#to get a feel for caleb

[kylominis]

the duality of man [🍎]

[yudol-skorbi]

teeny tiney hut to make them all safe and sound

[neigepomme]

caleb has a digicam that he bought from an antique shop, and he's obsessed with it. well, he's obsessed with taking pictures of you with it. it benefits you too, though — have you seen how cute they look on your social media feed!? 

however, given how you live in linkon and he's all the way in skyhaven (and the fact that you can only meet a handful of times a month), you'd assume his gallery is full of other images. maybe of planes taking off? or his beloved models?

you'd be wrong, though. when you're not with him, the only subjects of his camera are things that remind him of you. caleb takes a picture of the sunrise because the soft sunbeams remind him of the way your laugh sounds. there's a picture of the two lovebirds he saw on a grocery store run cuddling — they're just like the two of you when you come over. caleb takes pictures of the hairband on his kitchen counter just because it's a subtle reminder of your presence in his life.

but rather than just taking photos while you're away, he likes going through the gallery of already existing pictures of you — pics you didn't like enough to share to social media.

that one picture after a late night ramen snack, where you two got caught in the rain, and you turned to look at him with a bright smile on your face. your cheeks slightly flushed from running to find shelter, the damp jacket on your shoulders, too big for you (it's his). he can remember your pouting face and whine of "caleeeeb, my hair looks a mess!!" when he took the picture.

the way you look at him and open yourself up to him in such a carefree way is his favorite, though. it's you, real and tangible — not a foggy memory of the past or a product of his imagination.

you're you.

the corners of your eyes wrinkling as you smile, that blemish you complained about earlier that day, your hair haphazardly done — raw, truthful, vulnerable. not the polished version of you shared to your social media.

you're you.

the version of you that you only showcase in front of him. and caleb will never get over how comforting and gorgeous of a presence you are in his life.

🍎 pomme's notes — I'M NOT DEAD YET!! you will not get rid of me that fast.. also i think crow's feet wrinkles are so cute they make me happy.. never stop smiling and laughing hard....

[pinecavity]

camboy!caleb (pt. 1) || r18+, angst, and angsty smut

It's late. Caleb’s room is quiet, lit only by the dull blue glow of his desk lamp and the soft flicker of his screen. His door is locked. His headset is on. And he's sitting there, back hunched, bare-chested, fingers digging into the edge of the desk like he might splinter it—not with anticipation, but because he has to force himself to do this. Again.

He's already taken on two shifts this week at the convenience store. Pulled an all-nighter helping you finish your project. Ate maybe one real meal in the past two days. But the art kit you wanted just went on sale, and he's short. So he logs in.

The username's fake. The lighting’s angled just right to cast part of his face in shadow. But his voice—it gives him away. Even when he lowers it, makes it soft, lilting, it’s still him underneath.

"Hey," he murmurs, eyes flicking up toward the chat. “You’re all early tonight.”

The screen floods with messages. Praise. Requests. Obscene ones.

He laughs softly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He reads the tip amounts. Calculates them silently. His jaw flexes when he sees someone ask for something rougher. Degrading. Humiliating.

And you can see the moment it hits him. That pause. That breath he holds in.

Because this isn’t him.

But he does it anyway.

He leans back in the chair. Lets his hand drift lower. Keeps his eyes half-lidded, like it’s just muscle memory now. One hand gripping the desk again, tight, like he's grounding himself there. Anchoring. He doesn’t moan. He doesn't make a show of it. He just breathes quietly, jaw tight, because this isn’t for him. It’s not even for the audience.

It's for you.

For the coat you pointed out in the window. The art kit you couldn’t afford. The school fee that came out of nowhere.

He’s not looking at the chat anymore. Not even pretending to. His gaze is down, fixed somewhere just past his own hand, breathing growing rougher, more uneven by the second.

He swallows thickly, then pushes his sweatpants down with a rough, ungraceful drag of his thumb. He’s already hard—too hard, really—but he takes himself in hand anyway, palm dragging slow, already thinking of the sound you make when you laugh against his shoulder, the way your breath hitches when he brushes your hair out of your eyes.

The little things that shouldn’t turn him on.

Little things that do.

His hand works slow at first. Almost apologetic. Like he can pretend it’s not really happening if he just moves gently enough.

But it’s your voice in his head now. Saying his name in a way you never actually have. Breathless. Sweet. Asking him to touch you. Begging for more.

His hand wraps around himself, hot and rough, his grip instinctively firm from too many nights exactly like this—nights where the only thing holding him together is the thought of you. 

He strokes slow at first, long and deliberate, dragging his palm over the sensitive head with a low, barely-audible hiss. The kind that only escapes when he forgets to hold it in.

His cock twitches in his hand, already painfully hard, the friction sparking sharp pleasure up his spine. His body is flushed, skin tacky with sweat beneath the lamp's low heat, and every breath he takes is uneven, shallow, like he’s trying not to lose control too quickly.

But he’s not thinking about the screen. Not the tips. Not the perverted demands pouring in from chat.

He’s thinking about your mouth—how you’d look stretched open around him, lips slick, eyes hazy. How you’d whimper when he rocks just a little deeper, slow and sweet, praising you for taking him so well.

And it coils in his stomach, tight and burning. He strokes faster now, twisting his wrist just slightly at the tip, his thighs spreading instinctively for balance.

His head drops back, jaw clenched, a low breath slipping through his teeth. You’re everywhere. In his mind. On his tongue. Etched into the ache in his chest.

He pants quietly, hand working over himself in rhythm now—tight, desperate strokes that make his abs tense and his legs shudder. His hips twitch up into his palm once, twice, chasing friction like he’s chasing your touch, even if it’s only imagined.

His eyes squeeze shut.

And when he starts to lose focus—when the chat gets louder, filthier, when he starts to retreat inward—his gaze flickers to the one thing he’s never removed from his desk.

A photo of you.

Propped just behind his keyboard, half-hidden from the camera’s eye, angled just enough that only he can see it.

It’s a candid picture—you’re laughing, looking off to the side, hair a little messy, wearing one of his old shirts. But it's his favorite. Always has been. 

It shouldn’t be turning him on like this.

His hand tightens. 

He strokes himself harder now, like instinct, like it’s not even pleasure anymore but pure, punishing need. Not for them. 

Never for them. 

For you.

Because the sight of you makes his chest ache and his stomach twist and his cock throb with a sharp, humiliating kind of desperation—like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to taste.

He’s close.

His knees twitch apart slightly, a moan caught low in his throat. His eyes never leave the photo now—he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He can feel it curling low in his gut, winding him tighter, sharper with each rough stroke. His lips part around a breath he forgets how to take, and for one suspended moment, his hand falters—like guilt trailing its fingers down his spine. Like shame curling its way into his lungs.

You don’t know he’s like this.

You don’t know who he is when the lights are off and the door is locked. 

But then—he remembers the notification. The art kit. The price. The way your eyes lit up when you saw it, that breathless, fleeting joy you tried to swallow back with a shrug and a soft, ��It’s too expensive anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

You always say that.

Like it’s nothing.

Like you don’t know what it does to him, as if he's not already memorizing the exact brand, the model number, the shade of want in your eyes.

Like you don’t know he listens to everything you say and keeps them close—hoards them like gospel carved into the aching hollow of him. Like you don’t know he’d crawl through hell, barefoot and bleeding, if it meant giving you the things you pretend you can live without.

So he grits his teeth. Swallows the shame like it’s something he owes.And he keeps going.

Harder now.

Faster.

Fucking into his fist like he’s in a rut. His lips part. His head tips back. Every stroke ragged, deliberate. His body coiled tight with unbearable heat and hunger and guilt. Because if this is what it takes,

if this is the price,

he’ll pay for it.

Tear through every shred of pride, of decency, of self. Let it rot him hollow, strip him bare.

He doesn’t care.

Not if it’s for you.

His breath stutters. Muscles drawn tight at the image of your fingers curling around the edge of that art kit. The way you’d look up at him like he hung the stars for you. 

He’s so close. 

He lives for that look. Your satisfaction. Your soft, breathy praise.

It makes his cock leak with a humiliating kind of need, like it’s not even about pleasure anymore, just the unbearable want to be enough. To be adored. To be yours.

He’s cumming– your sweet voice echoing in his mind, your adoring smile seared behind his eyes, and the sharp sting of guilt gnawing at him like an old wound. His jaw locks around a guttural moan he won’t let slip, biting it back as he spills into his own hand, as if it could somehow make it less real, less filthy. Everything in him is wound so tight it hurts, pulsing with a pain that feels too sweet to ignore. 

And then—stillness.

Heavy. Silent. The only sound, the ping of tips flooding in.

A pulse, still throbbing deep in his stomach, a sticky mess cooling on his skin.

His eyes, half-lidded, unfocused, fixed only on the picture of you.

Like even now, even wrecked and aching and raw, you’re the only thing keeping him breathing.

His hand falls away. Chest heaving. Eyes closed like he could pretend it didn’t happen.

He leans forward, elbows on the desk, face buried in his hands.

And just stays there.

Doesn’t end the stream. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

Because if this is what it takes—if this is what he has to become—then so be it.

He’ll do it a thousand times over. He’ll tear himself apart at the seams. Burn away every last shred of dignity and softness and self, if it means you’ll get what you want.

Even if it rots him from the inside out. The kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from loving someone so much, it turns into ruin. 

He does it anyway.

For you.

Always for you.

—

It’s 3 A.M. and the screen’s gone black; the show’s over. He washes his face in the dark. Avoids mirrors. Sits in silence for a long, long time. But when morning comes, there's your favorite breakfast waiting on the table. A small wrapped gift with a sticky note.

“You looked at it a few weeks ago, so I got it for you, pips. No biggie :]”

He knows you’ll smile at it. He knows it’ll make your day better. And that’s all that matters.

Because he’ll never let you know what it cost him.

He’d rather suffer quietly than ever let you feel guilty for being loved that much.

[humanjarvis]

came across this thread earlier and it’s honestly becoming my preferred interpretation of the whole “they stole 93% of caleb’s brain and he’s locked away the last 7% for us” thing

i’ll have to read about it more but if the chip’s “integrity” has decreased from 100 to 93 percent—if it’s decreasing the longer it’s in caleb’s brain from a combo of his resolve/strength/evol—then does that mean the more he fights it, the lower its integrity gets? that he has a chance at overcoming it?

idk i’m imagining mc taking him on like a chip eradication tour on something where we spend so much time together and shower him with so much love and nostalgia that one day it just combusts (painlessly). and he’s free. dramatic jailbreak scene

idk if this is viable obviously but it’s just so nice to be optimistic about his story for once. instead of the chip being a bomb that was placed into caleb it’s that the chip was placed into a bomb (caleb)

[gros-chat-fait]

Fire Keepers --- Since this is the third one I've made for this cross-campaign theme, I guess it's officially a series. Commence the links! Blue Healers | Wind Walkers

[mapsthewanderer]

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☘︎ CALEB’S GIRL TOY

Synopsis: You don’t know his name. He doesn’t want to know yours. What you do know is that he’s chosen you—not for who you are, but for who you resemble. And you said yes. This is a fantasy you were never meant to be part of, but you’re already playing the part. He’s charming, commanding, impossibly hot—and somewhere beneath the control, something cracks. But not for you. Because you were never supposed to matter. Just a stand-in. Just a girl toy—for Caleb.

Details: 3000 words of unhinged dom energy. 18+ stuff. Notinoti stuff. No s*x, but plenty sexy time heeeh. Expect sexual tension, humiliation, control, and the kind of mouthwatering, mind-warping power play only Colonel Caleb can deliver. Submissive reader POV, nonMC fem. And yes—he’s broken. Of course he is. You’re welcome. (Just a lil drabble pilot from a series I might be working on. If you like the vibe I’ll continue with more chapters)

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Borrowed Skin | Pilot

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You met him online.

No fireworks, no grand declarations. Just a message one night when you were bored and a little drunk on wine, clicking through profiles with a kind of casual hunger. His username was stupid—smug. His first message, cocky. But clever. You remember the way he phrased it like he already knew you’d answer.

C_You_Naked: ever had someone make you stand at attention through a screen?

You answered.

And now you’re weeks deep. A few messages turned into entire nights on your phone. You’ve talked about everything and nothing. Laughed until your ribs hurt. Dared each other, teased each other. You’ve exchanged photos. A few video calls. You know what his voice sounds like at 2AM when he’s tired and laughing under his breath. You know what his collarbones look like in dim lighting. You know what his belt looks like coiled in his lap.

And you know what his fingers look like wrapped around a his cock.

One night, while you were getting ready for bed—face washed, silk shorts clinging to freshly lotioned skin, the quiet hum of your room settling around you—your phone buzzed.

A message from him.

He’d sent another picture.

Not to scare you—just to tease. Playful, but with that unmistakable undercurrent he always carried.

It was a picture of something made of black leather, sleek and straight, with a short strap attached at the end—more like a flattened tongue than a proper whip. Elegant. Mean-looking. Strange. Beautiful, in the way sharp things can be. “Interrogation tool” he’d captioned it.

Followed by a winking emoji that somehow felt more like a smirk.

You’d answered with a flushed, blushing emoji. Half-shy, half-inviting. You weren’t fooling either of you.

C_You_Naked: you’re sure? you don’t even know what this thing does yet. might not be able to walk after.

The next image that came through was almost artistic—his gloved hands holding the leather, the tool curled obediently across his palm. His fingers gripped it lightly, like he was offering it. Or warning you.

Either way, it made your breath catch.

C_You_Naked: pretty little toy for a pretty little girl.

You hesitated only a second.

YOU: yes.

C_You_Naked: mm. don’t say i didn’t warn you. if you flinch, I’ll stop. if you cry, I might not.

You laughed. Flushed. Wrote something flirty back.

YOU: you’re awful.

C_You_Naked: nah. i’m careful. awful comes later. when you’re begging me not to stop.

But he never crossed the line. Not really. Every time the conversation dipped into darker waters, he checked in. Asked how you felt. Teased you, yes, but never cruelly. He’d joke and then soften it, say something stupid to make you laugh. It kept the knife edge from cutting too deep.

But he made you ache.

He’s hot—insanely so. That much is undeniable. Tall, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth that looks like it was made to sin. His hair falls in dark bangs often slipping into his eyes—eyes that feel too sharp, too steady. Like they don’t just see you, but see through you.

And his voice… the kind that hums in your chest before it ever reaches your ears. It moves like silk—teasing, amused—until it turns.

But you don’t know his name. And he doesn’t want to know yours.

You were allowed his phone number—for convenience, he’d said, like it wasn’t a privilege. And you’re allowed to call him C through text. Or Colonel—when he wants to hear it sharp between your teeth on a call.

And now, C is in your city. Like a storm that changed its path just to find you.

C: in town for a few days. want to see you. want you on your knees.

Your breath stuttered. You stared too long, the glow of the screen washing over your face—then your fingers moved, answering before your thoughts could catch up.

YOU: send me the address.

——————————————————————————

Now it’s late, and you’re walking through the city night. Heels clicking against the pavement. The cold nips at your bare legs, sharp as teeth, but you don’t mind. You shaved. Wore perfume. Lined your lips. Every move tonight was made for him.

The hotel looms sleek and modern—expensive without being flashy. You step through the doors like you belong, head high. Your coat clings to your body, and you can feel a few eyes on you. You don’t meet them. You don’t care.

You text C.

YOU: I’m here.

With your heart hammering, you wait. You nod at the receptionist, casual. Just a girl in heels and a trench coat, standing a little too confidently to be lost.

Your phone buzzes.

C: 891. if you’re nervous, turn around. if you’re brave, knock twice. if you’re mine tonight, don’t say a word when you come in. just kneel.

Your breath leaves you in a single, shaky exhale and you walk toward the elevator, and you hold your breath.

It’s not nerves exactly. Not fear. You know what this is. You’re not naive. You’ve read between every line of his messages, caught the cold steel beneath the velvet. C isn’t here for love. Not for sweet talk or second dates.

He wants you. As in—what you can give him.

And you’ve decided you’re willing.

The elevator dings softly when it arrives. You step in alone. A low hum fills the small space. Chrome walls, sterile lighting. You watch yourself in the mirror paneling—lips slightly parted, pupils too wide, coat pulled tight across your chest. You smooth your skirt with trembling fingers. Cross one leg behind the other, then uncross. Breathe.

A small hiss as the doors close.

Eighth floor.

You ride up in silence. If there’s any soft lounge music playing in the elevator, you don’t hear it—all you can hear is the thudding of your pulse behind your ribs, loud and steady, like a warning you’re far too gone to heed.

When you step into the hallway, the carpet hushes your footsteps. Everything smells expensive—leather, pine, the soft hush of wealth. You keep your chin lifted. Count off the numbers on the doors.

885.

887.

889… 891.

You stop. Stand before it. The hallway is still, thick with quiet like something is holding its breath with you.

You reach into your bag. Pull out your compact. Your fingers are steady as you apply a thin coat of fresh lipstick. Deep red. The color you know he likes. You press your lips together once. Twice. Inhale. Exhale.

This is your last chance to walk away.

You knock.

Twice.

The door clicks open.

And you step inside.

The suite hits you first with its size, then its silence. It’s enormous—vaulted ceilings, sleek marble floors half-shadowed in warm, low lighting. And then the scent hits you, soft but distinct—his cologne. Sandalwood, clean and grounded, edged with something cooler, metallic. Underneath it all, a crisp sweetness lingers—bright, almost edible. Like something ripe just out of reach. It curls in your lungs and makes your stomach flutter.

To your right, the bathroom door is cracked open. Through it, you can see a freestanding tub near glass walls that stretch from floor to ceiling. A nighttime view of the city glitters beyond like a galaxy laid out just for you.

In the main room, a bed dominates the space—massive, wide, decadently made with dark gray sheets that gleam faintly in the low light.

And there—angled slightly away, a leather chair facing the window, not quite straight—

Him. C. The Colonel.

You stop. Just for a second.

From this view, all you see are the long lines of his legs, one draped lazily over the other. A glass glints in a gloved hand, catching the low light like polished onyx. The liquid inside is clear—water? Vodka? You can’t tell. He’s just posture and silhouette for now—pristine white uniform trousers, boots still on, black wool coat worn like armor over his shoulders.

A mystery with perfect posture. And too many secrets.

The Colonel still hasn’t turned.

“You made it,” he says, voice curling through the room like smoke. Amused.

The glass lifts in salute—graceful, effortless.

“Wardrobe’s on your left.”

And still—he doesn’t look at you.

You move before your mind can catch up. The coat slips from your shoulders like it was always meant to fall. Fingers tipped in red polish reach to unbuckle your heels—instinct, habit—

“Keep the shoes on,” C murmurs. A pause. Then, “…please.”

It’s the please that gets you.

Heels stay on. Black. Pointed. Slim.

Sharp—like the woman you thought you’d be tonight.

But as you pass the mirror near the wardrobe, something shifts. You pause. Not to fix, but to submit. To recognize what’s about to happen.

Yes. This is you. Just sharper now, softer now.

Ready to be unmade.

You nod once.

Then you walk.

Each step toward the chair sounds impossibly loud, your heels striking the floor with measured rhythm. And just before you reach him—

C rises.

And stops dead.

Staring like you’ve just knocked the air from his lungs—like something sharp hit behind the ribs and lodged there. His gaze catches on your face and stays. Mouth parted. Breath stalled. The glass in his hand lowers, forgotten.

Movement gives him away. Too fast. Too eager. Like some invisible thread yanked him forward before thought could even form

Shit.

You can see it hit him. The recognition. The mistake.

You really do look like her.

C steps closer. There’s no performance in it now. Just raw momentum.

Gloved fingers lift to your cheek. They don’t tremble—but they hover there, suspended like a question he’s afraid to ask. Then, slowly, they make contact. Leather dragging soft and firm along your skin, brushing the curve of your jaw, down the side of your neck, lingering at the delicate dip of your collarbone.

Breath slips from his nose—quiet, controlled, but not untouched by something trembling. His mouth parts slightly. What escapes is clean: minted from mouthwash, sharp and close. Beneath it, that same cologne—wood and heat and something colder, metallic—richer now, more human.

It lingers until you shiver.

Your gaze drops, instinctively following the path of his hand as it brushes your lower lip with the backs of his fingers—and that’s when you meet his eyes.

And then you see them.

Violet.

Dark.

Fractured.

They roam your face with the kind of desperation that isn’t lust—it’s hunger. A different kind. Deeper. Older. One that gnaws.

His gaze shakes as it searches yours, like he’s looking for something he knows isn’t there. Like if he stares long enough, hard enough, maybe he can conjure it.

Tears nearly push to the surface. Not yours.

His.

You see them, right there—almost—behind the violet. Not falling. But glinting, trembling at the edges of something he’s not ready to admit.

His lips press into a line.

And his eyes stay starving.

But it’s not for you.

It’s for her.

For who you resemble. For what he remembers. For something he wants, just for a night—even if it isn’t real.

Then his jaw flexes—a flicker of tension, the snap-back. The mask tightens.

Something shifts behind the Colonel’s eyes as he pulls himself from whatever memory he’d let wash over him. Like a door, quietly but firmly, shutting.

“We’re gonna have so much fun…” C lingers on the word like it tastes different on his tongue. “Just… try not to make me regret it too soon, alright?”

Then he turns away.

The coat shifts with the movement, long silhouette stirring like smoke in low light. He lifts his glass—whatever’s inside catches the light, cold enough that condensation beads along the surface. A low sip follows, and the corner of his mouth curls like he already knows what you’ll do next.

Deliberately, he coughs. Soft. Controlled. A quiet break in the silence, sharp enough to test your nerves. To see if you flinch. You don’t.

The Colonel watches you now.

Fully.

From the sharp points of your heels to the delicate curve of your collarbone, his gaze drags. One glove, then the next, peeled from his hands with unhurried precision. Each finger released like a countdown. He sets them aside on the arm of the chair—neatly—like it’s all part of a ritual he’s practiced a hundred times. A job. A rite. A claiming.

“You look like you’ll do,” he says, voice low, amused. Almost thoughtful. “But… Let’s just get something straight.”

C steps closer, hands bare now, warm and very real.

“I’m not here for your heart.” A pause. His head tilts, smile lazy. “Got too many feelings in my life already. Don’t need yours cluttering things up.”

Fingers brush your hip. “What I want tonight is simple. Your body. Your obedience.” The voice isn’t teasing anymore. The warmth from the messages, the charm in the calls—none of it followed him into this room. These aren’t requests. They’re facts, spoken like law.

He shrugs—one shoulder, lazy—and lifts a hand, gesturing toward the door like he’s dismissing an unnecessary thought.

“Everything else? Leave it there.”

The space between you shortens like it’s folding in on itself. A hand rises and he takes your chin between his fingers. He tilts your face up, and you feel it in your spine—the way the world stills in his grip.

Glittering irises find yours. Violet. Unblinking.

“When I say kneel,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the curve of your lower lip, “you kneel.”

“When I say open your mouth, you don’t ask why.”

He leans in, breath warm against your cheek, lips brushing close—not a kiss, just proximity.

“And when I say spit on my cock…” C smiles like he’s letting the words sink in bone-deep.

“…you make it pretty.”

His grip lingers on your chin for just a second more. Then releases.

And it doesn’t feel like a threat. The way he says it—it’s not cruel. It’s honest. And the honesty might just be the cruelest part.

“Can you do that for me?” The question hangs between you like a blade. “If not… walk out. Now.”

Fingers laced behind his back, shoulders settling with that soldier’s ease, the Colonel turns his head and smiles at the door.

You say nothing.

You drop to your knees.

And the silence stretches.

One brow lifts, just a touch. His expression unreadable, save for the flicker of something close to amusement—or maybe disappointment. Like he’s letting you stew in the choice you almost missed.

“Hmm… Still not kneeling properly,” he murmurs—voice low, vibrating through your skin.

Boots shift against the marble as he steps in closer, circling you once, slow. He stops just behind you—breath brushes the crown of your head. Instinct tugs at your spine—you shift slightly, lowering your shoulders, parting your knees just a fraction more. A silent offering. A quieter shape.

“But look at that… you’re finally catching on.”

Fingers brush your hair back from your shoulder, almost tender, baring the curve of your neck.

“Took you long enough. Don’t get bratty on me now—I’m not in the mood to train tonight.”

His mouth finds the hollow where your neck meets your shoulder. Pressed right over your pulse like a warning.

“Oh—… Is that it?” His lips graze your ear. “You want me to train you?” He breathes in, slow. Almost amused. Almost not. “Tsk… You want that position, you earn it.”

A beat. Then lower—final:

“Or you can crawl back out that door and spend the rest of the night wondering what it would’ve felt like to be owned.”

And with the last word still warm on your skin, his teeth catch your earlobe—just enough to sting, just enough to steal your breath. A hand rises, steady, firm, cradling the back of your neck like a claim. A reminder. You’re his. For tonight. For this.

The marble floor bites into your knees, polished and cold. You stay still—breathing, waiting, head bowed not in hesitation, but in silent acceptance. Of the terms. Of him.

Behind you, The Colonel moves. You feel the weight of his gaze on your back, and then the soft shift of fabric as he lowers himself again—his boots echo faintly as they reposition. He crouches beside you, leveling his head with yours, shoulder brushing your upper arm. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him.

“We’ve talked this through,” he murmurs. “But just to be sure… aside from moans, screams—” a pause, his lips ghosting your cheek, “this is the only word you’re allowed to speak.”

A thumb drags along your jaw, tipping your face toward him.

“Say it.”

You breathe in. The room feels heavier now.

“Your out,” he says softly. “You say it, everything stops. No questions. No guilt.”

He waits.

Still crouched beside you. Still watching like a man reading a confession in the shape of your inhale. His stare doesn’t soften—it sharpens. Measuring. Testing. Waiting for proof.

You meet his gaze. Your breath shakes.

“Apple,” you whisper, just to feel it pass your lips. It tastes strange. Foreign. Like a weapon you don’t expect to use—but have to know you carry.

His smile comes slow. Not kind. Not cruel. Just pleased.

Then he tilts his head, one brow barely lifted. Casual. But his eyes gleam.

“And if you need something from me?” he asks, voice almost lazy. “What do you call me?”

Your stomach tightens. It’s a trap. You know it. You feel it sink its teeth into the silence before your brain can catch up.

He watches you. Waits.

Say it, his eyes seem to dare. Try.

Your lips part. The shape of C touches your tongue—

You stop.

Try again—Co——but you freeze. The rest dies there.

Jaw tightens. Lips press together. Teeth catch the soft swell of your bottom lip, biting down—gentle, deliberate. A silent I understand.

The gleam in his eyes turns to something molten.

You passed.

“Good girl.”

The praise slips over your skin like warm silk—earned, edged, and entirely his. Teeth flash—he bites your cheek. Cruel enough to make your skin sing, your blood flash hot. His lips follow the sting, brushing the mark like he’s sealing it.

“Mmh,” he hums, “would’ve been embarrassing if you messed that up.”

A soft chuckle follows—almost fond, but edged in pride and heat.

“Glad you’re not stupid,” he coos. “I’d hate to break something pretty just because it couldn’t follow orders.”

He straightens—slow, towering. One hand smooths down the front of his uniform, crisping the line that didn’t need adjusting, but he does it anyway. The shift in energy cracks through the air like static, dominance slipping back over him like a second skin.

Gloves, once forgotten on the armchair, are pulled back on with quiet ceremony. Each finger drawn in, leather creaking softly as if savoring the return. From beneath his uniform jacket, he draws it out. Sleek. Black. Cruel-looking in its elegance. The infamous “interrogation tool.”

It rests in his hand like it belongs there.

“Now…” The word drops like a stone into your stomach, his tone coiling low and thick. “Let’s see if my toy knows how to behave.”

——————————————————————————

I’ll show you what you look like from the inside

And I’ll see you when the wrath comes around

Tonight, you have the answer

——————————————————————————

[w1ld-k4t]

‎‎‎‎‎Panty Thief Conundrum

CONTENT WARNING: Yandere!Caleb being a freak, like incredibly so. Stepcest is a given with this guy when MC is involved. Panty/Bra/Clothes stealing, sniffing and... other things. He's a creep here, I was not nice to him. Manipulation, mention of punishments. Please be aware, loves.

SYNOPSIS: Caleb can't find any of your underwear in the laundry because you've started going commando most of the time.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have never written for the lads before, let's be clear. Let alone Caleb, let alone fandom Caleb. I apologize for any OOC-ness. That said, this shit just ripped itself from my subconscious and forced itself through my fingertips.

Preposterous.

Evil. Cruel and unusual punishment, really.

He finally has the girl of his dreams back, the love of his disgusting, perverted little life.

And yet, as he rifles through the laundry basket with growing desperation (ripping past any articles of clothing he’s not interested in, really), his dirty heart nearly cracks in two.

WHERE are your panties? Your bras, even?

He hates himself for it. He really, truly does. But ever since you finally accepted him back into your life, your home and, stars, your fucking arms, he can’t deny that this is something he’d been looking forward to for a while.

Doing your laundry for you again. Out of the kindness of his heart, is what he wants to tell himself.

But the pair (his favorite pair) he’d kept with him after he’d left lost your scent a long, long goddamn time ago. Maybe it would’ve kept longer if he hadn’t soaked it in his cum nearly every night while he was away. Hell, he tore a hole in them after the explosion. After he was sure he’d never see you again.

So where, pray tell, are your FUCKING panties?

He can’t just… well, maybe he can ask. If he words it right, plays the role of the concerned, loving gege. Then he could get his answer.

It doesn’t have to be awkward. Or perverted. Just… looking out for you, like he always did. Does.

Will. Whether you like it, are aware of it or not.

So when you open the door to your room after hearing him knock and he’s standing there with his usual, lopsided smirk and the emptied laundry basket in under his arm, you shouldn’t really suspect a thing. He already has the laundry going, audible from down the hall.

“Heya, Pips,” as he leans against the door frame, using his free arm to prop himself up against it. You’re having to look up at him, as usual. The bastard.

“Not to, uh…” his elbow bends, scratching awkwardly (convincingly, he hopes) at the back of his neck. He makes an effort to move his eyes away from your own, despite the confusion etching into your features, “Not to pry much. But are ya washing yer under-stuff separately or somethin’? Or did’ja just forget to throw em in?”

And when you blink, brows furrowing, his heart spikes in anxiety.

“I just got back to takin’ care of ya,” he tacks on quickly, “Would hate to mess up again already.”

Your silence doesn’t help his racing heart. He risks a glance up at you, and-

You give a small, amused snort? Cute... but what’s so funny?

“You’re fine, Kay,” you shrug, giving him a relaxed, trusting smile of your own. Trusting, he notes, having his heart race for a different reason, “Neither of us missed anything. I just don’t really wear any these days.”

What?

“Not unless I really have to.”

He stares at you for a moment, lips floundering. His eyes nearly glance downward at your breasts, your crotch, holding his gaze on your face with great effort. Were… Were you not wearing any right now? Something about that has his blood rushing straight to his cock, a heat rising to his cheeks. But, stars, has he gotta pull himself together.

“Really?” He huffs back with his own amusement (a habit he’d learned from you… he has a lot of those), “Can’t say I really get it, but whatever makes ya comfy, Pipsqueak.”

The smile you give him is nearly his undoing as you return back into your room. He lingers, though, his eyes trailing down to the curve of your ass in those damn too short pajama bottoms. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip, eyes wide in curious wonder and… Well, his cock was starting to hurt in his jeans. Let’s say that.

“By the way,” he trills after a moment, needing wanting a reason to stick around a little more and imagine what your bareness must look like. How he could slip your shorts aside so easily and-, “Whatcha thinkin’ for dinner today? I’ll make whatever ya want. Call it a… reunion gift.”

You want to deprive him of fucking the remaining scent and discharge that lingered on your underwear? Layering it over his nose while he pumped his cock to the imaginary rhythm he uses to fuck you in his head?

That’s fine. He can punish you for it later. Once he has the ball rolling on your guys’ relationship.

For now, though, he’ll compromise. Improvise, even, and just fuck his cum into the crotch of your shorts and pants after you get done wearing them for the day.

He’s not picky.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I hope you liked this, whoever may be reading. It was fun. It's fucking haunting me that this is the first thing I wrote for my blog, but it was fun nonetheless. I'm a whore anyway, so it works.

CREDITS: Almost forgot since it's past midnight. The dividers are from thecutestgrotto. Eye banner is from the Harper's Bazaar x LADS Collab. All writing is done by me, w1ld-k4t.

[eyeofthebrainstorm]

Caleb, sitting on a cozy chair, having a snack with fresh tea and pastries while cuddling a cute cat: Essek, we're still spies, undercover agent working together for different sides of a war and dangerous powerful magicians, right?

Essek, knitting a scarf, laying on the bed, with a quilt on his legs: of course, dear.

[doodlesaresketcheswithnoodles]

"What a curious saber, much like you Caleb."

Master Jedi Depa Billaba and Padawan Caleb Dume 😌

[Cyslin/Mace] [Mace/Depa] [Kanan/Ezra]

[kylominis]

A spring outing in his new fit [♡]

[mandalhoerian]

if i was mc i would have aggressively played "glory to arstotzka" (papers please game) from my room when caleb was home (specifically when he came back in colonel outfit) during the main story house arrest ngl

[neigepomme]

need to sit on the sink counter and softly grab onto caleb's face to shave his stubble while we are both sleepy because he wakes up at fuckass o'clock but domesticity > sleep.. something something his eyes are still half-closed but he has a dopey smile on his face....

[aceing-it-spaceing-it]

Do you think the wizard nerd ever comes out with The Raven Queen. Like was she watching the fight with the Mighty Nein saw Caleb's time stop move, and be like oh I can't wait til he dies so I can meet him.

[jathun]

Hot take but Caleb is at least a little bit justified in the way he's acting in the main story. Not completely of course. He definitely takes it too far and he SHOULD have told the mc what the hell was going on in skyhaven from the get go so she could be better prepared.

But the mc is actively acting like a goddamn dumbass. She throws herself basically blind into a situation which even her supervisor says is suspicious at best and dangerous at worst AND which they know next to nothing about, with no backup and basically no plan except for a vague "infiltrate the fleet and find out what they know about the aether core". So OF COURSE she gets caught the moment she steps foot onto the place. And of course Caleb has to step in and clean up the mess before his superiors, or worse, Ever, look too much into this girl who's throwing herself headfirst into anything and everything even remotely connected to the aether core. All the while keeping up his persona as a heartless colonel so that what is likely a year's long plan to infiltrate the fleet and ever in order to destroy them from within wont go to waste - though that's more of an educated guess from going through his material and some theorising built upon said material.

Honestly the mc's foray into the N109 Zone was also bumbassery at its finest but there you could excuse it with grief making her not think things through...but with skyhaven? There's really no other explanation than idiocy.

She should know by now that everything connected to ever and the aether core is dangerous business. THEY BLEW UP HER HOUSE FOR GOODNESS SAKE! But she keeps acting with all the forethought and grace of a bull in a china shop. Or a pumpkin magus in a flower shop if you will.

At the end of the day though, since LADS is an otome game and the mc is a self-insert, there will never be any lasting consequences for her ill thought out actions. Nor will they be properly scrutinised in the same way the LIs actions will be.

So I guess I'll just sit in my little corner and grumble about the way Caleb gets misinterpreted by large swathes of the fandom as nothing but the manipulative yandere type when in truth he's still a sunflower - he's just grown in rotten soil.

[hawnks]

Caleb's alpha instincts overriding both his fleet orders and the chips control. He's in deepspace with sweat dripping down his temples, trying to resist the need to get back to you whenever your heats coming up. Life and death hang in the balance and all he can think about is if you have enough blankets, if you've eaten yet today.