.

“Yay,” he chirps, triumphant, and immediately scoots over to snuggle against you, limbs floppy and uncoordinated but undeniably pleased with himself.

You shoot him a withering look. “You’re insufferable.”

He hums, already half-asleep, “Mhm. But you like me anyway.”

Unfortunately—for your dignity and your heart—he’s not wrong.

His head settles on your arm, nuzzling in until he’s fully latched onto you like a particularly clingy barnacle, effectively trapping you in place.

You glance down at him, his face relaxed in sleep, lashes brushing his flushed cheeks. Despite yourself, your lips curve into a small, almost fond smile.

With your free hand, you gently brush a few unruly strands of hair from his face, fingertips lingering a second too long.

“If only you’ll remember this tomorrow,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

But he’s already drifting, blissfully unaware of the way he’s unraveling you one drunken cuddle at a time.

The next morning, you wake up to find Rafayel still wrapped around you like a human-sized octopus, clinging to you as if letting go would end his entire existence.

You groan softly. “Seriously? Velcro has nothing on you.”

Carefully, you begin the delicate operation of detangling yourself from his limbs. It’s like defusing a bomb—one wrong move and he might wake up and decide to recite Shakespeare in his sleep. Again.

Once you’re free, you throw on your clothes in record time and make your escape to class, leaving behind one very unconscious, very snuggly disaster of a best friend.

Class, as expected, is mind-numbingly boring. Your professor’s droning on about something that probably matters, but your brain has long since checked out and decided to stare wistfully out the window instead.

And what does it land on?

Not formulas. Not homework.

No.

You’re thinking about how annoyingly soft Rafayel looked under the dim lighting of your room, hair a mess, mouth parted slightly in sleep like some dumb romantic drama lead.

Worse yet, your mind flashes to the party—the part where he drunkenly clung to you in front of every girl who’d been eyeing him like dessert and proudly declared, “This is my girlfriend!” with the confidence of a man who clearly had no idea what the hell he was saying.

You roll your eyes at the memory.

Stupid grin. Stupid face. Stupid feelings.

You were doomed.

Class passed in a blur of half-listened lectures and doodles in the margins of your notebook that definitely didn’t resemble a certain someone’s stupidly soft sleeping face.

When the bell finally rang, you stepped outside—and there he was.

Your best friend. Puppy-like. Or fishy-like. Honestly, at this point, you’ve given up trying to decide. Some sort of emotionally unstable golden retriever-merman hybrid, probably.

He stood just outside the building, grinning like the sun personally chose him as its favorite.

His hair was still a little messy, his hoodie slightly crooked, and his eyes lit up the moment he spotted you, like you were the only person that existed in his little world.

“Heyyy~” he beamed, jogging over like an overexcited Labrador.

You stared at him, deadpan. “Should I be worried you remember nothing or that you remember everything?”

He just grinned wider.

You were so, so screwed.

“I dooo remember,” he chuckles, rocking back on his heels like a child proud of reciting the alphabet. “You fended me off from those girls. Like—bam! Shoo. Shoo. Mine.”

You stare at him, arms crossed. “That’s all you remember?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Yup.”

A beat.

You raise a brow, your expression somewhere between deadpan and dumbfounded. “Seriously?”

He just grins wider, completely unbothered, like he didn’t spend the night curled up around you like a lovesick blanket.

Part of you lets out a sigh of relief—thank God he doesn’t remember mumbling don’t go or how he clung to you like a second skin.

But then again, there’s that faint little sting. A tiny pang in your chest you weren’t prepared for.

Because while it meant nothing to him in the haze of drunkenness, you… you remembered every second.

You force a smile, lips twitching like they’re not sure whether to commit. “That… that’s good,” you manage.

He doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t.

Instead, he throws an arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pulling you close as you both walk down the hallway toward the cafeteria—like this isn’t slowly killing you inside.

Your chest is pounding, traitorous and loud, like it wants to confess every unsaid thing you’ve ever buried.

He chatters on beside you, something about the vending machine eating his coins and declaring war on all snack machines everywhere.

Then he pauses.

You feel his gaze on you, subtle but too sharp for someone who’s supposed to be oblivious. “Hey, are you even listening?” he asks, pouting at you like a kicked puppy.

You blink, caught.

And then you do the only thing you can think of to save face—you pinch yourself. Hard.

“Yup,” you lie with an overly bright smile. “Riveting stuff. Snack machines beware.”

He squints at you suspiciously, but the pout fades, and he keeps talking.

Meanwhile, you try to remember how to breathe.

At the cafeteria, you both settled into your usual seats—him across from you, radiating chaotic sunshine, and you nursing a cup of mediocre coffee like it held the answer to life.

He was talking. Loudly. Dramatically. About her—some girl he liked. Some girl who wasn’t you.

You nodded along, making all the appropriate noises. “Mhm.” “Yeah?” “Wow.” None of which you actually meant.

Because as he went off about how pretty she was when she laughed, or how she understood his dumb references, or whatever other endearing quality she apparently had, you sat there sipping your coffee and pretending it didn’t taste like betrayal.

The ugly monster of jealousy had started gnawing at your insides, slow and vicious. It clawed at your gut every time he smiled a little too fondly while talking about her.

And the worst part?

He had no idea.

No clue that the person sitting across from him, offering empty smiles and half-hearted encouragement, was breaking just a little with every word.

Or maybe he did know.

Maybe he caught the way your smile twitched a little too tight, or how you suddenly found your coffee very, very interesting every time he said her name.

But if he did notice… well, he sure didn’t let it show.

Then, just as your coffee was reaching room temperature and your soul was leaving your body, he sprang to his feet with the energy of someone about to ruin your entire week.

“I’m gonna go ask her out—wish me luck!”

And just like that, he was gone.

No time for protests. No dramatic monologue.

Not even a well-placed trip to stop him.

You stared at the empty seat across from you like it had personally betrayed you.

Back in your dorm, you sat on your bed in the universal position of heartbreak: slumped over, staring into the void, and wondering if coffee could cure emotional damage

Spoiler, it can’t.

The next day, the universe decided to punch you again.

He showed up with her. Hand in hand. Smiling like the star of a rom-com.

“Hey, meet my girlfriend!” he said, as if your heart weren’t actively sliding down a metaphorical garbage disposal.

You blinked. Swallowed the nausea. And smiled with the kind of sarcasm you’d honed to an art form.

“Wow. She’s real. And here I thought you were hallucinating from caffeine withdrawal.”

They laughed. You laughed. It was all very funny.

And maybe if you kept making jokes, no one would notice the tiny crack forming in your chest.

Especially not him.

For two weeks, you perfected the art of pretending.

You went to class like nothing was wrong, sat beside him like your heart wasn’t folding itself into origami, and laughed at his jokes like they didn’t feel a little more distant now—like they weren’t meant for someone else.

You were good at it.

Too good, maybe.

You joked and smiled and rolled your eyes in all the right places, like the world hadn’t tilted the moment he said, “Wish me luck,” and ran off to ask someone else to be his.

Every now and then, you’d catch yourself staring out the window during lectures, fingers absently playing with the hem of your sleeve, wondering if he really didn’t remember that night.

The one where he had his arms around you, mumbling nonsense into your shoulder, calling you his girlfriend with that huge, stupid grin on his face.

The one where he fell asleep tangled in your sheets and your scent, holding on like you were the only steady thing in a spinning world.

You thought maybe he forgot.

Maybe he just chalked it all up to alcohol and haze and conveniently erased the parts where your fingers brushed his hair, or the way his body curled instinctively toward yours, like home.

But you didn’t forget.

Not the way he looked at you through half-lidded eyes, not the sound of his voice slurring “don’t go,” like it mattered.

And certainly not how your heart clenched so hard you thought it might bruise itself.

And now… now, he was texting her good morning and waiting for her after class and telling you stories about their dates with the same enthusiasm he once reserved for complaining about cafeteria food or ranking vending machine snacks with you.

It was like you’d been quietly recast in your own life—downgraded from lead to supporting role without warning.

Your dorm mate noticed before you even said a word.

She watched you come back each night, drop your bag on the floor with a sigh, and crawl under your blanket without turning the lights on.

“Okay, what gives?” she asked one evening, standing in the doorway with a toothbrush in her mouth. “You’ve been moping around like a ghost that got friend-zoned.”

You buried your face in your pillow. “I’m not moping.”

She scoffed. “You’re literally cocooning in sadness. You’ve eaten instant noodles for three nights straight.”

“That’s not sadness. That’s broke.”

She didn’t laugh. Just walked over, tugged your blanket down so she could see your face. “Did something happen with him?”

You blinked up at the ceiling. “No,” you said. “Nothing happened.”

And that was the worst part.

Nothing did happen.

He didn’t lie. He didn’t cheat. He didn’t promise you anything.

He just… didn’t choose you. And there was no villain in that.

Only you, quietly nursing a heartbreak no one could see, because technically—technically—you weren’t allowed to feel this way.

You were just the best friend. The fallback.

The convenient place to land when the world got too loud.

So for two weeks, you kept showing up.

You stood beside him, laughed at his stories, and high-fived him when he told you about his new “perfect” girlfriend.

And every night, you came back to your room, collapsed onto your bed, and let the silence wash over you like a secret.

Because even if he’d forgotten… you still remembered.

And you weren’t sure which was worse.

It was late—past midnight, the kind of hour where even your thoughts start yawning—and you were just about to call it a night when you heard the knock.

Well, more like a thud.

You frowned, padded over to the door in your fuzzy socks, and cracked it open, fully expecting a flyer, a drunken neighbor, or possibly the ghost of your GPA.

What you didn’t expect was him.

There, slumped against your doorframe like the world’s most annoying—and admittedly handsome—ragdoll, was Rafayel.

His hair was a mess, his shirt slightly wrinkled, and his signature, stupidly charming grin was plastered across his flushed face.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He grinned wider. “Heyyyy.”

It had been weeks since he last showed up like this.

Not since he started dating her.

Not since your chest decided to twist itself into a permanent knot every time you saw them together.

And yet here he was, swaying slightly, holding onto the doorframe like it was the only thing stopping him from melting into the hallway carpet.

You should’ve closed the door.

Really, you should have.

But instead, you sighed like the protagonist of a sitcom and stepped aside.

“Get in before you collapse and traumatize the RAs.”

He stumbled in with the grace of a wounded penguin, mumbling something about the lighting in your hallway being “so dramatic.”

You weren’t sure if he was talking about the flickering bulb or himself.

As you helped him toward the bed—because apparently he still believed it was his emergency crash zone—he slurred, “Where’s your roommate?”

You huffed as you hoisted him onto your mattress, which, by the way, was not a one-size-fits-all cuddle lounge. “She went out for drinks. Like a normal, functioning adult.”

He flopped onto his back with a sigh of satisfaction. “Good. She judges me.”

“She has eyes. Of course she does.”

You stood over him for a second, arms crossed, watching as he blinked slowly up at your ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe.

He looked softer tonight.

Less boyfriend-of-someone-else and more the mess you fell for when he used to hog your couch and quote bad movies. It was infuriating how effortlessly he could crawl back into your life, drunk and grinning, like nothing had changed.

But things had changed.

Like how he kissed someone else good morning now.

Or how you weren’t allowed to hold him anymore, not even when he looked like he needed it.

Still, when he curled slightly toward your pillow and mumbled something about your bed smelling “safe,” your sarcasm softened just a little.

“Are you always this dramatic or is it the vodka talking?” you muttered, grabbing the blanket to throw over him.

He didn’t answer. Just let out a happy sigh as he buried his face into the covers like a cat claiming territory.

You sat on the edge of the bed, watching him for a moment too long, heart doing its usual traitorous dance.

Maybe he’d forget this, too. Maybe by morning, it would all disappear into the haze again.

But right now, here he was.

And you hated how easily you let him in.

And worse—you loved that he still came back.

You handed him the water bottle, watching as he guzzled it down like it was holy nectar and he’d just crawled through the desert.

Once finished, he let out that dramatic, satisfied “Ah~”—the same one that used to make you roll your eyes and smile without meaning to.

Now, you just gave him a flat look. “You done?”

But he didn’t reply. Just… stared.

Sat there on the edge of your bed, bottle in hand, eyes fixed on you like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

You arched a brow. “What?”

His lips parted like he was going to toss out a joke, but instead, he said quietly, “Why don’t you talk to me anymore?”

That caught you off guard. You blinked, the sarcasm rising on instinct. “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the whole third-wheeling your adorable couple moments while I die inside thing?”

His jaw twitched slightly, but he didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend her. Didn’t smirk like he normally would.

Instead, he said your name—low, serious, like it was the first time he’d actually meant it.

“Y/N.”

You turned to look at him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, defensive walls coming up like clockwork. “What?”

He set the empty bottle down on your desk, hands resting in his lap as he leaned forward. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

You stared at him. “What?”

He exhaled slowly, like this had been sitting on his chest for far too long. “We’re not dating. We never were. It was fake.”

You blinked.

And then blinked again, because surely your brain had short-circuited somewhere between she’s not my girlfriend and we never were.

“Come again?”

“I asked her to help me make you jealous,” he said, and winced like the words tasted as awful as they sounded.

“It was stupid. I know. I just— You weren’t saying anything. And I thought maybe if you saw me with someone else, you’d finally say something. Or look at me the way you used to.”

You stared at him, speechless. Your mouth opened and closed like a confused goldfish.

“…You fake dated someone to make me jealous?”

“Yes.”

“And then… acted like a couple in front of me.”

“Yes.”

“For two weeks.”

“Yes.”

“And I was the dumb one in this situation?”

“I mean, yeah!” he burst, throwing his hands up.

“I thought it was obvious! I was dramatically declaring you were my girlfriend in front of other girls, showing up at your dorm drunk every other week, practically clinging to you like an emotional parasite—what more was I supposed to do? Spell it out in glitter?!”

You blinked. Slowly. Processing.

“You’re an idiot,” you said at last.

He pointed at you. “You’re the idiot! I thought you hated me.”

You scoffed, arms flailing. “I hated you because you were fake dating someone else!”

“To get your attention!”

“You already had my attention, Rafayel!”

“Well, you didn’t do anything with it!”

You both stared at each other, breathing hard, eyes wide, and then—

He laughed.

A small, breathless, sheepish laugh. “Wow. We’re so dumb.”

“Stupidest people on campus,” you agreed, finally—finally—smiling.

He reached for your hand, hesitantly, like it was the one thing that could make the night real.

“So… what now?” he asked.

You gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Now? You’re going to owe me about six months’ worth of emotional compensation. And possibly a coffee.”

“Deal,” he said, grinning.

And just like that, the knot in your chest began to unravel.

“But first,” he says, voice lower now, more sure of himself, as he tugs you toward the bed with a firm hand and far too much ease.

You yelp as you stumble forward, landing with a soft bounce on the mattress before he moves over you, hands braced on either side of your head, eyes locked onto yours.

“Rafayel—”

“I need to do this,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

Then he leans in, and your breath catches just a moment before his lips press against yours.

And it’s nothing like the careless, drunken affection you’re used to.

He isn’t being cute, or clumsy, or casually flirty.

No, this—this is different.

His lips move slowly, deliberately. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the feel of your breath, the softness of your skin.

Like he’s afraid that if he rushes it, you’ll vanish.

One hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing gently against your cheek as he deepens the kiss just slightly, the weight of him grounding you to the moment.

He was always chaotic. Loud. Affectionate in a “bite-your-shoulder-to-show-I-care” kind of way.

But this?

This was serious. Intense. Careful.

This was him pulling off every layer of irony, every joke, every shield he’d ever hidden behind—and handing you something raw and real in its place.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.

“That,” he says, eyes fluttering open to meet yours, “was not fake.”

You stare up at him, heart thudding like it’s trying to claw its way out of your chest.

“…Okay,” you whisper, because honestly, words are hard right now.

He smirks softly, the old him flashing back for a heartbeat. “You gonna kiss me back next time or just lie there looking shocked?”

You narrow your eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “Shut up and do it again, idiot.”

And he does.

He mumbles into the kiss, breath warm against your lips,

“God, you taste better than I imagined.”

You freeze for half a second—your brain short-circuiting at the sheer audacity—before smacking his chest lightly.

“You’ve imagined this?” you hiss, half-scandalized, half-flattered, fully flustered.

He grins against your mouth, entirely unrepentant. “For months,” he confesses, before diving back in, kissing you again like he had no intention of stopping anytime soon.

And honestly?

You didn’t want him to.

[nobi]

If MC randomly flashed the Lis

[nobi]

separation anxiety

⤷ caleb experiences a rut after a long time, and it just so happens that you’re in his path.

cw. 18+ smut, hybrid! caleb, knotting, dubcon if you squint, breeding, obsessive/possessive behavior, perv caleb, fem human! reader, ruts, size difference, also a lil breeding, 3.5k words because i physically struggle to write smut without a preamble, reader is ovulating and it triggers his rut this time for whatever reason

an. saw this trope going around & wanted to try it <33 he’s got that DAWG in him 💪 also i cant decide if hybrid caleb gives german shepherd vibes or samoyed vibes…. that moments post lives rent free in my mind tho idk (>_<)

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, & 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅! (๑´ `๑)♡

Caleb would say he hates you for the time you’re gone, but it’d be a big fat lie. His love for you, big and bursting in his chest, deepens in the quiet windows where you’re present at work or running errands throughout Linkon before returning home to him.

There’s a permanence of you in his mind and being. He wants it no other way.

His devotion for you doesn’t necessarily drown him- no, you’re always there with a lifering waiting- but it certainly sweeps him up and threatens to.

He gets a bit ahead of himself sometimes, he’s aware of that; energetic, bulging at the seams with vigor; whether it’s an integral part of his personality or just a consequence of his breed, the pound he came from never quite knew. Your Gran never figured that out, either, and for as sweet and trying as she was, she soon realized she couldn’t foster him for long.

Because he was a big boy, hungry for attention and wired to please, well-meaning but oft over involved with personal space— and he brought a loaded package that your Gran just couldn’t sign her name off on, not after a few months, anyway. She tried her best before nudging him into your care, because she sure as hell wasn’t about to give him up to that squalid pound or the streets again- and besides, the mutt liked her granddaughter; all those visits she paid throughout the summer obviously endeared Caleb to her, and quickly.

You admit, it’s a mite difficult to juggle between long days at work, little tasks that drag you from point to point throughout Linkon, and your own personal life on top of caring for a hybrid stowed away in your shoebox apartment— but your grandmother was all but sapped of her energy then, turning to you for aid although she seldom ever did, and you’d always lend a hand where you could.

The mutt- Caleb, is his name (and you call it fondly even as he’s pawing at your thighs for attention or drooling on your collar)- has grown on you considerably in the past half year, anyway.

You won’t let him down or leave him at the curb. He’s yours. The red collar you bought him says as much, printed with your number on a silver plate, and he wears it not because you make him but because he’s proud of it.

He’s a good boy, he is. He always has been and for that you’re thankful.

Except, this week he’s… different.

As of a few days ago, it’s like he’s been testing the waters- and your patience- on just how far he can go before you tell him off or say bad dog. He must find them warm because he’s just been diving deeper as the week progresses.

You don’t know what to do. He’s oddly aggressive. It’s not rare at all for him to follow you all around your apartment, but he’s foregone the very last shred of respect for your personal space and nips when you try to push him away. Not hard enough to actually hurt- the yip you make is more surprised than anything when he pulls you back in and licks at the small red patch- but you look wounded at it.

Because Caleb doesn’t bite— he just doesn’t.

He wraps you up in seemingly endless embraces and breathes your smell in until he’s dizzy, laughing into your neck like a giddy child. He does this every time you try to leave for work and he’s made you late for it.

Maybe it’s just because you’re ovulating and a little hormonal, but it makes you quite sour and the mood stays even when you return in the afternoon. He’s never liked when you’re gone, sure, but he’s always been there to see you off at the door with a pout as you scratch behind his ear- more or less tame about it.

Your patience really frays at the odd uptick in his possessiveness, though. It’s hurtful.

You’ve always treated him less like a pet- a hybrid- and more like a friend, and you feel quite indignant for it when he growls and tells you that he hates the smell of other men on you, hearing none of your excuses that it’s ‘just coworkers’, glaring at you like some brainless extension of him. You feel less like a person and more like an object, a streetlamp in which he emerges from the shadows for just to piss on to show it belongs to him.

He’s touchy. Snippy. Glued to your side at all times. It’s concerning and frustrating and confusing all at once.

By the fifth day mark, on Friday night, you’re tuckered out by it and don’t question where he is when you return home early from a shift and he’s, uncharacteristically, not there to greet you.

A red collar however, laid on the floor, its tag glittering under dim hallways lights, strikes you as both curious and unsettling.

He never takes that off. No- says it’s his way of showing you and the whole world that he belongs to you, and— have you been too impatient with him lately? Brusque? Maybe you’re a little hormonal but it’s no cause to get short with him, even when he’s acting up, and what if he no longer wants you as his owner—

A gasp.

You find him in your bedroom, humping your pillow, yowling as he comes undone- unawares- and the walls spin as you nearly faint.

You drop your purse. “Caleb!” You shriek, and a visible shiver rolls down his spine as he turns around.

“Bad dog!”

✦

You sleep on it.

Well, you wash your sheet and your pillowcases- and then you sleep on it.

Maybe you overreacted. If anything, you should be grateful for what you walked in on because otherwise, he wouldn’t have known how to tell you he’s been going through a bit of a hot phase- the first of his you’ve experienced- and doesn’t know how to control himself.

You blush just thinking about it, shame knocking in your chest as your heart beats heavy. You feel awful for walking in on him for a number of reasons. One of them being he came all over your bed- and his tummy- and you had to clean both up through furious tears as you peeled your covers off the mattress and pointed him off in the direction of the bathroom, telling him to run the faucet and quick.

A pass of guilt, the fear of you being angry with him, made its round across his kicked expression but he held off on arguing.

For the first documented time in the whole week, Caleb appeared mellow- not agitated, restless, or tense- and rather crestfallen, and you noted it only vaguely as you irately turned on the washer.

Now, it’s in the forefront of your brain.

Well, if he’s been going through some kind of rut lately, it only makes sense he’d be all kinds of pent up, and that his release (albeit in an inconvenient way and place) would provide some relief.

It’s closer to noon when you finally exit your bedroom and meet him at the sofa- the same one you’d all but banished him to last night. He prefers to spend his nights with you, either curled up at your side or splaying his full weight over your back- a breed-relative habit, you’re sure. You’ve heard of some other kinds who enjoy a room to themselves or do just fine with the couch, on their lonesome— But not Caleb.

He looks tired but perks up when he hears you patter down the hall, violet eyes lighting when you timidly take a seat.

With a bit of hesitation, he inches closer until you sheepishly wave a hand and he barrels into your arms.

“Ah- Caleb-“

Before you can even apologize for your jumping the gun last night, he beats you to the punch. “M’ sorry. You don’t hate me for it, do you?” He sighs into your collar and you shiver, “I wish you could understand what it feels like- I wouldn’t have done it if it was somethin’ I could control, I hope you realize that.”

You swallow, digesting his words as you belatedly place a hand on his head to pet. He positively melts. “Y-Yeah,” you mumble back. “It’s okay. I actually wanted to say sorry too. I- I didn’t understand what was going on…”

A deep groan looses from his throat, his chest swelling with content as you itch that spot behind the furry ears say upright on his head. They give a few twitches as he leans against you and wraps his muscular arms around your middle, resting his chin by your shoulder.

“It’s my fault, though, not yours. I didn’t know how to tell you- I was worried you’d just end up scared’a me, or…”

His pause instills interest in you. Your fingers smooth back his brown locks, mussed from fitful sleep, and he sighs. “Or what?” You press softly.

You pull him back just enough to get a look at him, his cheekbones almost shiny with a dusting of pink. His thick brows furrow together.

“Or that you’d leave,” he whispers.

Your eyes widen. You lasso your arms around his neck and pull him to you, your head slotting above his shoulder as his fingers quickly move to support the position, one hand perched at your thigh and the other braced at your side.

“Nonsense,” you grumble at his ear, a bit angry at the suggestion. “I’d never leave you.”

Something hard, then, prods at your middle- too fleshy to be something in either of your pockets- and you stiffen at the realization as it comes a beat too late.

Caleb’s voice is breathy at your ear, low, his tail thumping on the cushion. “Yeah?” He murmurs, a pang of heat stirring in your belly at the sound. Suddenly aware, you gently go to push at his broad chest but he stops you with an imploring look- although the desire, brewing in dilated pupils, isn’t lost on you- and musters a pout.

It looks out of place, the wholesome gaze marred by hunger as it reshapes his puppyish look.

“Even when I am no better than a bad dog?”

Your brow quirks, “I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, wide-eyed as his eyes bore into yours. Every micro expression you make is being catalogued and noted with utmost care, his pink tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips as they grow dry.

“It’s okay if you did,” he murmurs back. “I’m just glad I have you around to remind me of my place…” Long, slim fingers reach up and you watch, unseeingly, as they stroke your cheek, his other hand creeping dangerously close to the waistband of your sleep shorts.

He chuckles, but the humor wanes quickly.

“Otherwise, I’d always be misbehaving. Do you even know what you do to me?” His voice is meaningful, torrid, as he draws in and the tip of his nose brushes with yours. You can’t find it in you to move as your thighs- the ones he slithers a singleminded hand in between- begin to roil with unexpected warmth.

You plant a hand to his chest, shying away, “C-Caleb-“

“Don’t worry,” he says sweetly, “M’ not gonna hurt you. I just….” He lets out a sigh, long and perhaps just a bit exaggerated- but it has the intended effect on you. You purse your lips and feel a trace of guilt twist in your heart.

“You drive me crazy. Y-Your smell- I don’t know why this is happening, either. Honestly? I haven’t had a rut in a couple years. But this…”

Caleb lets out a soft noise of pleasure, lending his full weight to you when he breathes you in and shakes.

When he speaks next, his words come out raspy and so low you hardly register them as his breaths grow labored- they’re all you can hear as the living room space shrinks down to just him and the knuckles that dare to dip into your panties.

“This is just too unfair. You won’t leave me hangin’, pretty,… w-will you?” Breathy. With an undeniable streak of need. You can’t miss the lust that usurps the softer parts of him and makes him look less puppyish and cheerful and more wolfish, calculating.

And, well, when he puts it like that, how could you?

✦

He doesn’t fuck you on the couch. He takes you to your bed and fucks you there like a lover would.

He fucks you deep and fast- to his credit, he doesn’t hurt you, staying true to his word, but the possibility of bruises becomes a nearer thing when he folds your legs back and his grasp becomes constricting, plunging in and out of your cunt with rapt focus. Indigo eyes glow with something feral, like you’ve given him no choice but to claim his ownership over you through sloppy kisses and clinking teeth as he pounds into you, driven him into a corner- but his touch turns worshipful when he presses his forehead to yours and moans.

“Ah- y-you feel so good, so tight,” he compliments, words almost slurred. His pupils expand and he looks no different than a drunken, babbling man, his cheeks a rosy red.

His murmurs are wet against your lips as they graze and mush with his, Caleb’s face so close to yours that his lashes tickle your brow as he gawks at you, so entranced by whatever it is he’s seeing to look away.

A fluffy tail sways unevenly behind him and touches your leg on occasion, almost like it’s trying to curl around you, prickling and eager. Every part of him gravitates to you. You’re the ground beneath his feet. Fertile land.

“And you’re all mine, okay? Nobody else’s. I want you to wear my scent- to carry me with you no matter where you go. You have to promise me you will- mmph- That sound good-?

“C-Caleb—“

You groan when he stuffs himself deeper inside and you swear you feel his length throb inside your walls, stretching. The veins running along his shaft carve out a new pathway in you, one special and just for him, as his balls- heavy and fat, with a hell of a lot to give- slap against your ass. Slick oozes out from the squelching seam of you, coating his thick cock but you still struggle to accomodate his size despite the lubrication.

He’s made to make you feel as if you’re losing your mind. You snatch your jaw with your own hand to keep the flurry of high-pitched sounds from spilling out lest they embarrass you, but he shoos it away and cuffs your wrists with a hand splayed over them.

“Nah- I wanna hear you, baby. You can’t keep holdin’ out on me like this... I’m giving you my all right now, so it should be pretty obvious that you can do the same, yeah?”

A mewl punches out from your lungs half a second later and he seems quite contented at that. He sighs, closing his eyes, saying,

“I’ve been good all along. Can’t you play the part, too? I just want you to see how much I really love you,” his confession is by no means considered casual what with the passion in which its conveyed, but you can’t help but feel it’s a little sudden, said a little too quickly, and you wonder if he means what he says or if the rut is responsible for all these novel, amorous feelings in him.

I mean, he’s probably too wrapped up in the moment to even contemplate his own admissions as they all spew out—

“Caleb, too big—“ you gasp, cutting him off, and he lets out a strangled kind of noise when your walls clamp around him.

Holyfuck holyfuck holyfuck do it again, he wants to say, suffocate me, but nothing comes out and he realizes after a long second that his vision has whited completely. He can’t see anything; he’s in a fuzzy, dazzling world with the blinders on and all he can smell and feel is you- your scent, sugar sweet and about as inviting as a barstool pulled out, envelopes him and he can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

He fucks into you with reckless abandon, huffs you in like it’s his final breaths, and then lets it all go without care for anything else. Far as he’s concerned, everything he knows is defined by you. This is a give and take relationship: he actually gives a damn about your opinion of him and takes all you have to offer.

He’s in love, puppyish and clumsy but fuck you lead the way and lead him on.

“Shh, I know,” he rasps out, steaming up your neck like a fogged window pane as he insinuates himself there. Your whole body feels like a furnace, burning up for him as he opens you up and tucks himself inside.

“I know it’s big, but you gotta be ready for-“ he clips his sentence short, thinking better of it.

He wants to warn you of his impending knot- the one that’ll no doubt leave you yelping and writhing away from him- you certainly deserve as much of a foreword to it, but part of him is just so terrified you’ll reject him or deny him the priviledge of shoving it inside you and fuck he can’t have that.

Caleb’s nothing if not loyal. He’s also nothing if not selfish. That’s always been a wriggling bug he’s tried to stomp out but it remains in the baser part of him, only amplified by the intense rut that came right out of the blue.

He wants you singing his name and bonded to him (or as much of a bond the two of you can form), and so that’s what he’ll get.

He’ll apologize later, and you will forgive him. So all’s fine.

“Y-You can take it,” is the simpler thing he settles on, and you let it pass, because between the fat cockhead splitting you apart deliciously and the sweet, somewhat perturbing nothings he gushes at your ear, you’re deaf to most of everything.

But when you come- unexpected and sharp, overwhelming your senses as your hips ruck up and he has to pin you down in place and ride it out with you as you cream around him- the scream you let out rings in your ears and so does his ferocious grunt. It’s loud and you’re so numb as seconds pass that feel like eons; pointed teeth teasing at the squishy chunk of your shoulder, invoking a buried sense of alarm.

And then he’s biting down hard- not just nipping- the pleasure thankfully driving off the pain as he ploughs inside, muffling a string of curses as he picks up his pace. Caleb gets sloppier and sloppier and then he’s burning white-hot inside you and moaning like a pornstar, pelvis juddering as he comes.

“Mmh- f-fuck- Good girl!” he rewards with half a brain, fucked out into perfect oblivion, and for a second you wonder why his voice sounds more meant for comfort than praise- until you expect him to pull out but he doesn’t, something big and round forming at the base of his cock that has his eyes fluttering back as it pops in. He goes boneless on top of you as every limb of yours stiffens and coils around his broad back.

You scream his name. He shivers.

It feels enough to shatter your mind- the pain searing you, but the ghost of pleasure that creeps up along your nervous system makes you go like jelly beneath him, helpless to whatever he’s got planned for you.

“C-Caleb, you-!”

“Yeah, a bad dog, a bad dog,” he stammers, whimpering at your earlobe, “I know, baby, I know. Just- don’t shut me out, okay? I- It’ll be over soon, just- ah- loosen up around it, okay? It’ll feel so much better that way. Just… hold on to me.”

“I-It hurts-!”

“Ngh, shhh…” He trembles out, shifting to sample a broken mewl from your lips, cupping your jaw with all the love in the world and staring at you as if you told the sun to rise this morning. “Be a good girl and take it, mm? Your pussy’s squeezing me so tight, I think she wants it too, but she has to relax a little first, yeah? Mm… I could give you a whole litter of pups. Give your Gran a bunch of cute lil granbabies to drive her crazy.”

You choke on your own spit, the brunet letting out a near delirious chuckle at the idea and your reaction to it before his brow gives a wince, your walls instinctively trying to push his swollen knot out.

“Wha- Caleb, is that even-?”

“I don’t know,” he kisses your forehead tenderly, his tail giving a heavy, excited thump behind him on the bed as you grab the sheets for dear life and they wrinkle, pinched like your conflicted expression.

“But I’ve been dyin’ to try it out for myself.”

[nobi]

garden of eden 🍎

[nobi]

got a lot of caleb brainrot the lads addiction is real

i personally think he’d love chubby girls, or rather chubby mc cause shes the only girl for him. i mean all the LIs would but i think caleb is especially obsessed (wbk)

caleb physically cannot get his hands off of you. his hands are always on your hips or waist and when they’re not its because you’re holding hands. it’s like he’s superglued to you.

he lovesssss to dress you up like a doll. probably has a pinterest board full of outfit ideas and has a huge list of brands that carry the cutest clothes in your size and yk damn well he’s buying them even if he has to pay the craziest international shipping. i think he’s a huge fan of babydoll dresses (especially for nightwear) and gets extreme cuteness aggression if u wear them. but he’s also very greedy so he’s apprehensive abt having other ppl see you when ur dressed so cute, glaring daggers at anyone who even glances at you LMAOO. he loves wearing the corniest matching outfits too its like he’s marking his territory.

he’s actually so obsessed with how soft u are against him. rests his head in your lap and uses u as a pillow, feeling u up after a particularly stressful mission. put him in a headlock between ur thighs and he’s seeing heaven i swear that man is a D1 FREAK!!!

i just can’t stop thinking abt him its crazy im crazy!!!! i could go on but i fear for my digital footprint.

edit: i made a part two to this with some more headcanons!!

[nobi]

Cyborg!Caleb and his strange affectionate habits

you love your part-robot boyfriend, but he’s a little strange!

✎ᝰ a/n: he was supposed to be a puppy for this series… but then this happened, so now he’s a cyborg. i think you all will like this one. enjoy!

cat zayne bunny xavier mermaid rafayel dragon sylus

ִ ࣪𖤐

❥ he's always scanning you. day or night, awake or asleep, caleb will take it upon himself to check your vitals and health on a normal basis. just a quick little holo-scan from his eye is all he needs. and from the amount of time he already spends staring at you, this is a pretty easy feat.

he knows things about you that you haven’t even figured out yet. you’re gonna catch a cold soon, but he already knows from your white blood cell count. you might not know your period is coming soon but caleb has always got your back and tells you when you’re ovulating or preparing for a period. of course, you ask him not to do it all the time. and of course, caleb is insane, so he doesn’t listen all the time. it’s very intimate to him to know the inner workings of your body.

❥ he can’t sleep next to you (and he tries to fix it). caleb does not sleep in a normal human bed. instead, he sleeps in a tube where his charging port is and asks (begs) you to sleep with him there. and while you do indulge him, it’s very uncomfortable for your human body. even after he tried to enlarge the tube by rebuilding, it’s still not ideal.

he’s so upset that he can’t sleep with you in your bed that he’ll charge himself during the day just so he can be next to you at night. except, he can’t sleep without his port, so he just stays awake next to you, exhausting his energy by admiring you. he talks to himself and you during this time and if you ever stir awake from his murmurs, he’ll apologize and lull you back to bed.

❥ he makes modifications for you. caleb doesn’t wish to be any less than perfect for you, so he’s constantly making tweaks and refinements to his system and body to better adapt to you. like the time he installed a heating system inside of him because you always flinched at how cold he was. or maybe the time he installed more sensors in his wires just so he could better feel your touch.

and while to an extent it is sad, caleb will find a way to make it more fun. he’ll adjust the size and feel to his appendage for your pleasure and he’ll also install vibrations to his fingers if you really ask. or maybe he’ll do something silly like add confetti to his hands so that he can pop them out at celebratory moments.

❥ he forces himself to eat for you. caleb doesn’t really need to eat to keep alive. in fact, he prefers not to because sometimes it’ll make his metal tummy feel weird. he’ll never tell you that, though. he loves you too much to let you know that all the meals you prepare for the two of you are actually making him a little sick.

but he’s gotten better at keeping them down. he modifies his stomach to hold food better and slowly he’s working up toward more intolerable foods—such as spices. one day he hopes to be able to stomach everything you make, but until then, he’ll lie day and night to keep you happy and to bond with you.

❥ he’s very picky at his face. the face is the only thing caleb has that’s human-like. because of this, he’s constantly picking at it; snipping at his hair, shaving, cleaning the skin there, everything he can do salvage what he can of his human form. he also prefers it when you touch his face rather than any other part of him, simply because that’s where he can feel skin to skin contact.

he’ll constantly ask you if he looks handsome as a joke, but it comes from a deeper insecurity within him. he wants to ensure you still enjoy him even as he is, and once he gets your reassurance, he’ll start to remind himself every day that he doesn’t need to worry as much about his looks. because you love him anyway.

❥ he takes secret recordings and photos of you. there are two sides of this, the sweet side and the suggestive side. he loves recording your laughs and photographing your smiles with his system so he can rewatch them when the two of you apart. especially if he’s on a mission and away from you for an extended period of time, he’ll make to stock up on your beauty before he goes.

the suggestive side is more like… a few cheeky pictures of you dressed down or right after sex. maybe even a video of your butt while you’re walking away from him. he’ll never want to take videos or pictures of you during intimacy without your consent, but these small provocative pictures of you are more than enough to satisfy him. if you ever do give him consent to make what is essentially robo-homemade-porn, he’ll play it holographically and watch with you after the fact.

❥ he flies you everywhere! come with caleb on a joyride in his arms. he’ll fly you across town or just around the neighborhood! not that he can’t drive you, he just thinks this way is more fun and special because you’re clinging to him the whole way through. no need to be scared of heights because he’s got you tight in his grip and has 8 backup protocols in case he malfunctions mid-air.

you found it a little embarrassing at first, being a spectacle in the air for everyone else, but now it’s fun! you’ve grown so accustomed to being in the air because of him. and since you have such a fun time, anytime you’re down in the dumps or need fresh air, caleb is always there to take you on a little ride to cheer you up.

❥ he has you engraved. it was part of his hardware modifications, but he once asked you to write your name on a piece of paper, and a week later, he has that same writing etched onto his nape. you couldn’t believe it at first, but it was an exact copy of your handwriting now just seared into him.

he tells you it’s so that he can feel more comfortable in his “skin”. knowing that you’re a part of his new robotic body makes him much more accepting and happier of it. he doesn’t hate it as much, not when you’re always in the back of his mind. ִ ࣪𖤐 hey gals: @chersyluvs , @otomegamesforlife

[nobi]

caleb was never the type to cry.

even as a child, he never did. his classmates could steal his favourite ball and not one tear would be shed - doctors could approach him with needles and he'd still grin at you with the same silly smile. so why was it that tears fell when he saw you in that white dress?

you, his bride, standing in the bath of sunlight with a veil across your face - wholly his now and forever.

caleb sniffles as his nose scrunches up and teardrops bead his face; you're too pretty to be his, too pretty to be true - he's waited so long that the very wish he's been telling to the stars leaves him overwhelmed.

a smile tugs the corners of your lips as you brush the tears off his cheek, a soft laugh leaving you; "caleb, you big dummy."

he can't help but nod in agreement - he was your big dummy, and for eternity.

an: THE WEDDING VOWS WON ME CALEB UEGSJEHJW lets be fr tho he would sob during mcs and his wedding hes a loverman :(( & reblogs r very very very appreciated!!!!

© YUZUIA 2025. plagiarising, feeding to ai and translating is prohibited

[nobi]

the princess and her honorable knight, who she has to practically beg to let her suck him off because he’s convinced that his lady should NEVER have to stoop so low as to sink on her knees for him.