#and fandom spaces | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lunexsparx · 5 days ago

Text

LADS: Sent them LEWDS in public

Summary: The LADS have left you feeling neglected, so you decide to teach them a lesson. What happens when you send them lewds while they're in public? MDNI! (Suggestive, not explicit.) This was a silly piece, and my first "all LADs" fic!

It had been three entire days since your usually-charming upstairs neighbor decided to treat you like you’d committed some unforgivable crime.

And for what?

A tiny, perfectly reasonable suggestion.

All you’d done was gently imply��alright, maybe not that gently—that it might be insanely hot if Xavier wore the Lumierre mask while you did things to him that were definitely, unequivocally illegal in at least six countries.

Instead of pouncing on you right then and there, like a sane person, he'd looked at you with such profound horror you'd genuinely thought for a moment you’d accidentally confessed to murder. Without saying a word, he’d turned on his heel, and left. He actually just left you standing there, mouth open, dignity bruised, libido unsatisfied.

And now it had been three full days of absolute silence.

Three days of radio static—no texts, no teasing smiles across patrol, nothing. He'd even swapped shifts just to dodge seeing you, the dramatic bastard. Last night, you'd even tried peace offerings in the form of his favorite takeout, and he’d ignored that too!

Enough was enough.

Jealous of his own alter ego? That was the most ridiculous thing you'd ever heard. But fine. If Xavier wanted to act like a sulky teenager, you'd make sure to treat him like one.

War was officially declared.

You found him at headquarters, slumped in a chair after your patrol with Tara, looking every bit as miserable as he deserved to be. He was nibbling half-heartedly on a powdered-sugar donut, his posture screaming “pathetic” in a way that almost made you soften—almost.

His eyes flicked upward, briefly met yours, and then darted away guiltily, the tips of his ears turning pink beneath his silver hair. Oh, he was absolutely not ready for the diabolical storm about to descend upon him.

"Hey there, stranger," you purred sweetly, flashing him your most innocent smile. "Thinking hot pot tonight? You in?"

Xavier stared at you like you’d grown a second head, his eyes wide and dark as he slowly drew the powdered sugar-coated tip of his thumb into his mouth, sucking it clean. For one charged, heart-stopping second, you thought he might break—then he yanked his gaze away, finger removed from his lips.

“There’s a... briefing,” he mumbled lamely, shuffling awkwardly toward the conference room door.

Your stomach dropped. Oh, he was really doubling down, wasn’t he?

Fine. If that’s how he wanted to play it, you’d come prepared. You had nuclear-level ammo today, and Xavier didn’t stand a chance.

Game on, Bunny Boy.

You followed him into the conference room, watching with disbelief as he strategically wedged himself between two occupied seats. Seriously?

With a dramatic sigh, you slid into the empty chair directly opposite him. If he thought refusing to look at you would save him, he was tragically mistaken.

The other hunters filed in, and Jenna began her usual monotone spiel about mission updates and statistics. You tuned her out instantly, your entire focus zeroed in on Xavier, whose azure eyes remained stubbornly glued to Jenna, as though looking anywhere else—especially at you—would ignite him on literal fire.

You knew him far too well for that. You knew exactly how difficult it was for him not to glance your way; you could practically feel him sweating from across the room.

Still, not even a single glance?

Well, he’d asked for it.

Carefully lowering your phone beneath the table, shielding the screen from wandering eyes, you scrolled through your collection of explicit selfies from last night. You’d planned these as playful rewards for when he finally apologized, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

And oh, the pièce de résistance.

There you were, wearing Lumiere's iconic costume, the shirt wide open to expose your bare breasts, nipples stiff and tempting. Your hand disappeared suggestively down the pants, fingertips teasingly hidden but clearly busy, eyes glassy with desire, lips parted as if mid-moan. It was raw. It was filthy. It was fucking perfect.

Smirking, you quickly typed your killing blow:

You: If you won’t be Lumiere, then I guess I’ll have to be.

Send.

Exactly five seconds passed between the delivery of your message and the moment Xavier's soul visibly departed from his body.

Across the conference room, Xavier shifted casually in his chair, pulled out his phone like it was nothing—and froze.

For a full second, you swore he stopped breathing altogether.

Then, as though hit by a delayed gunshot, he jolted violently enough that his knee smacked hard against the underside of the conference table.

THUD.

Coffee cups rattled dangerously. A rookie hunter squeaked embarrassingly. Jenna stopped mid-sentence, arching an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Xavier? Everything alright?”

Xavier opened his mouth, managed no sound, then tried again. “Fine,” he croaked weakly, voice cracking like he was thirteen again. “Just—leg cramp. Muscle...spasm. Sudden. Carry on.”

Jenna stared at him, the kind of look that clearly said she wasn't paid enough for whatever this was, before continuing her report without further comment.

But Xavier was fucked, and he knew it. Under the table, his hand fumbled desperately—obviously attempting, and spectacularly failing, to discreetly adjust his hardening cock. His breathing turned shallow, ragged, as though he’d just sliced through a thousand wanderers.

For several minutes you almost broke skin from biting your knuckle so hard, trying not to laugh. You expected to get some sort of reaction, but when it came to Xavier--you didn't expect THAT.

At last, he risked a glance in your direction.

The look he shot you was homicidal—wild, desperate, furious lust etched into every tense line of his body.

You offered him your most innocent smile.

Slowly, deliberately, you tilted your head just slightly.

Bit your lower lip.

Then, clearly and slowly enough for him to read your lips across the room, you mouthed:

“Call me Lumiere.”

Xavier’s palm slammed down on the table with a loud crack, making the rookie beside him choke on her coffee and Jenna stop mid-sentence again.

He stood abruptly—violently—his chair sliding backwards and hitting the wall behind him. “I—uh—emergency!” he stammered, voice strained with panic. “Personal emergency!”

Without another word, he practically sprinted out of the conference room, leaving confused whispers in his wake.

Seconds later, your phone buzzed violently in your hand.

Xavier: Elevator. Now. If you can still walk when I’m done with you, consider it a miracle.

A wicked grin slowly spread across your lips.

He was going to lose his mind when you showed up in the elevator already wearing his mask.

And you absolutely couldn’t wait.

You: Hey handsome. Come home and ruin my life a little? ❤️ Zayne: Saving actual lives, sweetheart. You’ll survive. Probably. You: Survival’s not guaranteed if you keep ignoring me. 😔 Zayne: Drink water. Do stretches. Think loving thoughts. You: My “loving thoughts” involve you naked and tied to a chair, FYI. Zayne: Medical emergency. Gotta go. Stop being trouble. You: No. 😇

You glared at your phone, dramatically collapsing face-first onto the couch with a frustrated groan. The cushions absorbed your grumbled curses, muffling your irritation. How many more nights had to be like this?

Fine. If Doctor Li was determined to pretend you didn't exist, you'd simply make yourself impossible to ignore.

You'd show him exactly what happened when he neglected his duties.

With determination and a mischievous gleam in your eye, you slipped into Akso Hospital, wearing your most convincing “definitely not about to do something reckless” expression. A few polite smiles later, you found yourself safely behind the door of Zayne’s private office.

Perfect.

The white coat hung invitingly from the hook on the wall, proudly embroidered with his name. With a small, affectionate smile, you ran your fingertips lovingly over the stitching. He’d earned every letter there—but he was going to have to earn you now.

You slipped out of your clothes, discarding them neatly on a nearby chair, and draped yourself in the crisp, cool white fabric. Buttoning exactly one button beneath your bust to tease rather than conceal, you placed his stethoscope around your neck, letting the cold metal rest suggestively between your bare breasts.

Then, perched casually against his desk, you carefully spread your thighs—just indecent enough—and snapped a photo.

You: I need a consultation, Doctor. I’m experiencing severe symptoms of neglect. 🖤

Send.

Meanwhile, Upstairs in the Boardroom

Zayne was enduring yet another agonizingly dull briefing on surgical budgeting, politely nodding at appropriate intervals and maintaining just enough eye contact to appear interested.

His phone buzzed softly. A quick glance to silence it, and—

He froze.

The image filled his screen with obscene clarity: You, half-naked beneath his white coat, lounging seductively on his desk. His heartbeat surged violently, blood roaring in his ears.

"—increase the budget allocation for anesthesiology—"

Zayne heard nothing.

His mind was busy unraveling.

"Dr. Li?" the hospital director asked, peering at him over her glasses. "You seem… distracted."

He stood abruptly, chair wobbling dangerously behind him. "Emergency page," he announced, voice crisp and convincing.

He didn’t even bother looking at his pager.

Without another word, he strode out, urgency radiating from him as he practically sprinted toward his office.

He burst through the door—and stopped short.

There you were, a living fantasy: draped across his workspace like an erotic muse, fingers leisurely twirling his stethoscope. You looked outrageously smug and impossibly beautiful.

"Doctor," you purred sweetly, batting your lashes with a smirk, "I've been incredibly patient, but I'm afraid my condition is deteriorating."

Zayne exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in mock-suffering. "You," he murmured with exaggerated weariness, eyes shining with reluctant amusement, "are an absolute nightmare."

He crossed the room in three confident strides, trapping you firmly between his arms as he braced himself on either side of your hips. The warmth of his body pressed intimately close, sending sparks rippling across your skin.

"But," he continued softly, voice dipping lower, "you're my nightmare."

Your grin widened, eyes sparkling triumphantly.

He brushed his nose gently against yours, mouth hovering dangerously close. "Now," he breathed, warm and teasing against your lips, "are you ready for a proper examination?"

His hands slid up your shoulders, skillful fingers hooking into the edges of the white coat. With a single swift movement, he stripped it from you, letting it pool loosely at your elbows. You gasped softly at the sudden exposure, your bare skin instantly heated under his heavy, possessive gaze.

He tugged the stethoscope gently but firmly, tightening it just enough to elicit another soft gasp from you. His lips curled wickedly.

"Because, sweetheart," he whispered hungrily, "I’m afraid I’ll need to be… extremely thorough."

Just as his mouth brushed against yours, the door swung open sharply.

"Dr. Li, I just wanted to—"

Yvonne froze mid-step. Her eyes widened comically, mouth falling open in pure shock.

You froze.

Zayne froze.

The three of you stood locked in a perfect tableau: you, nearly naked on his desk; Zayne gripping the stethoscope like a leash; and poor Yvonne wishing desperately she could melt into the carpet.

The awkward silence stretched unbearably—until you broke it with a cheerful, mortifyingly casual, "Hey, Yvonne."

Yvonne sputtered, her cheeks blazing scarlet. "I—uh—meeting—I’ll—clear your schedule, Doctor Li—sorry—!" She whirled around and fled, the door slamming so hard a framed diploma nearly toppled off the wall.

Quiet filled the room once more.

Slowly, you turned your gaze back to Zayne, prepared for irritation or embarrassment in his expression. Instead, what you saw in his eyes made your stomach clench and your knees weaken.

He looked feral.

His eyes were dark with barely controlled hunger, the curve of his mouth twisted into a dangerous smirk. A low, rich chuckle escaped him—broken and beautiful—and then he captured your lips in a fierce kiss that left you absolutely breathless.

When he pulled away, his breath was ragged.

"You," he rasped, voice low and trembling with the effort of restraint, "have absolutely no idea what you just unleashed."

His fingers tangled into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your face upward, exposing your throat. A startled, eager whimper escaped you as he guided you firmly down onto your knees, the cool metal of the stethoscope tightening once more around your neck, holding you in place, keeping you under his control.

"Now," Zayne murmured roughly, gently tracing your jawline with his thumb, eyes blazing with a promise that sent liquid heat pooling between your thighs, "about your consultation…"

He stroked your lower lip with the pad of his thumb, his eyes heavy and intensely focused on your form beneath him.

"Open wide, sweetheart," he whispered darkly. "Doctor’s orders."

He hadn't even noticed you were there.

Or if he had, he certainly wasn't showing it.

Rafayel moved through the exhibit like a reluctant storm—sharp smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes, quick jokes tossed over his shoulder, and half-hearted acknowledgments to anyone who cornered him. He was the living embodiment of forced politeness, an artist enduring the social equivalent of nails scraping down a chalkboard.

And god, he hated every second of it.

You knew it just by watching him: the tight set of his jaw, the slight twitch at the corner of his eye every time some fawning critic called him "brilliant" or "a visionary." The fake laughter he forced out sounded so pained that you cringed inwardly each time you heard it.

He wasn't here by choice. He was here because Thomas begged him to be. Sweet, desperate Thomas—his manager, friend, and occasional babysitter—had guilted him into playing nice. Apparently, being cursed with raw talent also came with mandatory public suffering.

But still, you had shown up tonight for him.

You'd dressed up, hopeful and ready to support him, a little nervous, and just a touch eager to catch his attention. He'd been busy with this exhibit for weeks, leaving you missing him terribly. A few texts back and forth proved he'd been working himself thin, so your attendance hopefully meant a lot to him. You imagined his face lighting up, maybe an overly dramatic embrace to embarrass you in public, something to make this exhausting night worth it.

But nothing like that happened.

Instead, you lingered awkwardly at the edges, becoming increasingly invisible with each passing minute. Every time you tried to approach him, some insufferable curator or overly-enthusiastic fan intercepted. A handshake here, a selfie there, a monologue about color theory that visibly drained Rafayel’s soul just listening to it.

Your heart sank lower with every failed attempt to reach him.

It felt ridiculous—standing alone, unnoticed, in a crowd full of people fawning over him. The ache settled deep in your chest, frustration twisting alongside a quiet, embarrassed loneliness. You knew he adored you in his own chaotic way, but in this moment, you felt utterly forgotten.

Before your pride could stop you, your hand slipped into your clutch, pulling out your phone. Your thumb hesitated, hovering over the screen.

You'd taken the photo a few days earlier. You’d laughed nervously, painting your body with cheap market paints, giggling as vibrant colors ran together, messy but charming in their chaos. Beautiful hues smeared across your naked skin. A self portrait with loving marks made only for him. You'd planned it as a playful reward for him, a private gift to congratulate him on surviving this night. Something so vulnerable and silly, you just knew he'd affectionately tease you about it...

But right now, it felt more like an act of desperation—maybe even your last chance to salvage your hurt feelings.

You attached the picture, pausing only a second to consider your message before typing something hopeful and just slightly teasing:

You: If only I’d had an artist’s touch when I made this… 🎨

Send.

There. It was done. Now, you could let him have his night. Your stomach twisted anxiously as you turned toward the exit. You wouldn't wait around feeling sorry for yourself any longer. And you absolutely were not going to cry.

Definitely not.

You were halfway to the door when you heard the distinct sound of glass shattering against marble flooring.

You whipped around just in time to see Rafayel frozen stiffly, staring down at his fallen champagne flute, the shattered glass glittering beneath his shoes like fragments of a broken sculpture. His phone still glowed in his hand, the faint light of your photo illuminating his wide-eyed, stunned expression.

For a moment, the gallery seemed suspended in time. Even Thomas stopped mid-sentence, mouth half-open, staring at Rafayel with alarm.

Then Rafayel slowly lifted his gaze, eyes dark with delicious chaotic delight.

He clapped his hands sharply, making several attendees jump. "Alright, show's over, everyone!" he declared with startling cheerfulness.

Music screeched to a stop. Confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. Thomas sputtered helplessly, pushing forward in a panic. "Raf, what are you doing? Are you out of your—?"

"Emergency inspiration, Thomas," Rafayel interrupted smoothly, flashing a grin that promised chaos. "Artist emergency. Clear out these art vultures before I start tossing them myself."

He began herding the stunned crowd toward the doors like an overly enthusiastic sheep dog, casually waving away protests, ignoring horrified gasps, and outright laughing at anyone who demanded explanations.

In a matter of minutes, the gallery emptied completely, leaving you alone and slightly bewildered in the silent aftermath.

Before you could fully process what had just happened, Rafayel stormed across the gallery--intense eyes locked on yours, grabbing your wrist with gentle but firm insistence and pulling you toward one of the large, blank canvases still hanging on the far wall.

"Raf—" you began, but he pressed you lightly against the canvas, caging you in with his body. His breath was ragged, eyes intense and impossibly full as they traced your features with more affection than he'd ever shown you before.

"You," he whispered fiercely, voice low and roughened with barely contained emotion, "are the only masterpiece I've ever given a damn about."

His fingers toyed with the hem of your dress, teasingly lifting the fabric inch by torturous inch. "And clearly," he continued, mouth twitching with a teasing laugh, "you're in desperate need of a professional’s touch.”

It had been a week.

Seven miserable days of cryptic texts, all maddeningly brief and patronizing:

Sylus: Stay in tonight. Sylus: Miss you, kitten. Sylus: Be good.

No calls. No visits. Not even one infuriatingly charming late-night voicemail. Instead, your only visitor was Mephisto—the world’s most judgmental mechanical crow—who showed up at ungodly hours, tapping insistently at your window like he had something important to say but was choosing not to out of spite.

You hated this.

You missed Sylus with an intensity that bordered on psychosis. You simultaneously wanted to punch him in the mouth for ignoring your messages and pull him close and kiss him senseless for texting back. He was stubborn, distant, and maddeningly secretive—qualities that normally drew you to him, but right now were driving you toward sweet, reckless revenge.

When Mephisto landed again, this time eyeing you from the balcony railing like a gothic hall monitor, you decided enough was enough.

Sylus had left you unsupervised for far too long—and it was time he faced the delicious consequences.

You picked up the sleek black helmet he’d given you weeks ago. Custom-designed, glossy, stylish, perfectly fitted—an extravagant gift he'd tried (and failed) to dismiss as "just something practical." You’d teased him mercilessly about it, delighting in how he blushed faintly at your enthusiastic reaction.

Tonight, the helmet would serve another purpose entirely.

Pulling it on, you stripped off everything else, relishing the cool air and the way goosebumps prickled your bare skin. You sprawled across the bed, posed shamelessly, legs parted just enough to tease, fingers strategically hiding the most explicit details—but only just. The helmet gleamed wickedly, a striking contrast to your exposed body.

You snapped the photo.

With a satisfied smirk, you sent it off to Sylus, accompanied by the provocative caption:

You: Your kitten needs to play. 🐾

Send.

Deep within the heart of N109’s black market, Sylus stood at the head of a long metal table, staring coolly down a collection of men who looked like they'd stepped straight out of a wanted poster. Between them sat a precarious amount of glowing modified Protocores and weaponry—dangerous, volatile, and profoundly expensive.

Negotiations were quiet. Civilized, even, in that uniquely criminal way where civility masked a very real promise of bloodshed.

Sylus’s phone buzzed softly against the metal table. He ignored it, expression unreadable, shoulders loose, hands relaxed as though he had all the time in the world.

It buzzed again. Insistent. Demanding attention.

With a subtle sigh, he flicked open the screen, casually glancing down to silence whoever dared interrupt—

And his world halted.

Your photo filled the display, bold and stunning enough to seize every thought in his head. You sprawled like an absolute vision, sleek helmet shining, bare skin lush and inviting, fingers barely covering the part of you he now desperately wished they weren’t hiding. His breath stopped in his chest as he licked his lips.

The room felt suddenly suffocating.

His energy surged, raw and unchecked, in a way it hadn't in years—and certainly never over something as trivial as a photograph.

The modified protocores, hyper-sensitive to his Evol fluctuations, immediately picked up on the spike.

Then—

BOOM.

An entire weapons crate erupted, shards of protocores and sparks exploding outward in a brilliant shower of chaos. The table overturned. Gangsters screamed and dove for cover. The lights flickered violently, plunging the room into smoke-filled confusion. Someone yelled about assassins, another fired a panicked shot into the ceiling, and Luke and Kieran hit the floor with twin yelps.

"Holy shit, did boss do that on purpose?!" Luke shrieked from behind a smoldering crate.

Kieran coughed and laughed simultaneously, cackling, "Nah, you didn't see that look? He only looks like that when she's involved!"

Amid the destruction, Sylus stood unmoving, ruby eyes still transfixed on the intimate image before him. Smoke curled gently from the scorched edge of his coat, a faint dusting of ash settling into his white hair. His expression remained as calm and impenetrable as a marble statue.

One gangster staggered up to him, pale and trembling, clutching a bloody hand. "What the fuck was that, Sylus? Are you double-crossing us? Was this a hit—?"

Sylus didn't bother replying. He simply tucked the phone smoothly into his pocket, brushed off his sleeve, and fixed the shaking man with a flat stare.

"Emergency recall," he said calmly.

While alarms screamed and half the warehouse burned around him, Sylus turned to Luke and Kieran and said:

"Handle it."

Without looking back at the smoking ruins behind him, Sylus walked away, leaving a roomful of criminals sputtering in disbelief.

At home, you’d fallen asleep waiting for a reply, curled up and still helmet-clad, when the apartment door slammed open so violently you bolted upright, startled and blinking.

Sylus stood in the doorway, looking like he’d just survived an apocalypse—jacket scorched, boots dusty, eyes blazing and utterly unhinged. He kicked the door shut without a backward glance, filling the room with his overpowering presence.

"You probably got someone killed tonight, Kitten," he drawled, voice deceptively mild.

You snorted softly, waving him off with a playful roll of your eyes. "Oh, sure. I'm deadly, alright."

His expression didn't change, though his eyes darkened with intensity that sent a sudden thrill down your spine. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, a predator approaching prey that hadn't yet realized it was caught.

"I’m serious," he said softly, voice low and edged with dangerous amusement. "Two crates of weapons and Protocores exploded, half the black market nearly burned down, and I'm fairly certain at least one idiot accidentally shot himself in the foot."

You blinked, momentarily uncertain—then burst into bright laughter, your amusement echoing brightly through the darkness of the room. "Oh please," you said, still giggling. "Sylus, that's ridiculous."

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached for your helmet, carefully slipping it off and tossing it aside like an unnecessary barrier between you. His hands braced firmly on either side of you, trapping you effortlessly beneath him.

His Evol energy crackled lightly against your skin, prickling warmth everywhere he hovered close, setting your nerves alight.

"You have absolutely no idea," Sylus murmured, nuzzling softly against your temple, his voice dark and gentle as velvet against your ear, "the sheer havoc you wreak inside me."

Your breath hitched, laughter melting into something softer, warmer, undeniably affectionate.

"You came," you finally whisper into his ear. "You could have just texted me back," you teased gently, eyes dancing in the low light.

Sylus’s mouth curved into a faint, devastating smile, his gaze full of quiet adoration—and a promise of retribution. "And miss the chance to watch you try and kill me in real-time? Never."

His lips brushed yours, soft at first, then hungry—like he'd waited years instead of days. He kissed you slowly, deeply, utterly reverent, as though he’d willingly burn the entire world down just to ensure nothing stood between him and you again.

Caleb Xia was known across the fleet as a legendary figure of unbreakable discipline. Colonel Xia could hold his composure through anything—through battles, interrogations, and even prolonged stints in the punishing DeepSpace Tunnel. But tonight, back from yet another exhausting mission and desperate to dismiss his troops and finally collapse in private, Caleb was learning a painful truth:

He had absolutely zero defense against you.

It began innocently enough. Caleb stood stiffly at the fleet’s bustling command center, issuing routine post-mission orders. Soldiers marched up to him in a seemingly endless procession, saluting crisply as they reported their debriefing details. Caleb dutifully nodded, signed off on various datapads, and maintained perfect, ironclad control.

And then his phone buzzed softly in his pocket.

He slipped it out discreetly, expecting another boring update—only to find your name illuminated brightly, demanding his attention.

You: Calebbbbb. Answer meeeee. 🥺

Caleb's lip twitched. He could imagine your tipsy, adorable whine through the text. But professionalism required restraint, so he quickly typed a brisk reply:

Caleb: Working, Pip. Almost done.

But you clearly weren't feeling patient tonight.

Another buzz. Caleb checked his screen discreetly, eyes narrowing as his breath hitched involuntarily at your messages:

You: Working means ignoring me? Rude. I thought you missed me. 😭 You: You're mean, Caleb You: Ever since you joined your big bad secret club, you're no fun. 😔🍷

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose, half-smiling despite himself. He could practically picture you sprawled on the couch, wine glass dangerously close to tipping onto the floor, cheeks flushed, lips pouting.

God, he missed you.

His jaw tightened slightly, heart thudding a little harder than it should. Caleb opened his mouth to bark a quick dismissal to the approaching officer—but he had no time. The soldier saluted sharply and began a lengthy status report, forcing Caleb to slide his phone back into his pocket with a silent curse.

The buzzing persisted—insistently, cruelly—in his pocket.

Finally, mercifully, he dismissed the soldier, and checked his phone again.

You'd sent a picture.

He quirked a brow and glanced around carefully, subtly angling the screen away from view as he opened the attachment. He regretted it immediately, a strangled noise nearly escaping his throat.

There you were, sprawled out lazily on your bed, cheeks flushed from alcohol and mischief. Wearing that damned red sports bra and matching boyshorts he’d glimpsed on you just once before a few weeks ago, entirely by accident—an image that had haunted his nights since. He'd felt guilty for seeing you in such a vulnerable state, even if it was an accident.

But this? You'd posed deliberately, your bare thighs slightly parted, your body arched invitingly on soft sheets.

He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as heat surged in his veins. This was not happening. Not now, not here—when he had a dozen soldiers still waiting for dismissal orders.

Another officer marched toward him, interrupting Caleb’s internal panic. Caleb forced his expression into its usual neutral mask, hoping his flushed neck and pounding pulse weren't too obvious. The officer saluted, rattling off data—Caleb heard nothing, his mind racing, pulse hammering between his ears.

He nodded robotically, scribbled a barely legible signature on the datapad, and sent the soldier away with more force than necessary.

His phone vibrated again. A new text.

You: You’re ignoring me again. Baaad colonel. Do I need to try harder?

His heart skipped a dangerous beat, fingers shaking slightly as he tapped back urgently:

Caleb: Pipsqueak. You shouldn't have shown me that--you've been drinking. Caleb: I'm almost done here. Just...Not. Now.

Your reply was immediate:

You: Oopsies. Already took the pic. Too late. 💋

Caleb’s stomach flipped violently. Another soldier approached, and Caleb cleared his throat sharply, bracing himself against the inevitable.

“Colonel Xia, the mission logs—”

“Yes. Fine. Proceed,” Caleb managed, hoping he sounded commanding rather than breathless.

While the soldier droned on, Caleb made the catastrophic decision to open your new photo.

Fuuuuuck. It was…far worse. You’d removed the sportswear entirely, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin in its place. You lay on your side, a soft, fluffy blanket strategically draped over your hips, teasing him with the faintest promise of what was hidden beneath. The graceful curve of your breasts was perfectly visible, your skin illuminated by warm, inviting lamplight. Your eyes were playful, your lips curved in an achingly inviting smile, as though daring him to come home immediately and do something about it.

Caleb's brain short-circuited entirely.

For several frantic heartbeats, he forgot how breathing worked.

You couldn't possibly have—

He closed his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the image was already seared into his memory. Caleb felt utterly gutted—by longing, by frustration, by the fierce and consuming need he’d kept buried for far too long.

Caleb’s mind went completely blank. Every muscle in his body tensed, blood rushing downward at a dizzying speed. He realized, too late, that his breath had hitched audibly.

“Sir?” The soldier was staring at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Caleb coughed roughly into his fist, fighting desperately to regain control.

“Sorry—repeat your last point,” he growled hoarsely, blinking hard. The soldier cautiously continued, clearly worried about Caleb’s strange, flushed appearance.

Caleb’s phone buzzed yet again, ruthlessly relentless:

You: Bet you wish you were home now, huh, Caleb. 😘

The soldier finally departed, giving him one last curious glance. Caleb quickly turned away, leaning over a console to hide his increasingly obvious predicament. If he didn't have his long officer's coat, he'd be laughing stock of the fleet.

He texted frantically:

Caleb: Careful, Pip. When I get home you're going to pay for that.

But your reply destroyed any last shred of his composure:

You: Promise? You: Btw... My glass of wine wore off a while ago. 🙃

Caleb closed his eyes, gripping the console so tightly his knuckles whitened. His uniform felt unbearably tight, his breathing shallow and uneven. But it wasn't just the sheer boldness or sensuality of your pictures that had wrecked him—it was the raw vulnerability behind your playful bravado.

You'd actually meant it.

After all this time, after carefully dancing around each other, you'd finally risked everything and showed him exactly how much you wanted him. No more teasing. No more pretending. Just your honest, unguarded desire laid bare—beautifully, heart-stoppingly bare—and he couldn't stand another moment being apart from you.

Not now.

“Lieutenant,” Caleb suddenly barked, addressing a startled officer nearby. “Dismiss the remaining personnel immediately. I'll review their reports tomorrow.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Ignoring the curious, whispered speculations behind him, Caleb strode swiftly toward the exit, doing his best not to stumble in his frantic rush. His heart battered wildly against his ribs, pulse thundering as he vividly imagined exactly how he'd greet you once he finally got you in his arms.

You'd completely unraveled him—and there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

Author's Note:

This was definitely a challenge—but such a fun one! I'm genuinely impressed by all the talented writers who effortlessly create amazing LAD stories. If you enjoyed these little scenarios, please let me know—I’d love to write more! Also, if you have any specific requests or prompts, feel free to drop them in the comments below. Thanks for reading!

1K notes · View notes