pikachulads

[pikachulads]

a dance of ice and fire | zayne

synopsis : Betrothed to the Crown Prince for the sake of peace, you are seen as a weapon to be wielded, not a queen to rule. But it is not your arrogant, power-hungry fiancé you fear—it is his brother, Zayne. As alliances shift and tensions rise, one truth becomes clear: he never wanted the crown, but for you, he will take it. content : medieval!au, strategist/advisor!zayne x princess!reader, loads of eye-fucking, savage reader and zayne, political intrigue

parts | one | two | three

The war table stretched long across the chamber, its surface weighed down with silk-draped maps, shifting borders inked with precision, and the quiet hum of consequence. The scent of melted wax and parchment clung to the air, heavy with the unspoken weight of decisions yet to be made.

At the head of it all sat your betrothed.

Not the man your heart was bound to.

Not Zayne.

He stood at his younger brother’s side, arms folded loosely in front of him, the very picture of indifference.

Pft, look at him. Acting like he doesn’t want to be here.

The courtiers droned on, voices blending together in a swirl of politics, war, and of course, predictably, your marriage.

More specifically, the matter of your so-called uncontrollable fire magic.

They spoke of you as though you weren’t in the room.

“Indeed. Fire is unpredictable. Dangerous, if left unchecked,” one noble mused, his voice carrying the same tone one might use when discussing a volatile weapon rather than a person.

Not a princess. Not you.

You resisted the urge to sigh, fingers curling against the edge of the table.

“They think themselves clever, cloaking their insults in diplomacy.”

A slow burn simmered beneath your skin. You cleared your throat, feeling the warmth coil deep in your core.

A subtle glance from across the table, Zayne’s hazel-green eyes meets yours.

He gave you a look as if to say, “Calm down.”

You flicked him a sharp look in return but obeyed, cooling the heat creeping up your spine.

Your betrothed, the crown prince, leaned back in his chair, a smirk barely masking the insecurities you knew festered beneath his skin.

His tone was condescending. That smirk, arrogant.

“You forget that she is to be my wife. Under my guidance, she will serve as an asset to this kingdom.”

The words landed like a slap, an attempt to remind you of your place.

You did not react.

You refused to.

“Heh. Asset, he says?”

“Do they think I’m a tool?”

You met his gaze without flinching.

A moment stretched between you, unspoken but clear, and you watched as his smirk faltered, just slightly.

Tilting your head, you let the silence settle before finally speaking.

“A wife or an asset, Your Highness? You speak as though they are one and the same.” A slow, deliberate smirk of your own curved at the edges of your lips.

The crown prince’s eyes narrowed. “I speak of ensuring stability. It is in everyone’s best interest that your… passions are properly directed.”

You inhaled, the simmering heat rekindling beneath your ribs.

It was always the same.

These men. Weak men, had never known fire. Not truly.

They only wished to harness it, shape it into something convenient.

Something obedient.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, a voice cut through the thick tension like a blade.

Low. Calm. Unhurried.

“You mean contained?”

The air stilled.

Zayne.

For the first time since the discussion began, he stepped forward from the sidelines, his posture casual, but his presence undeniable.

He leaned against the war table, fingers drumming idly against the polished wood, his expression unreadable.

The crown prince stiffened. “Then what would you suggest, brother?”

Zayne tilted his head, his movements slow, deliberate. “That you recognize the difference between ruling with fire and being burned by it.”

You saw it. The flicker of doubt in your betrothed’s eyes. The way his jaw clenched, frustration barely contained. “And you believe I am incapable?”

Zayne exhaled, the sound closer to an actual than a scoff.

“I believe the court is still debating whether you are capable of ruling at all.”

A murmur spread across the room, an uneasy shift in posture from those seated at the table.

Some looked away. Others suddenly found the tapestries on the walls utterly fascinating.

Zayne was not a man to waste words.

So when he spoke, even in the quietest of tones, everyone listened.

Your lips curled into the faintest smirk, hidden behind the rim of your goblet as you lifted it to your lips. “Perhaps the real discussion should not be about my power, but how little faith your court seems to have in yours.”

You could barely conceal the amusement in your voice.

A pointed silence followed.

One of the older lords cleared his throat. “That is not what we meant, Your Highness—”

“Isn’t it?” Zayne’s voice was still calm, still soft. And yet, it carried weight heavier than any decree the crown prince had ever issued.

Your betrothed’s grip on the armrest of his chair tightened. “Enough.”

You set your goblet down with a soft clink against the table, tilting your head slightly.

“On that, we agree. I tire of being spoken about as if I am not in the room.”

The words landed like a challenge, wrapping around the court like a vice. You let your gaze drift, meeting the eyes of every lord and lady present, watching as they struggled to form a response.

Beside the crown prince, Zayne smirked, just barely.

“A mistake they will not make again.”

Your betrothed was barely containing himself now. His pride wounded, his patience wearing thin. “And you speak for her now?”

Zayne shifted, crossing his arms with effortless ease. “No. She speaks for herself. You were simply… thoughtless enough to ignore her.”

Silence.

No one dared to fill it.

And there it was. The opening.

You did not hesitate.

“You assume I need guidance,” you said smoothly, your voice steady as you turned your attention back to the court.

Your fingers traced the rim of your goblet, slow and deliberate. “You speak of control as if it is something I lack.”

The room had fallen so quiet you could hear the faint crackle of the hearth.

“And yet, here I sit. Regal, composed, unmoved.”

The tension in the room was palpable, thick like smoke in the air. You could feel Zayne’s presence beside you, unwavering. No words passed between you, but it didn’t matter.

It never had.

This was how it had always been. Moving in sync without needing to speak.

“I am not a weapon for you to wield,” you continued, voice even, but edged with something unmistakable.

Authority. Power. Fire.

“I am a ruler. And if you cannot understand the difference, then perhaps you are the ones who lack control.”

Silence stretched long.

Zayne smirked, just barely, the glint in his eyes almost approving. “Well played.”

The crown prince’s glare burned with poorly hidden rage, but for the first time tonight, he had no retort.

—•

The court had been left in stunned silence, your words lingering like smoke in the air long after you and Zayne had walked away from the war table.

The heavy doors shut behind you with a dull thud, sealing the courtiers and their feigned diplomacy within.

The corridor was dimly lit, lined with towering stone pillars and torches that flickered against the cold walls.

You exhaled, pressing your fingers against your temples, the weight of the evening pressing against you.

Footsteps.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“You handled that well,” Zayne’s voice was laced with amusement, his tone as effortless as ever.

“Though, I think you nearly gave my dear brother an aneurysm.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Pity.”

Zayne chuckled under his breath, then leaned casually against the nearest pillar, his arms crossing over his chest. He was watching you, observing you, as he always did, with that unnerving calm.

It made you shift. You knew what came next.

“You’re fuming,” he observed, though it wasn’t a question.

You sighed, letting the flames of your frustration flicker beneath your skin. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Zayne tilted his head. “I don’t let idiots bother me.”

“And I’m supposed to?” You shot him a look, eyes sharp.

His smirk was slow, almost infuriatingly so. “You’re better at playing this game than they are. You shouldn’t let their pettiness get under your skin.”

You scoffed, stepping toward him. “And you shouldn’t have had to speak for me.”

At that, his expression flickered.

“I didn’t,” Zayne said smoothly. “You did just fine on your own. I only nudged them in the right direction.”

You gave him a dry look. “Oh, of course. And your ‘nudge’ just happened to be a complete dismantling of your brother’s authority?”

Zayne shrugged. “He walked into it.”

You exhaled, rubbing a hand over your face before glancing up at him again. “It’s dangerous, Zayne.”

His smirk faded, his features turning unreadable. “It’s the truth.”

You studied him, the way the flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows over his face, making him seem even harder to read.

Zayne always had a way of slipping through cracks, of appearing indifferent while moving pieces behind the scenes. But tonight, in the way he had stepped in, the way he had so effortlessly undermined his brother in front of the court, it felt different.

It felt like he wasn’t just playing a game anymore.

“…You enjoyed that,” you realized, narrowing your eyes.

His expression didn’t shift. “What are you implying?”

You took another step forward, voice quieter now. “That you aren’t as disinterested as you pretend to be.”

Something in his gaze flickered. “What I am,” he said, “is someone who knows when to speak.”

You held his gaze.

“And when to stay silent?”

A beat. Then, slow and deliberate, “Yes.”

A shiver ran through you, though you weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the way his voice dipped, the way he looked at you like he was trying to see something beneath the surface.

You swallowed, turning away slightly. “You’ll make an enemy of him, you know.”

Zayne exhaled through his nose. “He was already my enemy. He just didn’t know it yet.”

That should have unsettled you. Should have made you wary.

But it didn’t.

Because the way he said it, the quiet ease of it, the certainty made it sound like a promise.

And that, perhaps, was what made it more dangerous.

—•

The scent of blooming nightshade lingered in the air, blending with the crisp bite of the evening breeze.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, the sky painted in the deep purples and golds of the dying sun.

This had always been your place.

Yours and Zayne’s.

Hidden away behind the hedge-lined paths, far from the ever-watchful eyes of courtiers and expectations, you sat on the low stone wall that framed the fountain, your bare fingers trailing over the cool marble.

He stood before you, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other tucked loosely into his belt. Silent, as always. Watching.

“You’re brooding again,” you teased, kicking your foot out lightly, the tip of your slipper grazing his knee.

Zayne raised a brow. “And you’re distracting me.”

“Good. You could use a distraction.”

His lips curled slightly, but he said nothing.

Instead, he moved closer, standing between your knees, his presence a quiet weight in the space around you.

The air changed, charged with something neither of you dared name.

Your throat felt tight. “You’re leaving soon.”

Zayne sighed, glancing away. “You know I have to.”

You swallowed. You knew it.

Of course you did.

His duties and obligations would always call him elsewhere.

That was the nature of his existence, the shadow to his brother’s gilded throne.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I hate this.” The words left you before you could stop them. “I hate that you always go, and I never know when you’ll return.”

His gaze snapped back to you, sharper now. “And you think I enjoy it?”

You looked down, fingers curling against the stone. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, unwilling to be spoken aloud.

Zayne exhaled, then very softly, carefully, he reached for you.

His fingers brushed against your wrist first, hesitant, as if giving you a chance to pull away.

When you didn’t, he traced his touch upward, gliding over your forearm, curling around your hand.

A shiver ran down your spine, though it had nothing to do with the cold.

“I always come back to you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “You know that.”

You should have pulled away. Should have scolded him for making promises he had no right to make.

Instead, you curled your fingers into his, holding him there.

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s the problem.”

His grip tightened.

The space between you narrowed, the warmth of his breath brushing your cheek, but neither of you moved further.

Because this was what it had always been.

A breath away.

A step too close.

A love neither of you could afford.

And yet, when he finally let go, his touch lingered like embers beneath your skin, one you knew would never fade.

But that was in the past, a past that no longer existed.

Buried underneath so-called duties and obligations, and your betrothal to his brother.

And yet, standing there in the dim corridor, bathed in the flickering glow of torches, you could still feel it.

The past.

Him.

Zayne.

The memory of his touch ghosted over your skin, as if time itself refused to let you forget.

The walls around you were cold, suffocating in their silence, but the air between you?

Charged.

Stifling.

Dangerous.

“You’re thinking about it again.”

His voice was smooth, quiet, but it curled around you like smoke, and you could not escape.

You swallowed hard before turning to him. “And what exactly am I thinking about?”

He leaned against the archway, arms crossed, his posture lazy, but his gaze?

Unyielding. Searching.

His lips barely curved. “Us.”

Your stomach twisted.

“There is no ‘us’,” you said, keeping your voice even.

Zayne didn’t blink. “And whose fault is that?”

Your breath hitched before you forced out an easy shrug. “Fate’s, I suppose.”

A sharp exhale. “Ah, yes. Blame fate. Much easier than blaming yourself.”

His words struck something deep, something raw, and you hated how effortlessly he could do that.

How he could still see through you, past the composure, past the armor you had so carefully crafted.

Your jaw tightened. “You walked away just as much as I did.”

He pushed off the wall then, his steps slow but certain, closing the space between you too quickly, too easily.

“No,” he murmured, voice impossibly low. “I let you walk away. There’s a difference.”

The air changed.

Your pulse pounded, your breathing shallow as he came closer, his warmth wrapping around you even before his body did. The heat of him was too much, too familiar, too tempting.

You should have stepped back.

Should have stopped him.

But you didn’t.

Because this was Zayne.

The man who had once held your hand beneath the stars, who had whispered your name in the dark, who had been everything before duty and responsibilities had torn it all apart.

He stood before you now, the space between you nonexistent, his voice barely a breath away.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Because how could you?

How could you lie when his gaze was burning through you, when his scent, his heat, his very presence was pulling you under like a tide you had spent years trying to resist?

His fingers brushed your wrist like a whisper of a touch, but it sent fire racing beneath your skin. You shivered, your breath unsteady, and his eyes darkened at the sight of it.

“Say it,” he murmured again, softer this time, but no less demanding.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Say it like you mean it.

Say it like it doesn’t keep you up at night.

Say it like your body doesn’t still crave him in ways it shouldn’t.

Say it like it wasn’t the worst mistake of your life.

You opened your mouth, searching for words, for anything, but Zayne wasn’t patient.

His fingers lifted, grazing along your jaw, his touch soft and gentle, like he was daring you to pull away.

You didn’t.

Because god, you still wanted him.

Zayne’s fingers barely touched your skin, but it was enough.

Enough to set fire to the air between you.

Enough to make your breath catch, your pulse erratic.

His thumb ghosted over the curve of your jaw, his touch deliberate.

Too light to be possessive, too heavy to be innocent.

You should have pulled away.

Should have reminded him of the ring on your finger, of the man waiting beyond these walls.

But when you exhaled, it wasn’t in protest.

It was in surrender.

His eyes flickered to your lips, just for a second.

A heartbeat, a breath, a mistake waiting to happen.

He was close now. Too close.

You could feel the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breath mingling with yours, the weight of his presence.

His cold ice pressing against every inch of restraint you had left.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. Dangerous.

“Say it, and I walk away.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. “Zayne—”

“Say it, and this stops.” His forehead nearly brushed yours, his words laced with something unspoken, something almost desperate.

You swallowed, but you didn’t say it.

His fingers slid down, grazing the column of your throat, lingering just below your pulse like a silent challenge, a dare.

Your heart pounded against his touch.

His breath shuddered.

“…that’s what I thought.”

And then ever so slowly, so torturously, he pulled away.

Cold air rushed between you, but the damage was already done.

You were burning, and it was not because of your magic.

—•

The next morning.

The war table, its silk-draped maps spread wide, was marked with careful ink strokes, shifting borders that could just as easily shift again with the wrong decision.

You sat poised, your hands resting lightly against the table’s surface, composed yet unyielding.

Across from you, a noble, Lord Callas straightened in his chair, his gaze sharp, his mouth already forming another shortsighted argument.

Zayne stood near the edge of the room, arms folded, unreadable.

But you felt his presence lingering as if beside you.

Watching.

Waiting.

Just as he always did.

Callas exhaled sharply. “Your Highness, we must establish dominance.”

You tilted your head slightly, fingers grazing the edge of the map.

“Dominance?” Your voice was smooth, measured.

“Tell me, what kind of dominance do you imagine? One built on empty threats? On brute force?”

Callas narrowed his eyes. “A display of strength is necessary.”

A soft hum left your lips as you tapped a finger against the capital city inked onto the map.

“A display of strength, you say.” A pause. Then, you lifted your gaze. “And when has brute force ever earned peace?”

The tension crackled.

Besides the crown prince, Zayne shifted slightly, just enough that his attention became unmistakable.

Callas scoffed, his fingers curling against the table’s edge. “My father served in—”

You leaned forward slightly, voice turning smooth, precise.

“Your father.”

His jaw twitched.

“What about you, Lord Callas ?” Your hand moved across the map, fingertips gliding over contested borders, lingering over cities on the brink of war.

“Have you ever stood on the battlefield?”

Callas hesitated.

Your eyes locked onto his.

“Have you ever seen men bleed for thoughtless orders?”

A flicker of uncertainty passed over his face.

Your voice lowered.

“Have you watched as cities burn under the weight of a war that could have been avoided?”

Silence.

A moment too long. A pause too telling.

And in that hesitation, you struck.

“No?” You leaned back, your fingers leaving the map as your hands folded in your lap.

“Then I suggest you reconsider before you advise me on matters you do not understand.”

The room stilled.

Callas’ face darkened, but his mouth remained shut.

He wouldn’t dare argue.

Across the table, Zayne smirked.

Just barely.

But enough.

Silence settled over the chamber, heavy and sharp, the weight of your words pressing against the gathered nobles like a blade to the throat.

Lord Callas sat rigid in his chair, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

He did not speak.

Because he knew he couldn’t.

But, of course, your betrothed would not allow the silence to linger.

The crown prince leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair in slow, deliberate movements.

His expression remained composed, but you could see it.

The flicker of irritation in his gaze

The faint tightening of his jaw.

“Lord Callas speaks from experience, Princess.” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, cold and thin like a knife’s point.

“He has studied warfare extensively, as have many on this council. It would be unwise to dismiss their counsel so easily.”

You inhaled slowly, fingers grazing the edge of the map before you, tracing the ink-stained borders of a world they sought to carve into something that suited their desires.

“Studied warfare?” you echoed, tilting your head.

And then, with a slow blink, you lifted your gaze, your voice turning soft, thoughtful—dangerous.

“Tell me, Your Highness, has Lord Callas ever read about the sound a man makes when his lungs freeze from the inside out?”

Callas stiffened.

You did not stop.

“Or perhaps he studied the way a body turns brittle in the cold, the way flesh cracks apart like shattered glass when left in the dead of winter?”

The temperature in the room seemed to shift.

It wasn’t real, at least not yet, but the weight of your words made the air feel thinner, evident in the firelight flickering against the frost creeping at the edges of the war table.

“There is a difference,” you continued, voice cooling like a blade dipped in ice, “between knowing war and surviving it.”

The crown prince’s fingers stilled against the wood.

His smirk, polished and practiced, barely flickered.

But you saw the tension settle into his frame.

“You forget your place, Princess.”

You tilted your chin slightly, meeting his stare without hesitation.

“No, Your Highness.” A slow smirk curved your lips, one that did not reach your eyes. “I believe you forget mine.”

A sharp inhale, his eyes narrowed.

And the tension stretched.

And then Zayne spoke.

“Careful, brother.”

The words were low, unhurried, amused.

He hadn’t moved from his position, still leaning against the table’s edge, arms crossed, posture effortless.

But there was something different now.

There was a quiet shift in the air, a subtle weight settling across the chamber.

Zayne tilted his head slightly, his smirk lazy, his words laced with mock concern.

“Wouldn’t want to raise your voice at your future wife.”

A beat.

“It would be… unseemly.”

The jab landed clean.

A few courtiers glanced away, shifting in their seats while some others barely concealed their intrigue.

The crown prince’s patience snapped like ice underfoot.

“Enough.”

Zayne arched a brow.

“Oh?” He exhaled, feigning a look, thoughtful.

“Have I offended you? That wasn’t my intention.”

A pause.

“Not entirely, anyway.”

The crown prince stood.

And Zayne, never one to be outdone, stood his ground.

The shift was immediate.

The air turned sharp, the warmth of the torches dimming slightly, the faintest hint of frost licking at the stone beneath their feet.

A subtle show of power.

Silent, but undeniable.

A challenge.

The room stilled as the tension coiled, as cold crept along the edges of the chamber, biting at the air between them.

Zayne’s smirk remained, but his breath misted slightly in the cooling air.

The crown prince’s fingers curled against the wood of the chair, frost cracking along its edges.

The courtiers felt it.

You could see it in the way they hesitated, in the way they darted quick, careful glances between the two brothers, one, the heir to the throne and the other who had no interest in it.

But of course, power did not care for intentions.

Zayne’s voice was softer than it should have been, given the weight behind it.

“Careful, brother.”

A quiet breath.

The frost spread an inch further.

And the crown prince said nothing.

Not yet.

You could feel the frost creeping along the war table, spreading in thin, jagged lines across the polished wood.

The torches flickered, their flames dimming under the weight of the cold pressing into the chamber.

The air was sharp, biting, charged with a tension that no one dared to break.

The prince sat rigid, fingers curled around the armrest of his chair, ice cracking under his grip.

Across from him, Zayne stood with effortless ease, hands resting against the table, expression unreadable.

The cold between them wasn’t just power, it was a warning.

No one in the room moved.

The courtiers watched carefully, caught between fear and fascination, knowing full well what a battle between brothers could mean.

You, however, were already tired of it.

Fingers tapping against your goblet, you let out a slow breath.

“Tell me, are we really going to start a blizzard indoors?”

The frost stopped.

The crown prince’s eyes flicked toward you, irritation flickering behind them.

Across the table, Zayne’s smirk deepened.

“I’d win.”

The prince’s jaw tightened. “Would you?”

The torches wavered and the temperature dropped another degree.

Zayne leaned forward slightly, ice blooming beneath his fingertips, creeping just a little closer to his brother’s.

“Do you really want to find out?”

The courtiers stiffened.

“That’s enough, boys.”

With a calm breath, you placed your palm against the war table, letting your fingers trail through the frost.

The ice melted beneath your touch, fading into nothing.

The shift was immediate.

Not an attack. Not a challenge.

A reminder.

The frost recoiled.

The tension however, did not.

Your gaze slid between them, unimpressed.

“Are we done?”

Silence stretched, heavy and unyielding, before the prince finally exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to relax.

The ice at his hands faded, his expression smoothing back into his normal, unfazed look.

Zayne watched him for a moment longer before leaning back, smirk still present, but the storm in his eyes dimming.

He met your stare briefly, as if to say he understood exactly what you had done.

You pick up your goblet, fingers curling around the metal that was still warm from your touch.

“If the theatrics are over, perhaps we can get back to actual politics.”

Zayne chuckled under his breath.

The prince said nothing, but the irritation in his gaze was clear.

The courtiers hesitated before shifting back into quiet discussion, the meeting resuming as if nothing had happened.

But as Zayne tilted his head slightly, watching you with quiet amusement, you knew the fight wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

—•

The corridors of the palace were empty, save for the two of you. The torches lining the stone walls flickered weakly, casting shifting shadows against the cold marble floors.

The weight of the meeting still clung to the air, lingering like frost long after the ice had faded from the war table.

You walked beside Zayne in silence, steps slow, measured.

You could still feel the tension from earlier, the quiet storm between him and his brother, the unspoken challenge.

But, this felt different.

This wasn’t the casual, detached Zayne who always lingered at the edges of power, just close enough to influence, but never enough to claim it.

No.

This Zayne felt closer. Sharper. Decisive.

“You handled them well,” he said eventually, voice smooth, but lacking its usual amusement.

You glanced at him, arching a brow. “You mean I handled you well.”

That earned you a flicker of something familiar.

A smirk, faint and fleeting. “If that helps you sleep at night.”

You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “You enjoyed that too much.”

Zayne’s smirk didn’t last.

Instead, he slowed, gaze drifting toward the high windows where moonlight stretched across the stone floor.

“He makes it easy.”

He.

You didn’t need to ask who.

The crown prince. His younger brother. The man you were meant to marry.

The man Zayne had once let rule without challenge.

But something had changed. You could feel it.

His fingers twitched at his sides, barely noticeable, but enough for you to see the tension in him.

A tension that hadn’t been there before.

You studied him carefully. “You never wanted the throne.”

His jaw shifted slightly. A slow exhale. “No.”

But there was something else in his voice now. Something new.

“And now?”

Zayne didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he leaned against one of the columns, arms folding across his chest, eyes flickering toward the darkened hallway beyond.

“Now, things are different.”

Your breath caught, just slightly.

“Because of him?”

A humorless chuckle.

“Because of you.”

You stopped in your tracks.

Zayne tilted his head, gaze settling on you fully now.

Nog lazy, not indifferent, but weighted with intent.

“I spent my whole life letting him have it,” he murmured.

“Because I knew what that crown did to people. What power did.”

His fingers tapped absently against his arm, slow, deliberate.

“You take the throne, and suddenly you don’t own yourself anymore. Every move, every word, every alliance, every sacrifice—”

His voice dipped lower. “You don’t rule it. It rules you.”

His eyes darkened. “And I never wanted to belong to it.”

You swallowed. “But now you do?”

Zayne didn’t move, didn’t break your gaze.

But the shift in him was undeniable.

He wasn’t just watching the game anymore.

He was stepping into it.

“Now, the prize is worth it.”

He didn’t say your name.

He didn’t have to.

Because you both knew exactly what he meant.

The air between you was cold, but the tension was sharper.

The corridor stretched long and empty, the torches casting flickering shadows against the stone.

But you weren’t looking at the walls, or the flames.

You were looking at him.

At the weight of his words still hanging between you.

“Now, the prize is worth it.”

Your expression didn’t change, but something in your chest twisted.

Heat curled under your skin, not from anger, but from something close to disappointment.

You stepped forward, closing the space between you, forcing his full attention.

“A prize?” Your voice was soft, feeling offended.

Zayne didn’t move, his expression unreadable, but you caught it.

The flicker of tension, the way he had expected this.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” You didn’t let him look away.

“You talk about power like it’s a game. Like the throne is a war you’ve suddenly decided is worth fighting because of me.”

His jaw tensed. “That’s not—”

“I am not a prize.” Your voice was steady, unwavering. “Not a throne to be claimed. Not a crown to be won.”

His eyes darkened, but he stayed silent.

“I have spent my life being bartered, measured, weighed for my worth. I won’t let you do the same.”

Zayne’s gaze held yours, quiet but relentless.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, but there was something behind it, something deeper than frustration.

You swallowed, but didn’t speak.

“You are not a prize, Princess.” His words were deliberate, calm, unshaken. “But you are worth fighting for.”

The torches crackled in the silence. His expression didn’t soften, but the intensity in his gaze was unmistakable.

“And you deserve someone who will.”

Zayne never wasted words.

That is why they are impossible to ignore.

You know you should have walked away.

Left him standing there in the dim corridor, let his words fade into the silence.

But you didn’t.

Zayne watched you, waiting.

His words hung between you, firm and unshaken. He wasn’t taking them back.

He wasn’t giving you an easy way out.

“And if I don’t want to be fought over at all?” Your voice was quieter now, controlled, but not weak.

His head tilted slightly. “Then I’ll stop.”

The words came too easily.

They should have reassured you, should have given you the control you wanted.

But something about the way he said them, the way his gaze held steady, the way his body remained perfectly still, made you wonder if he was lying.

Or worse, if he was telling the truth.

If you told him to stop, he would.

But that didn’t mean he would ever truly let you go.

You exhaled, fingers curling at your sides. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

Zayne let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t care about simplicity.”

Your lips parted, ready to argue, but before you could speak, he moved.

Not closer, not away, just a shift of weight, a breath of space given and taken in the same moment.

Your breath caught.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His gaze flicked down to your hands, still clenched at your sides.

His fingers twitched at his own, like he might reach out. Like he had the right to.

He didn’t.

But it would be so easy.

Your throat tightened. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?” His voice was smooth, maddeningly calm. “Tell the truth?”

You inhaled sharply. “Act like this is a choice.”

His smirk faded slightly. “It’s always been a choice. The only difference is I’ve finally made mine.”

Your stomach twisted. “Zayne—”

“No.” His voice was steady, firmer than before. “You don’t get to tell me I should have wanted the throne all these years, then be angry when I finally decide to take it.”

Your pulse pounded against your ribs. “You’re only doing this because of me.”

Zayne’s gaze darkened. “Yes.”

The admission was too quick. No hesitation.

Your fingers curled. “That’s not how this works.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Then tell me…how does it work?”

You weren’t sure who moved first.

But suddenly, the space between you disappeared, stolen in an instant.

The cold of the corridor pressed in, but his body was warm.

Too close, too much, too familiar.

Zayne’s breath brushed against your skin.

His voice was low, controlled, edged with something raw.

“If you think I’ll stand by while you’re bound to another man, a man who wants to use you as a bargaining chip, then you never knew me at all.”

Your throat tightened.

Your hands shook.

But still, you didn’t move away.

The space between you disappeared.

Not by hesitation. Not by accident.

By choice.

Zayne’s breath was warm against your skin, his body close enough that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The flickering torchlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the shadowed curve of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes that had been building for way too long.

Your pulse pounded.

Every rational thought screamed for distance, for restraint, for control.

But control had been slipping since the moment he stepped into this fight.

Since the moment he chose you.

His hand lifted, hovering near your waist, fingers twitching as if caught between restraint and inevitability.

You felt the hesitation, the last fragile thread of self-control fraying at the edges.

You could stop this.

You should.

But you didn’t.

Your fingers curled into the front of his tunic, just barely, just enough that he felt it.

The moment stretched between you, heavy and breathless, before he finally moved.

His lips crashed into yours, fierce and unrelenting, years of tension snapping in an instant.

There was nothing hesitant about the way he kissed you, nothing careful in the way his hands could finally grip your waist, pulling you against him, pressing you into the cold stone wall as if he had been holding back for too long and had finally given in.

Heat surged under your skin, your body igniting in a way that had nothing to do with magic.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tighter when his teeth scraped against your lower lip.

Zayne exhaled sharply, breaking the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours.

His breath was ragged, his grip firm.

Like he was afraid to let go.

“Say it,” he murmured.

Your fingers curled into his sleeves, voice barely steady.

“Say what?”

His lips brushed yours again, teasing, testing the last remnants of your resolve. “That you don’t want this.”

“That you don’t want me.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because it would be a lie.

And you both knew it.

His smirk returned, softer this time, his thumb tracing slow circles along your hip. “That’s what I thought.”

You didn’t stop him when he kissed you again.

Because, you wanted this.

[pikachulads]

Organized Love and Deepspace Non-Mc Fic Recommendations

Sylus

☆ Angel of Her Own Making - by bwennie (link here)

☆ Dragon!Sylus x Non-MC!Reader - by clairewritesfanfics (link here)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Sylus - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Sylus with non!mc reader - by yukithestar (one, two, three, four)

☆ enough - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ away (loosely part 2 of enough) - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ wilted promises - by shaiyasstuff (one, two, finale)

☆ delayed beginnings - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel, epilogue, bonus)

☆ The Great (Unnecessary) Divorce Incident - by mangooes (link here)

☆ The Winner Takes it All - by misshuntereevee (one, two)

☆ one in the head, two in the chest - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ hurst so good - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ The Sin & The Sinner - by saintobio (link here)

☆ Calm and Serenity - by blueivyy99 (masterlist)

☆ Impartial Hearts - by ladsonlads (link here)

☆ A Blooming Predicament - by subliminalwish (link here)

☆ merry christmas, mr. sylus - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ merry christmas, mr. sylus (aftermath) - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ sylus x non mc reader - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

Zayne

☆ Nocturne of Twilight - by chuluoyi (part one)

☆ Dawn's First Light - by chuluoyi (part two)

☆ pit-a-pat - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Zayne - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Heart of Glass - by shaisuki (part one)

☆ The Snowflakes on your Shoulders - by shaisuki (part two)

☆ My Heart in your Hands - by shaisuki (part three)

☆ My Wedding Vow Is To Divorce You - by kira-loves0905 (link here)

☆ Claiming Something That's Not Yours - by authorssmc (link here)

☆ evermore - by shaiyasstuff (link here)

Caleb

☆ Rotten Apples - by rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ mine - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ The Colonel's Keeper - by saintobio (link here)

☆ The Colonel's Saint - by saintobio (part two)

☆ The Terminator's Curse (spinoff of The Colonel Series) - by saintobio (link here)

☆ weightless paradise - by huxhsz (masterlist)

☆ back to friends - by hxlxnaaa (link here)

Xavier

☆ glass half full - by shaiyasstuff (drabble)

☆ 3:07 a.m. - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel)

☆ we can't be friends - by kitimeq (link here)

Rafayel

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Rafayel - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Ocean Memories - by yuansie (masterlist)

☆ fate - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel)

☆ Loathe To Paint You - by rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ You Were Meant For The Ocean - by sapphirexsolarium (link here)

◇ There's probably a lot of non-mc fics out there that i haven't read/seen BUT these are the ones that I'm currently reading / already read!

◇ To the authors mentioned THANK YOU FOR YOUR AMAZING WRITING/WORKS AND I LOVE YA'LL 🙈💗

◇ All links are up to date / will be updated!

◇ This list will be updated as well!

Last Edited April 20, 2025 08:20 am

♥ dividers used is made by enchanthings ♥

[pikachulads]

Why does Sylus’s wish has me crying? To show his vulnerability, he wants us to live boldly and freely. He regards us as his vulnerabillity.

It is so heart-wrenching. I truly wish you a happy birthday, sylus. May everyone sincere to you, stay by your side and show you love for eternity.

This was the cake that i made for him in this birthday. Nothing much, but i quite like its simplicity.

And my card said,“Happy Birthday pretty eyes<3”.

[pikachulads]

Wanna know something painful?

When I was a new LADS player, I thought stamina was more important than gems, so...

Yeah, I used over 1000 gems to buy stamina. Anyways..

[pikachulads]

🐦‍⬛ OUT OF BOUNDS — you get isekai-d into the n109 zone [chapter one]

synopsis — the monotony of your university days is interrupted by a stroke of misfortune, one which lands you in the world of love and deepspace, the game you had been casually playing for the previous months. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of being his personal secretary. — a continuation of the one-shot “out of bounds”

pairing — sylus x non-mc! reader

tags — reader is not mc, isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, mutual pining, slice of life, boss/employee relationship, slow burn

a/n — oh how i wish to leave my academically rigorous life and get isekai-d… next chapter will be sometime next week as i’m on the brink with finals (the class average on the exam is 7/45 we are not okay) i might not reply to all comments but i want u to know i see all of them n blush & kick my feet every time 🥰

ao3 | masterlist | requests are open! series masterlist | part two

chapter one: descent — after finding yourself in an unfortunate accident, you wake up in the world of love and deepspace. you go from burned out college student to secretary at your wit's end. wc: 4k

January snow falls on your tongue, plumes of warm air escaping your breath into the cold. It was just your luck to get saddled with a 7 PM class this semester, relegated to walking home in the late winter chill. You clutch your bag tighter as you walk down the desolate road, devoid of any streetlights— when a vehicle swerves and crashes into you. The impact is that of a sledgehammer to your body, as you hear the crunch of glass and the snap of bones. 

This is the end, you think, as the world around you blurs into nothingness. 

—————————————————————

You rise to consciousness upon hearing a steady, mechanical beeping— and promptly have a panic attack upon seeing the IV attached to your arm. You feel yourself hyperventilating, the heart rate monitor crashing as a triad of nurses comes in to restrain you. You desperately thrash against their hold, trying to remove the intrusive line from your body, but it’s no use; your injuries and the numerous drugs running through your system hamper your movements. You hear muffled explanations— inaudible to your clouded mind— before they decide to sedate you. You drift back into slumber. 

Sometime later, you wake up again, this time with the IV detached and a familiar face sitting casually by your bedside. You do a double take at the silver-haired man. And you laugh. You must be in some sort of dream or coma-induced hallucination. Because why was Sylus, a love interest from Love and Deepspace— the game you have been obsessed with for the past few months— sitting here in flesh and blood? You say as much, and he deigns you with the response, “Did you sustain brain damage on top of your other injuries?”

You shake your head at the absurdity of your delusions, quickly falling back into a medically-induced sleep. Things should be back to normal when you wake up.

—————————————————————

Newsflash: they weren’t. As days passed, you gradually had to accept that— whether reality or not— you were going to be stuck here until you figured out how to return to your world. 

Sylus visits you from time to time, the strange girl who landed in his backyard and claims to be from another world. It turns out that the place you’ve woken up in is not a hospital, but Onychinus’s medical ward. Your conversations are minimal, mostly veiled threats as he questions your intentions and identity. “I’ll give you one last chance,” He exhales in frustration as he interrogates you for the hundredth time, “To explain why you’ve trespassed here, before I decide for myself.” 

“…I didn’t want to die?” You answer meekly. You don’t have the heart to tell him he’s not being as menacing as he thinks he is, hovering over a patient confined to their hospital bed. You take a spoonful of your pudding when he looks away. Better than hospital food back home, at least.

There's little you can say that won’t make him think you’ve gone mad. But, maybe you are. A strong part of you believes that any moment, you’ll be waking up in a padded room, wearing a straitjacket.

You spend your days drifting in and out of sleep, staring out the window into the underbelly of the N109 Zone. Each day you awaken to the sight of the dark cityscape fills you with disappointment and dread, as you realize this may not be a dream. You miss the warmth of your own bed. You miss the soft daylight streaming into your apartment. (You miss home.) 

When you’ve healed enough to be discharged, you have nowhere to go. So you turn to the only person you’re familiar with in this world.  

You corner him in the hallway outside your room, dressed in the ill-fitting clothes given to you. (The ones you wore during the accident couldn’t be salvaged, they said, handing the torn and bloody garments to you. Your only possessions in this world, now ruined.) You fidget with your hands, daring yourself to look him in the eye. “I don't have a lot of work experience, but…” You earnestly list off all of the projects and internships you’ve undertaken in the previous years, selling your skills with the desperation of someone who has nowhere else to go. 

You were just a college student, months away from graduation before you found yourself here. Your life was tiring; an endless backlog of readings and back-to-back assignments waiting for you at the end of each day, the pressure to succeed constantly weighing down on your conscience. But despite it all, it was a fulfilling life; working every day to the bone in order to achieve your dreams. 

Now, it fills you with spite— how everything you had worked hard for was taken away in the blink of an eye. But you push the bitterness aside, offering whatever skills you have to Sylus so he doesn’t kick you out. You know that this world isn’t kind, the N109 Zone being one of the worst places you could have ended up. A normal civilian such as you wouldn’t be able to survive here alone.

You don’t spare a breath until the very end of your spiel, “—and, it would only have to be until I find a way to return home,” You finish. All the while, you’re hiding your anxiety; because how exactly do you get home? (A part of you cruelly whispers: if you can.) 

“Pretty please?” You add with a grimace, when the silence becomes overwhelming. 

He looks at you with cruel amusement, chin tilted down like a king with a peasant at his feet. The Sylus of Love and Deepspace may have been a devoted lover, but the man in front of you now is a cold and ruthless criminal. He takes a step forward— you think he plans to rid you from his sight, when he says, “Don’t make me regret it.” 

—————————————————————

Though you don’t have much to contribute to a criminal organization, you’re grateful when Sylus offers you the job of his personal secretary. 

The past few weeks before the accident had been spent in the post-holiday rush of schoolwork. With only your job to keep you occupied now, you’ve never found yourself with so much time on your hands. Years of building time management skills helps you to cope with the high-paced nature of this world, so you put your whole blood, sweat, and tears into this job, repaying Sylus’s generosity with your efforts to earn your keep around here. 

As his personal assistant, you have no precedent to follow because Sylus just… does everything on his own. Despite the number of minions and associates he has at his disposal, when it comes to his personal business, Sylus is a one-man army. So, you insert yourself into his workflow and commandeer his schedule; the man doesn’t even have a calendar, for crying out loud. Although you don’t have much work experience, your previous internships and methodical nature help you to excel at this job. Never has the leader of Onychinus been so…. organized, his colleagues and associates observe the stark change in the following months. 

“Miss Secretary,” Luke and Kieran affectionately call you, “What’s your secret to dealing with the bossman?” They ask, in dramatically hushed whispers. 

Sylus was untouchable— unrivaled at his job— which often enabled his imperious disregard for everyone else’s time and patience. Being late or completely missing meetings if something he deems more important arises (an auction for a vintage record is not something you deem important enough over an executive meeting), expecting his minions to accomplish the impossible in a matter of days. “I did the heavy lifting, surely you can manage the scraps,” He drawls from his leather, ergonomic chair, looking bored to bits. 

Though you already knew this from your time playing the game, it was different to experience it, and extremely more difficult to tolerate.

But you’ve dealt with worse in the form of freeloader group mates and hard-headed cousins. Over time, you whip him up to shape, scolding him when he arrives late to meetings, making sure he actually calls back when he says he will. “And what if I don't?” He asked with an edged smile on his face, the first time you admonished him. 

As you learned with your experience with children over the years: disappointment hits harder than anger. You cross your arms, holding back your true frustration. “Well, you’d be making mine and everyone else’s job ten times harder. And I would think much less of you.” You thought you’d get sacked the moment the words came out of your mouth. 

But instead, momentary shock flitted through his eyes— a slow, amused smirk spreading across his face. “Well, I can't have my lovely secretary think so lowly of me, now can I?” He gave you a demeaning pat on the head, your irritation coming back in full swing. 

Over time, you grow to have a deeper respect for Sylus and how he runs Onychinus. He surprisingly takes criticism very well. At least, when it comes from you. You vividly remember the time he used his evol on an associate who dared to criticize his business practices. (He was being rude, anyway.) Neither is he the type to exaggerate his capabilities, easily admitting to his limitations. “I suppose I’ll have to learn then,” Is his attitude when it comes to his shortcomings, and you admire it. 

However, none of this stops him from being a bastard from time to time and making your job harder than it needed to be.

—————————————————————

Once Sylus started entrusting you with more responsibilities, you started handling his work line. His business partners now call his office to be greeted by a chirpy voice, “You’ve reached the Onychinus hotline, how may I help you? Oh, Sylus isn’t here right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

This especially came in handy when certain little rats wouldn’t stop bothering him on the phone. “You want to know if he’ll attend the anniversary ball on the 21st?” You made eye contact with him across the room. He immediately shook his head, as he caught wind of the brown-nosing colleague who couldn’t take a hint. “He’s not here right now, unfortunately. I'll get back to you through email as soon as I can.” (You never did.) 

Another new responsibility you’ve been given is to mediate dissatisfied clients. You’re surprisingly good at it; sometimes he wonders if you’ve taken some sort of PR training before. With how you handle these grown men acting like children without offending them, you’re either the most patient person to exist or very discreetly planning murder. He would’ve just resorted to threats of maiming (and execution of said threats when necessary). It makes things a lot easier since— according to you— his abrasive personality creates more problems than necessary. 

He initially gave you this job as more of a placeholder role, so you can occupy yourself with the illusion of real responsibility while he investigates his suspicions about you. Where did you come from? Who sent you? And most importantly, how did you manage to infiltrate his base right under his nose? But his investigation leads him to the simple truth: there was nothing on you. It’s as if you materialized from thin air. No records, no blood ties, no evidence of your existence before you walked into his life. 

But if reincarnation can be fact, and dragons more than legends, why deny the possibility of other realities? This, more than anything, makes him inclined to believe your claims. 

Besides, you’ve proven yourself to be… useful, he can admit. You easily adjust to his nocturnal schedule; like another little crow chirping from his shoulder at all times of the day. 

“Chop chop, Sylus! You have a 9 o’clock meeting at The Nest and it’s already 8:30,” You storm into his office to remind him. You can count on both hands the number of times you’ve had to overhaul his schedule into oblivion because of a single missed meeting. 

“Don’t worry, dear,” He idly spins in his chair, with no intention of leaving anytime soon. “It’ll only take me fifteen minutes.” 

You whipped your head at him in alarm, “I’d rather you not break the speed limits to get there on time.”

It takes you one look at his daily schedule to nag him about his more concerning eating habits, even going so far as to ask his preferred meals to inform the chefs in advance. “Are you going to explain to me why you’ve spent two whole hours on a single meal?” You sit across from him at the table; stunned would be an understatement at how you feel seeing all the empty plates surrounding him. 

He huffs. It’s not his fault his more… draconic habits carried over into this life. “Can I not even have my lunch in peace?” 

“At least space your meals out. Or eat dinner. You’re going to get hunger pangs before you go to bed, at this rate.”

Sometimes, you even resort to physically forcing him out of his office the moment noon hits, in an attempt to prevent him from overworking, “Sun’s up, boss. It’s time to hit the sack.” He’s long since learned not to fight you on this. Even if your attempts to push at his back are puny, at best. 

Your days together go by in this peacefully chaotic nature; your presence likening to a storm that has come to uproot his life. He pays you egregious amounts of money to make his job easier, and in turn, you make sure he’s fed, well-rested, and most importantly, aware of his goddamn schedule. 

It helps that your office is connected to his, although it's less a room and more an alcove he cleared away when he gave you the job. You have a small desk, a fluffy swivel chair, and a shelf covered in the trinkets you spend your salary on. (Another thing you have in common with Mephisto, he notes to the ever-growing list.) 

He could shut the doors to your “reception area,” as he likes to call it, but he finds amusement to idly watch you during his downtime. Your desk is in the perfect position to observe you from the corner of his eye. It had been a strategic decision, when he knew nothing of you or your intentions. Now, it’s become a pastime for him to watch you and your silly habits. Twirling the strands of your hair and chewing your pen, as you talk on the phone about weapons shipments and insuring someone who lost a finger in an operation. 

He’s not accustomed to being in such close quarters with someone, to letting someone into the crevices of his life. Yet slowly but surely, you weave your way into not only his work, but into the threads of his everyday existence. You leave your mark all throughout his home; from small trinkets magically finding their way onto random surfaces, your sweater claiming its new home on the couch armrest, a new mug in your favorite color left in the kitchen sink. Sometimes he can tell you’ve just left a room, when he inhales the lingering traces of your perfume. 

Your presence slips its way into that of his found family, too. The moment you laid eyes on Mephisto, the mechanical crow had immediately claimed a soft spot in your heart. You affectionately call him Mephie. From feeding him tiny bites of your dinner (he doesn’t have the heart to tell you he can’t digest food), to finding shiny trinkets such as coins and jewelry to add to his collection, you’re very close to displacing Sylus as the crow’s favorite in the house. 

Despite only being a few years older than Luke and Kieran— the exact middle between their and Sylus’s age— you both indulge and scold them. You join in on their pranks (you’re often the key to setting it up, what with your way around his schedule) but become extremely disappointed if their fun results in collateral damage; from a broken vase, to a rescheduled mission. Similar to Sylus, you keep them in check but stand right alongside them in the chaos. 

Contradictory to his initial expectations, you prove yourself in a professional capacity and cement your place in the ranks of Onychinus.

—————————————————————

The snow melts and spring creeps in, marking three months since you found yourself in this strange new world. Most days feel like a haze to you. Your secretarial duties keep your mind occupied, leaving little room for sorrow to settle in. But when you clock out and are left in solitude, your thoughts become your worst enemy. For that, you linger around the base a lot. Commandeering the kitchen to make midnight snacks, playing cards with Luke and Kieran in the living room, bothering Sylus when he’s cleaning his quarters. You toe the line for how much sleep you need to make it through the day— a bit hypocritical, you admit, given how you scold Sylus when he works at his office late into the night.

Misguided as it was, maybe it was a drop of fortune that you found yourself in his world. You’ve read stories of being transported to other worlds— of lions, witches, and wardrobes; of tornados, munchkins, and wicked witches. But the rabbit hole you’ve fallen down has been nothing like those tumultuous journeys. Your days in the office are warm and lovely— far from the crazed rush of deadlines and youthful chase of dreams you were living out in university, but a quiet contentment, nonetheless. Over time, you find yourself growing attached to the new life you’ve built, to the new family you’ve found. 

But the moment your head hits the pillow, it is the image of your family glued to the back of your eyelids. You see them worried sick about your disappearance, posting missing papers and wondering where you are, if you’ve become another statistic. (You don’t want to face the possibility that they may not be worried at all. That they may know exactly where you are, buried you there themselves.) For every smile and moment of laughter is a whisper in the back of your mind: Don’t you miss us? Don’t you miss home? 

You invest all your guilt and spare energy into combing through the hoard of resources at your disposal. The reach of your information is almost endless, with Onychinus being the reigning authority in the N109 Zone (and secretly, some cities, too). Yet, there’s nothing. Your search feels futile, each failed lead adding to your ever-growing hopelessness. 

During the day, no one would know any better; with how you hide your inner turmoil, composing yourself into your role as Sylus’s secretary. But your ghosts ambush you into the night. Nightmares plague you throughout your intermittent slumber, as you constantly arise from vivid memories of the accident and of your past life (of waking up and finding yourself six feet underground). Your anxieties have evolved from a restlessness to return to a growing fear of what might await you. 

One night, you find yourself near-suffocating under plush sheets, thrashing as you dream of dirt piling on top of you. Sorrowful figures shoveling you into the ground and muffling your pleas, I'm here. I'm still here. Your terror carries over into reality, a scream leaving your throat as you jolt up in bed, once again finding the sight of the cityscape before you— now a source of comfort, rather than despair.

An imaginative mind is a gift at best, and haunts you at worst. You stumble as you leave your bed, heart racing and the fictional taste of dirt still in your mouth. You feel that you will vomit if you stay here, in sweat soaked sheets and stuffy air. So you grab a coat and make your way to the rooftop, where you find that someone had the same thought as you.

“Can’t sleep?” Sylus asks with his back turned, having sensed your presence before you could make yourself known.

You ignore his question, breathing in the dew and the early March air, breezing past even in the barren cityscape of the N109 Zone. “It's late, why aren’t you in bed?”

“Why aren’t you?” He retorts, scooting over in a silent invitation. You shiver as you take a seat beside him on the cold metal bench.

“It’s nothing, really,” You shake your head, voice trembling as you try to voice the terror that had taken over you, “Just nightmares, you know. They happen sometimes…” 

Bathed under soft moonlight, he quietly admits, “I understand. I get them, too. I often find myself here when I can't go back to sleep, when it feels too stifling inside.” 

“Before, I used to be mad at myself for falling asleep. I had to pull a lot of all-nighters for college, back then,” You explain, hitting your feet against the metal leg of the bench. “There were only so many hours in a day, but so much left to do… It’s ironic. Now that I want to sleep, I can't.” You laugh, but it’s hollow and empty. 

“What is it that you dream about?” 

You muse upon it, “Home. My family and friends. I dream of my childhood home a lot, but those are the good dreams. But then there are ones about all the things I'll need to catch up with at university, when I return,” Everything you have lost. Everything that was taken away from you. You laugh, thinking about it, “Those are the real nightmares. My to-do list is going to be taller than me once I get back. But what about you?”

A bittersweet smile paints his face, “Oh, the usual. Just about everything I've done wrong in my existence.”

You gasp dramatically, slamming a fist to your chest, “The great ole’ Sylus, ruler of all that breathes and crawls in the zone, feeling guilt?”

“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He playfully rolls his eyes, before turning somber once again, “I feel regret, maybe, at what I could have done differently. Sometimes I dream of turning back time.” He dreams of his days inside the chapel, a short refuge within a terrible era of this world. Is it so wrong that he wishes to return to it? To live within that bubble of peace forever? 

“That’s interesting. I don't know if anything would change if I could turn back time… I have a feeling I'd still be where I am.” Unease grows within you the more time passes. That however hard you try, you are bound to the direction you’re headed in. (That you have been for a while.)

The conversation settles into a comfortable silence, as the two of you gaze at the nocturne before you. You stare into the sea of lights glittering below, headlights and neon signs glowing within the city that never rests. They blur together, these lights. Soft colors of blue, green, red, growing ever duller until you find yourself falling back into a peaceful slumber. 

—————————————————————

He sits in quiet tranquility, your slumbering figure resting on his shoulder, the smell of your shampoo overwhelming his senses. Once you’re sound asleep, he carries you back to your bedroom, careful not to disturb the long sought-for sleep you had just achieved.

What was once a potential threat is now precious cargo in his arms, muttering incomprehensible murmurs in her sleep. How can someone be so harmless and lovely? He thinks, brushing aside your stray wisps of hair. As he walks down the opulent halls of his home, he muses on how, like a storm rolling in, you have swept your way into his life. He lays you in your bed, tucking you gently underneath the cotton sheets. 

It happens here, during the first breath of spring after winter, as he gazes upon your soft form. For the first time in a millennia, he feels the quiet stirrings of his heart, beating for something he cannot yet name. 

—————————————————————

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[pikachulads]

it sounds like oshi-ah-gen to me

I wish they added subtitles for this

Lemurian Dictionary: "You're Mine"

Lemurian Spelling: Unknown

(Theorized) Lemurian Pronunciation: "Bul-shi-AH- gen"

Details:

In Rafayel's "Touring In Love" event story, the protaganist asks him to teach her how to speak Lemurian. After trying to decide which word to teach her, he eventually picks the one heard below.

To me, the pronunciation sounds like "bul-shi-AH- gen". But since they don't write out the word in the captions, I'm unsure of its exact spelling and pronunciation.

[pikachulads]

But he does come back as a yandere dad—Farspace Colonel in the lore :3

Falling into you

pairing: Caleb x reader

summary: Caleb was always there, but now, something’s changed. He’s different. You’re different. But neither of you can name it. Not yet.

word count: 4.8k

author's note: this is my first post in lads. Grammar mistakes? fuck i'd cry(but tell me, anyways). Also, I wrote it a little different. But, I mean, can you handle reliving the trauma you carry about Caleb? It is sweet though, ha.. The tension is intense. You better see it. Squint. Drown. Whatever you do. You better feel the tension.

The best part about growing up with your childhood friend is that you never have to explain yourself. You have someone who’s seen you throw tantrums and fall apart, someone who’s laughed at your worst haircut and stayed up with you through exam stress and friendship heartbreak. They know every embarrassing detail—every weakness—each tiny cross.

And if they’re still by your side after all that, they’re more than just loyal.

They’re home.

And when someone feels like home, you don’t question it. Not the comfort. Not the closeness. Not even the way your heart slows when they look at you like you're the only person in the room. Because it's always been this way.

Until one day, you do question it.

Because Caleb feels different somehow. It’s like watching someone you’ve known your whole life move through a dream—familiar, but just out of reach. You don’t recognize him through his expressions or the way his voice sounds deeper now.

You recognize him through your memories. Through the echo of every moment that once made you feel safe.

And now, he feels like both. Familiar and unfamiliar. Comfortable and unsettling.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, brush paused mid-stroke, and say out loud, “This is normal. A very normal thing to happen. We’re now grown-ups, afterall”.

Your voice sounds flat. Unconvincing. One glance at your face and anyone could see—you’re lying to yourself. You don’t believe it for a second.

It’s confusing. It’s disorienting. But that’s okay.

Because the readers of your story? They already know what’s coming. This is your laughable, syncronising, and heart wrenching canon event.

The chapter where you realize you’ve fallen in love with your childhood friend. (Like Caleb hasn’t been manifesting it for years.)

Stage One: Blind Spot

"You know, it’s sort of weird…” you say, tearing the wrapper off a bar of chocolate, letting the crinkle fill the comfortable silence of the kitchen.

Caleb’s back is to you.

He stands near the stove, shoulders relaxed but still carrying that quiet strength that never leaves him—even when he’s home. His blue shirt clings just right, outlining the sharp taper of his waist, the sculpted lines of his back, still faintly damp from a recent shower. The scent of soap and smoke and something so distinctly him lingers in the air between you.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t need to.

“Mmm? What is?” he murmurs, focused on his task—cutting mushrooms with those clean, practiced movements. Precise. Calm. Familiar.

He’s making Baoshao mushrooms—your favorite. Of course he is.

You lean in beside him, your hip brushing the counter as you scan the ingredients. Everything’s arranged perfectly, like always. Banana leaves, fresh garlic, spices. Your eyes catch on a small heap of cilantro and you blink.

“You’re using cilantro,” you say slowly. “But you hate cilantro.”

He chuckles, low and unbothered. Then he shifts his weight and rests his elbow on your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like you don’t feel your skin tingle every time he does it.

“But you love it, don’t you?”

You bite off a piece of chocolate, staring him down. “I do not like it.”

“No?” he says, sounding almost amused.

“I don’t like you being selfless,” you mutter.

That gets him.

He pauses, knife hovering mid-air, then glances at you with that half-lidded expression he does so well. Calm, unreadable. Dangerous.

You frown and turn to reach for the cilantro, but his hand wraps around your waist before your fingers can touch it. In one smooth movement, he turns you toward him, pressing you back against the counter.

And you’re caught. Trapped.

Your breath stutters.

His arms on either side of you, body close enough that you feel the heat rising off him in slow waves. His scent fills your lungs—citrus and cedarwood and something deeper, something you can’t name. Your heart pounds, your hands still gripping the chocolate like a lifeline.

This isn’t how brothers hold. This isn’t how they look at you.

“C’mon, pipsqueak,” he says, eyes locked on yours. His voice is low, almost teasing—but there’s a flicker beneath it. “What’s this sudden concern for?”

He leans in, and you forget how to breathe. “You’re getting my hopes up,” he whispers, eyes dropping to your lips.

Your stomach flips. Hopes up…?

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because he leans in even closer, dips his head—and takes a bite out of your chocolate bar. His lips brush your fingers, and his tongue, careless and warm, lingers for half a second too long against your thumb.

You freeze.

Then, like always, Caleb steps back. Unbothered. Calm. Like he didn’t just dismantle your nervous system with one touch.

“You get dramatic when you’re hungry,” he says, reaching for the banana leaves like the conversation never happened.

You stand there, blinking. Chocolate still in your hand. Pulse thundering in your ears. Something in your chest trying very hard to make sense of what just happened—and failing.

Because Caleb is just Caleb.

He’s always been there. Always been your home.

Your friend.

Your brother-but-not-by-blood.

But that look in his eyes just now? That warmth in your stomach?

It felt like something else.

And that part of you that leaned into it, just a little, just for a second? That part is louder than ever.

Still… it’s probably nothing. A weird blip in the system. You’re not the type to get emotional anyway.

Right?

Stage two: The flicker of Awareness

The thing about bad days is… you don’t always see them coming. They don’t crash into you like a wave. They seep. Slow and quiet. A missed text. A stupid argument. A little silence that lingers too long and starts to sting. By the time you realize something’s wrong, it’s already settled into your chest like fog.

You hadn’t planned to go outside today. Not after the fight with your best friend. Not after pretending to be okay all day. But a certain extrovert with full energy had shown up anyway. No warning. No questions. Just a casual knock, and a stupid smile.

Might wanna read the room, Caleb? You were in dumps!

Sigh.

The air was thick and warm, full of sugar and smoke and the sound of other people’s joy. It should’ve been nice. It might’ve been, if you hadn’t felt so off in your own skin.

“Ugh, it’s too hot,” you muttered, half-hoping he’d hear your misery.

But Caleb didn’t answer. You turned your head and suddenly—a ridiculous red sun hat flopped down over your eyes. It looked goofy, you looked exactly like a kid tailing with an adult.

Before you could protest, he pulled out a bright floral jacket from his bag.

“Nope. Not wearing that,” you said, backing away.

He just grinned. “Fine by me,” he said, draping the absurd thing over himself. “You gotta protect yourself against the sun in this weather, or you are making yourself into a heating pan to fry an egg.” The floral jacket, didn't even fit him. But, Caleb managed to look like he was content with it.

“You’re insane,” you muttered, trying not to smile.

“But you’re smiling,” he said, without looking at you.

He always notices.

Somewhere between the games and the food, the ache in your chest loosened. It didn’t vanish—but it dulled. Like maybe, for a few hours, you could just be someone who didn’t have things falling apart at the edges.

It was just you and Caleb enjoying the peak of being an adult. And that’s obviously playing unlimited gamed without the supervision of a greater adult!

Before you know it, it’s evening and despite a deeper darkness seeking-in, there were still a lot of people in the fair.

"Caleb, hurry!", you excitedly, call for him. Yet, when you turn around you see him no where around you. “Oh, no.”

You had somehow, lost him.

One second he was beside you, making some dumb joke about winning you a plushie. The next—gone. Swallowed by the crowd. You turned too quickly, panicked too fast, and ended up bumping into a stranger. Their heel slammed into your foot, hard.

You winced, hobbling back and tried to breathe.

And, as you find a place with a lesser crowd, you looked down.

The strap on your sandal had snapped.

And your toe—bleeding.

Of course.

You stared at it, teeth clenched. Embarrassed. Angry. Alone. Your phone had no signal. There was nowhere to sit. The crowd pressed too close. Everything felt too loud. Too much.

Your eyes burned.

You weren’t sure why.

It wasn’t just the sandal. Or the crowd. Or the pain.

It was the quiet way the world moved on without you. Like your bad day didn’t matter to anyone but you.

You blinked hard. Inhaled. “Stop it,” you whispered to no one. “You’re not a kid anymore.”

But the tears slipped through anyway.

It’s as if all the things you had forgotten were coming back to you at once. The tears kept rushing in, and you couldn't help as a sob escaped your lips. It felt embarrasing, and overwhelming.

It hurt.

And then—just as suddenly as he disappeared—Caleb was there.

His hand landed gently on your head. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just there. Steady.

You didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.

“There you are,” he said softly. “I told you the hat was essential. Like a little red alert I could follow.”

You turned.

And before you could stop yourself, you leaned in.

Pressed your forehead to his chest, fingers curling into the front of that stupid jacket. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arms around you like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He always does.

“You okay?” he murmured, chin resting lightly against your temple.

You nodded. Lied.

He pulled back only enough to glance down at your foot—and stilled.

“What happened?” he asked, already crouching.

You shrugged. “I tripped. It’s nothing.”

But he looked up at your face, and whatever he saw there made him go quiet.

The next thing you knew, he’d turned around and crouched, arms steady.

“Get on,” he said, like it was obvious.

You hesitated. “Caleb, I can walk—”

“Not with that toe, you can’t.”

“I’ll survive.”

He looked over his shoulder, gaze soft but unwavering. “I know you will. But I’m not letting you limp through a fairground like some tragic drama heroine. So get on.”

You did.

Because he always had ways to get you to do things.

His back was warm. Broad. Familiar. You rested your cheek against it, letting yourself breathe. Just for a minute. Just long enough to forget you were supposed to be holding everything together.

He didn’t talk much after that.

But he listened.

He always listens. To the stuff you say. And the stuff you don’t.

And somewhere between the games and the silence and the ridiculous sun hat, you felt something shift. Not between you, exactly. Just… inside you.

Like the way your heart fluttered when he reached back to steady your legs. The way his hand lingered, gentle, firm. The way you wished the walk back would last longer.

It wasn’t new. But it felt new.

You wanted to say something. Maybe ask if he’d always been this warm. This easy to lean on.

Instead, you whispered, “Will you still give me piggybacks when you have a girlfriend?”

It came out before you could stop it.

He slowed a little. “Huh?”

You immediately backtracked. “Forget I said that. I’m being weird.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Pipsqueak,” he said, voice softer than it had any right to be, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t make it a joke.

And you didn’t laugh.

You just held on tighter, heart knocking a little too loudly against your ribs.

Because maybe—for the first time—you let yourself believe him.

And that tiny voice inside you, the one you’d ignored for years, whispered something new:

He’s always been there.

But maybe you’re starting to see him.

Stage three: The need to express

The attic smells like dust and summer and forgotten stories. You wrinkle your nose and push open the crooked window to let the light in, the breeze stirring motes into lazy spirals. Caleb’s behind you somewhere, muttering about the lack of proper ventilation like the grown-up he pretends to be.

“You sure this isn’t a health hazard?” he calls, lifting a heavy box with one hand and wiping his forehead with the other.

“Quit complaining, you said you wanted to help,” you reply, shoving aside a pile of old notebooks. “I just need to find that album. The one with all the polaroids.”

“You mean the one where you gave me devil horns in every photo?”

“They were accurate portrayals.”

He laughs—loud and honest, and it fills the room in a way that makes your chest ache, though you can’t explain why.

You were distracted, half-kneeling on a rickety step-stool, sifting through a box labeled Childhood Trash, when you hear it.

“Oh?” Caleb’s voice, playful. “What’s this?”

You turn your head, and he’s holding a thin red notebook with your name doodled all over the cover. It’s not the album.

It’s your old account book.

Your heart drops.

“Oh my god—give me that—” You nearly fall off the stool trying to snatch it, but Caleb dances out of reach, flipping it open with an evil grin.

“May 14th: Caleb said he’d save the last candy but he ate it. Betrayal. 3 points deducted from friendship score.” He snorts. “You had a point system?”

“Stop reading it!”

“June 2nd: Caleb forgot my birthday until noon. Very upsetting. Only made up for it with strawberry pocky. 6 points lost, 4 recovered. Net friendship score: shaky.” He’s laughing now, eyes crinkling.

You lunge for him.

The stool wobbles.

Stupid.

You yelp—too late—and pitch forward. A sudden arm catches you mid-air, and the two of you crash backward, tangled and breathless, landing squarely on the sagging attic couch behind him.

For a second, there’s only stillness. The dust floats around you like suspended time.

You’re sprawled half on top of him, one knee pressing into the cushion, your hand fisted into the front of his shirt. His arm’s around your waist, steady and secure. He hasn’t let go.

And you… haven’t moved either.

Because suddenly you’re noticing everything.

The way his chest rises beneath your hand. The way his voice dips low when he says your name, barely above a whisper. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod, but your voice doesn’t come. Because your gaze is stuck—on his hand, where it holds your waist. That faint, silvery scar on his wrist.

The one from when he climbed the fence for you in seventh grade to rescue your dumb sketchbook. You’d forgotten about it. But it’s there. Always has been.

Your eyes flick up. To his lips.

He’s not smiling now. Not teasing.

Just watching you.

Like you’re something fragile.

You feel his thumb brush your cheek—so softly, you could almost pretend it didn’t happen. But it did. A slow stroke, calloused finger grazing your skin like he’s memorizing it.

“Caleb…” you whisper, and you’re not sure if it’s a warning or a question.

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move.

His hand lingers at your jaw, fingertips gentle. And his gaze…

It lingers.

Not just on your face. But on you. Like you’re not the same girl he’s known all his life. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

You swallow.

Because you’re seeing him, too.

The soft yearning in his eyes. The weight behind it. The way he always offers you the last bite. The way he listens—not just hears. The way his presence fills a room without ever demanding it.

Your face is so close to his now. Just one breath away.

You lean forward.

Just a little.

Then freeze.

Because this isn’t nothing. This isn’t teasing. This is—

Caleb’s hand shifts, slides to cup your jaw. His thumb grazes the corner of your mouth, like he’s already read your thoughts.

And he murmurs, quiet and dangerous:

“I still owe you six points, don’t I?”

You exhale, trembling, torn between laughter and something deeper.

And suddenly, you realize—

You don’t want the points.

You want him.

Stage four: The Leap of Faith

It took ages to admit it—not just out loud, but to yourself. That maybe your childhood friend wasn’t just a friend.

You used to think feelings like this came in lightning strikes. One moment of clarity. One spark of sudden, overwhelming love. But this… this has been quieter. Slower. A steady ache, like light seeping in through the cracks. Like warmth you only noticed when it was gone.

And now you were older. A licensed Deepspace Hunter under the elite UNICORNS unit. Trained. Hardened. Supposedly brave. You fought shadows and monsters, crossed danger zones without flinching. So what was one confession?

If he was home today, you decided, you’d tell him. Just tell him. If he wasn’t—well, maybe it was the universe’s way of telling you to keep pretending.

The sun hung low when you stepped off the transport, casting soft amber light across the familiar neighborhood. There was the old tree you used to climb. The mailbox Caleb once painted purple because you dared him. Everything looked just the same.

Except you. You weren’t the girl who bit his hand when he stole your last candy. You weren’t the girl who cried when he left for his first mission without you.

You were someone who could say it now.

Maybe.

The door creaked as you stepped inside the house. The smell of roast pork greeted you first—warm, rich, nostalgic. And then—

“Grandma, I’m home,” you called out.

The old woman looked up from her place on the couch, her eyes lighting up. “Ah, sweetie,” she said, delighted. “You haven’t been visiting since you joined the Hunters. Did you miss me?”

A soft laugh escaped your lips as you walked toward her. “Of course I did. Is that roast pork? I’ve been learning how to cook. Want to be my taste tester?”.

She sniffed the air with dramatic flair. “What happened to the girl who couldn’t even boil water? I should’ve sent you into the battlefield sooner.”

Her words made you smile—but it wasn’t them that made your heart jolt.

It was his voice, coming from the kitchen.

“She still can’t boil water,” Caleb said, stepping out with a tray in his hands. “But hey, she tries.”

Your breath caught.

He wore a black jacket over a soft white tee, sleeves pushed up. His hair was a little tousled, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. And he looked just the same. Exactly like the day you last saw him. Too much like home.

“I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow,” you said, unable to hide your awe.

He raised a brow. “What’s wrong with coming home early to spend time with you and Gran?”

Then, casually, like it didn’t shake your entire chest, he reached out and ruffled your hair. “Go wash your hands. Let’s eat.”

The three of you sat together as the old TV played something soft in the background. The warmth of the food, the low hum of conversation—it felt like a piece of your past was stitched back into place.

You glanced at Grandma. “How’s your health? Still getting headaches?”

She waved you off gently. “It’s normal for people my age. As long as I take my medication, I’ll be fine.”

“But didn’t the doctor suggest observation in the hospital?” you frowned.

Grandma gave Caleb a pleading look. He stepped in smoothly.

“Already on it,” he said, placing his chopsticks down. “I submitted an application for long-term care. It’s a nice, quiet ward. Just her style.”

You blinked at him. “Wait. When did you do all that?”

“Caleb’s always been decisive,” Grandma chimed in before he could answer. “If I need to be in the hospital, visit me, alright? Oh, and talk to Zayne too. Maybe have lunch with him.”

You almost choked.

She was still trying to set you up—with Zayne of all people. While you were preparing to confess to Caleb.

“Even the world’s busiest guy has to eat. I haven't seen him in a looong time. We should invite him over for a dinner, right?”, Caleb added smoothly, looking straight at you with that unreadable smile.

You tried to recover, chuckling nervously. “Yeah. And we can kidnap him if he refuses.”

Caleb smirked, Grandma laughed, and for a brief second, things felt light again.

Then your watch beeped—sharp, sudden.

A crimson glow.

Wanderer alert.

You stood quickly. “I’m going to check it out. Just a quick patrol.”

“You sure?” Caleb asked, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah. I won’t be long.”

You stepped outside, adjusting your gear, boots thudding softly against the pavement. The afternoon light was golden, casting long shadows on the sidewalk. But the warmth didn’t reach your chest this time.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You didn’t even turn around. “Caleb.”

He fell into step beside you.

“What kind of hunter lets their childhood friend tag along to work with them?” you said, exasperated.

“I’m not tagging along,” he said, voice perfectly straight. “I’m going to the store. To buy vinegar.”

You blinked at him. Then pointed at the store right across the street.

You huffed, half-laughing, half-defeated, and nudged him toward the store.

You continued down the street, scanning the neighborhood with practiced ease. There was no unusual energy. No ripple in the atmosphere. No Wanderer lurking in the shadows.

Everything was calm.

Too calm.

And maybe that was why, when you turned to look for Caleb again, your chest pulled tight. Because the quiet gave your mind space to wander. And in that silence, your heart drifted—

Back to the attic.

Back to the moment when everything nearly changed.

Back to the almost-confession.

And everything you couldn’t say.

Caleb’s voice breaks the stillness, teasing but gentle. “I still owe you six points, don’t I?”

The words hang between you both like a delicate thread, something playful, but it doesn’t land like it usually does. No, not this time.

You exhale, your breath uneven, as you fight the mix of emotions swirling inside you. There's a lightness to it, yes—like laughter that never fully escapes—but something deeper lingers just beneath the surface. It wraps around you like the warm summer air, suffocating yet comforting at the same time.

You want to laugh, to push away the growing tension, but it’s impossible. Not when his eyes are on you like that, so soft, so sure.

You don’t look away from him, and you feel it, the weight of his gaze on you, pulling you closer, not physically, but in a way that has your heart racing and your pulse quickening. You want to move, to break the distance, but your body’s betraying you, your feet rooted to the spot, as if the universe itself is pausing for what comes next.

He notices, of course. He always does.

“Are you… okay?” His voice is quieter now, something like concern threading through it. His hand moves ever so slightly, the warmth of his fingers brushing against your arm. The touch makes you shiver, a slight tremble running through you. It’s not cold—no, it’s warmth, and yet it freezes you in place.

You lean closer without thinking. The air between you crackles with that unspoken promise. You barely register it, but your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, a tight, anxious grip.

And suddenly, it’s too much. The tension is thick, so thick you could cut it with a knife. Every inch of your body is on edge, every nerve alight with the anticipation of something you can't put into words. Something you’re afraid to touch, even though you know it’s there, right beneath the surface.

For a split second, you both stay still, neither of you daring to move. You don’t even blink. Your lips part slightly, but no words come out.

And then, just when you think you might close the gap, just when you think you might finally be brave enough to bridge that space between you… he pulls you into his arms, holding you close.

His embrace isn’t hurried or desperate, but it’s enough to make your heart skip, to make every part of you ache with what could’ve been.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice warm, but with an edge of something softer, something that makes your chest tighten even more. “I didn’t mean to rush you.”

You stay in his arms for a moment longer than you expect, your breath slowing, his steady heartbeat against yours grounding you, and for a moment, the world feels smaller, just the two of you, wrapped in this suspended reality.

But even as his hands find their way to your back, even as he pats you gently, you can feel it. The unspoken words. The almost-what-could-have-been.

His words linger, not pushing, not demanding. “Take your time,” he says, his voice the same soft, sure thing it’s always been. “I’ll always be here. Whenever you’re ready, you can come back to me.”

It’s like a promise. It feels like a soft thread tethering you to him, pulling you back to reality just when you’re teetering on the edge of something you’re not quite ready for.

But you know he’s right. You’re not ready. Not yet. But you might be someday.

The street is quiet in the afternoon sun, the world still turning even when your heart hasn't caught up.

“Found your big bad Wanderers?” Caleb’s voice cuts into your reverie, gentle but teasing, like always.

You blink, startled—had you really zoned out that long? “False alarm,” you murmur, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll report it to the agency later on.”

But his eyes don’t leave you.

They dip lower, scanning over your arm—over the place where the skin is faintly grazed from your last mission, the one where the man with protocore syndrome scratched you. The makeshift wrap isn’t hiding much, and you can see the moment his expression changes. Jaw tensing. Eyes darkening.

“That’s not from today,” he says quietly, and then—flatly, “Who hurt you?”.

”Uh... This, I was petting a cat and...“, You hesitate, avoiding his eyes.

Caleb doesn’t laugh. He just stares at you.

“A straycat, huh,” he mutters, crossing his arms. “Guess I’ll go find that cat and teach it a lesson.”

You sigh. “I’m telling the truth.”

“No, you’re not,” he replies softly.

The silence that follows is heavier than you wanted to admit.

You look down at your wrist, fiddling with the edge of the cuff, avoiding his gaze. “We already have enough on our plate, Caleb. There’s no need to stress you and gran about this.“

He nods slowly, but you can see something flickering in his eyes. Not anger, exactly—just something tired. Something… hurt.

“I understand why you’d hide it from her,” he says, voice low. “She’s old. She’d get anxious.”

Then his gaze flicks back up to you. There’s a faint crease between his brows, and his voice breaks just a little.

“But why hide it from me?”

Your breath catches.

He lets out a soft laugh, like it doesn’t matter—but you both know it does. “Isn’t it better to trust me now that…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just sighs and offers you a sad smile. “Never mind.”

He gestures toward the house. “If you’re going to come back home, maybe hide that better, yeah?”.

And just like that, he turns, walking ahead, the door creaking open as he steps inside.

You stare after him, your heart aching with the weight of unsaid things. He thinks you don’t care anymore. He thinks maybe you’ve outgrown him. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know you were going to tell him tonight. About everything. About how nothing’s changed. About how everything has.

You look down at your wrist, pull your sleeve lower, and follow. You take a breath. One step forward—

And then everything erupts.

A deafening roar, a blast of heat. The ground lurches under your feet, flinging you backward like a rag doll. Your ears ring instantly, a high-pitched whine swallowing the world.

You don’t even realize you’ve hit the ground until you taste blood.

Smoke. Heat. Light. Everything’s on fire—your thoughts, your skin, the sky itself. The house is a glowing furnace, collapsing inwards, wood splintering and walls caving in.

You push yourself up—arm trembling, ribs burning—just enough to see shapes in the smoke, all flickering gold and black. The air is too thick to breathe.

Then something glints near you, half-buried in the rubble.

A broken chain.

His necklace.

You reach for it, fingers scraped and bleeding. It’s the only thing you can hold onto.

Pain pulses behind your eyes. You try to stay awake—just a moment longer—but the world is tilting, too loud, too hot.

Your hand curls around the metal—

And then, nothing.

Darkness claims you before you hit the ground again.

[pikachulads]

Falling into you

pairing: Caleb x reader

summary: Caleb was always there, but now, something’s changed. He’s different. You’re different. But neither of you can name it. Not yet.

word count: 4.8k

author's note: this is my first post in lads. Grammar mistakes? fuck i'd cry(but tell me, anyways). Also, I wrote it a little different. But, I mean, can you handle reliving the trauma you carry about Caleb? It is sweet though, ha.. The tension is intense. You better see it. Squint. Drown. Whatever you do. You better feel the tension.

The best part about growing up with your childhood friend is that you never have to explain yourself. You have someone who’s seen you throw tantrums and fall apart, someone who’s laughed at your worst haircut and stayed up with you through exam stress and friendship heartbreak. They know every embarrassing detail—every weakness—each tiny cross.

And if they’re still by your side after all that, they’re more than just loyal.

They’re home.

And when someone feels like home, you don’t question it. Not the comfort. Not the closeness. Not even the way your heart slows when they look at you like you're the only person in the room. Because it's always been this way.

Until one day, you do question it.

Because Caleb feels different somehow. It’s like watching someone you’ve known your whole life move through a dream—familiar, but just out of reach. You don’t recognize him through his expressions or the way his voice sounds deeper now.

You recognize him through your memories. Through the echo of every moment that once made you feel safe.

And now, he feels like both. Familiar and unfamiliar. Comfortable and unsettling.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, brush paused mid-stroke, and say out loud, “This is normal. A very normal thing to happen. We’re now grown-ups, afterall”.

Your voice sounds flat. Unconvincing. One glance at your face and anyone could see—you’re lying to yourself. You don’t believe it for a second.

It’s confusing. It’s disorienting. But that’s okay.

Because the readers of your story? They already know what’s coming. This is your laughable, syncronising, and heart wrenching canon event.

The chapter where you realize you’ve fallen in love with your childhood friend. (Like Caleb hasn’t been manifesting it for years.)

Stage One: Blind Spot

"You know, it’s sort of weird…” you say, tearing the wrapper off a bar of chocolate, letting the crinkle fill the comfortable silence of the kitchen.

Caleb’s back is to you.

He stands near the stove, shoulders relaxed but still carrying that quiet strength that never leaves him—even when he’s home. His blue shirt clings just right, outlining the sharp taper of his waist, the sculpted lines of his back, still faintly damp from a recent shower. The scent of soap and smoke and something so distinctly him lingers in the air between you.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t need to.

“Mmm? What is?” he murmurs, focused on his task—cutting mushrooms with those clean, practiced movements. Precise. Calm. Familiar.

He’s making Baoshao mushrooms—your favorite. Of course he is.

You lean in beside him, your hip brushing the counter as you scan the ingredients. Everything’s arranged perfectly, like always. Banana leaves, fresh garlic, spices. Your eyes catch on a small heap of cilantro and you blink.

“You’re using cilantro,” you say slowly. “But you hate cilantro.”

He chuckles, low and unbothered. Then he shifts his weight and rests his elbow on your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like you don’t feel your skin tingle every time he does it.

“But you love it, don’t you?”

You bite off a piece of chocolate, staring him down. “I do not like it.”

“No?” he says, sounding almost amused.

“I don’t like you being selfless,” you mutter.

That gets him.

He pauses, knife hovering mid-air, then glances at you with that half-lidded expression he does so well. Calm, unreadable. Dangerous.

You frown and turn to reach for the cilantro, but his hand wraps around your waist before your fingers can touch it. In one smooth movement, he turns you toward him, pressing you back against the counter.

And you’re caught. Trapped.

Your breath stutters.

His arms on either side of you, body close enough that you feel the heat rising off him in slow waves. His scent fills your lungs—citrus and cedarwood and something deeper, something you can’t name. Your heart pounds, your hands still gripping the chocolate like a lifeline.

This isn’t how brothers hold. This isn’t how they look at you.

“C’mon, pipsqueak,” he says, eyes locked on yours. His voice is low, almost teasing—but there’s a flicker beneath it. “What’s this sudden concern for?”

He leans in, and you forget how to breathe. “You’re getting my hopes up,” he whispers, eyes dropping to your lips.

Your stomach flips. Hopes up…?

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because he leans in even closer, dips his head—and takes a bite out of your chocolate bar. His lips brush your fingers, and his tongue, careless and warm, lingers for half a second too long against your thumb.

You freeze.

Then, like always, Caleb steps back. Unbothered. Calm. Like he didn’t just dismantle your nervous system with one touch.

“You get dramatic when you’re hungry,” he says, reaching for the banana leaves like the conversation never happened.

You stand there, blinking. Chocolate still in your hand. Pulse thundering in your ears. Something in your chest trying very hard to make sense of what just happened—and failing.

Because Caleb is just Caleb.

He’s always been there. Always been your home.

Your friend.

Your brother-but-not-by-blood.

But that look in his eyes just now? That warmth in your stomach?

It felt like something else.

And that part of you that leaned into it, just a little, just for a second? That part is louder than ever.

Still… it’s probably nothing. A weird blip in the system. You’re not the type to get emotional anyway.

Right?

Stage two: The flicker of Awareness

The thing about bad days is… you don’t always see them coming. They don’t crash into you like a wave. They seep. Slow and quiet. A missed text. A stupid argument. A little silence that lingers too long and starts to sting. By the time you realize something’s wrong, it’s already settled into your chest like fog.

You hadn’t planned to go outside today. Not after the fight with your best friend. Not after pretending to be okay all day. But a certain extrovert with full energy had shown up anyway. No warning. No questions. Just a casual knock, and a stupid smile.

Might wanna read the room, Caleb? You were in dumps!

Sigh.

The air was thick and warm, full of sugar and smoke and the sound of other people’s joy. It should’ve been nice. It might’ve been, if you hadn’t felt so off in your own skin.

“Ugh, it’s too hot,” you muttered, half-hoping he’d hear your misery.

But Caleb didn’t answer. You turned your head and suddenly—a ridiculous red sun hat flopped down over your eyes. It looked goofy, you looked exactly like a kid tailing with an adult.

Before you could protest, he pulled out a bright floral jacket from his bag.

“Nope. Not wearing that,” you said, backing away.

He just grinned. “Fine by me,” he said, draping the absurd thing over himself. “You gotta protect yourself against the sun in this weather, or you are making yourself into a heating pan to fry an egg.” The floral jacket, didn't even fit him. But, Caleb managed to look like he was content with it.

“You’re insane,” you muttered, trying not to smile.

“But you’re smiling,” he said, without looking at you.

He always notices.

Somewhere between the games and the food, the ache in your chest loosened. It didn’t vanish—but it dulled. Like maybe, for a few hours, you could just be someone who didn’t have things falling apart at the edges.

It was just you and Caleb enjoying the peak of being an adult. And that’s obviously playing unlimited gamed without the supervision of a greater adult!

Before you know it, it’s evening and despite a deeper darkness seeking-in, there were still a lot of people in the fair.

"Caleb, hurry!", you excitedly, call for him. Yet, when you turn around you see him no where around you. “Oh, no.”

You had somehow, lost him.

One second he was beside you, making some dumb joke about winning you a plushie. The next—gone. Swallowed by the crowd. You turned too quickly, panicked too fast, and ended up bumping into a stranger. Their heel slammed into your foot, hard.

You winced, hobbling back and tried to breathe.

And, as you find a place with a lesser crowd, you looked down.

The strap on your sandal had snapped.

And your toe—bleeding.

Of course.

You stared at it, teeth clenched. Embarrassed. Angry. Alone. Your phone had no signal. There was nowhere to sit. The crowd pressed too close. Everything felt too loud. Too much.

Your eyes burned.

You weren’t sure why.

It wasn’t just the sandal. Or the crowd. Or the pain.

It was the quiet way the world moved on without you. Like your bad day didn’t matter to anyone but you.

You blinked hard. Inhaled. “Stop it,” you whispered to no one. “You’re not a kid anymore.”

But the tears slipped through anyway.

It’s as if all the things you had forgotten were coming back to you at once. The tears kept rushing in, and you couldn't help as a sob escaped your lips. It felt embarrasing, and overwhelming.

It hurt.

And then—just as suddenly as he disappeared—Caleb was there.

His hand landed gently on your head. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just there. Steady.

You didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.

“There you are,” he said softly. “I told you the hat was essential. Like a little red alert I could follow.”

You turned.

And before you could stop yourself, you leaned in.

Pressed your forehead to his chest, fingers curling into the front of that stupid jacket. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arms around you like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He always does.

“You okay?” he murmured, chin resting lightly against your temple.

You nodded. Lied.

He pulled back only enough to glance down at your foot—and stilled.

“What happened?” he asked, already crouching.

You shrugged. “I tripped. It’s nothing.”

But he looked up at your face, and whatever he saw there made him go quiet.

The next thing you knew, he’d turned around and crouched, arms steady.

“Get on,” he said, like it was obvious.

You hesitated. “Caleb, I can walk—”

“Not with that toe, you can’t.”

“I’ll survive.”

He looked over his shoulder, gaze soft but unwavering. “I know you will. But I’m not letting you limp through a fairground like some tragic drama heroine. So get on.”

You did.

Because he always had ways to get you to do things.

His back was warm. Broad. Familiar. You rested your cheek against it, letting yourself breathe. Just for a minute. Just long enough to forget you were supposed to be holding everything together.

He didn’t talk much after that.

But he listened.

He always listens. To the stuff you say. And the stuff you don’t.

And somewhere between the games and the silence and the ridiculous sun hat, you felt something shift. Not between you, exactly. Just… inside you.

Like the way your heart fluttered when he reached back to steady your legs. The way his hand lingered, gentle, firm. The way you wished the walk back would last longer.

It wasn’t new. But it felt new.

You wanted to say something. Maybe ask if he’d always been this warm. This easy to lean on.

Instead, you whispered, “Will you still give me piggybacks when you have a girlfriend?”

It came out before you could stop it.

He slowed a little. “Huh?”

You immediately backtracked. “Forget I said that. I’m being weird.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Pipsqueak,” he said, voice softer than it had any right to be, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t make it a joke.

And you didn’t laugh.

You just held on tighter, heart knocking a little too loudly against your ribs.

Because maybe—for the first time—you let yourself believe him.

And that tiny voice inside you, the one you’d ignored for years, whispered something new:

He’s always been there.

But maybe you’re starting to see him.

Stage three: The need to express

The attic smells like dust and summer and forgotten stories. You wrinkle your nose and push open the crooked window to let the light in, the breeze stirring motes into lazy spirals. Caleb’s behind you somewhere, muttering about the lack of proper ventilation like the grown-up he pretends to be.

“You sure this isn’t a health hazard?” he calls, lifting a heavy box with one hand and wiping his forehead with the other.

“Quit complaining, you said you wanted to help,” you reply, shoving aside a pile of old notebooks. “I just need to find that album. The one with all the polaroids.”

“You mean the one where you gave me devil horns in every photo?”

“They were accurate portrayals.”

He laughs—loud and honest, and it fills the room in a way that makes your chest ache, though you can’t explain why.

You were distracted, half-kneeling on a rickety step-stool, sifting through a box labeled Childhood Trash, when you hear it.

“Oh?” Caleb’s voice, playful. “What’s this?”

You turn your head, and he’s holding a thin red notebook with your name doodled all over the cover. It’s not the album.

It’s your old account book.

Your heart drops.

“Oh my god—give me that—” You nearly fall off the stool trying to snatch it, but Caleb dances out of reach, flipping it open with an evil grin.

“May 14th: Caleb said he’d save the last candy but he ate it. Betrayal. 3 points deducted from friendship score.” He snorts. “You had a point system?”

“Stop reading it!”

“June 2nd: Caleb forgot my birthday until noon. Very upsetting. Only made up for it with strawberry pocky. 6 points lost, 4 recovered. Net friendship score: shaky.” He’s laughing now, eyes crinkling.

You lunge for him.

The stool wobbles.

Stupid.

You yelp—too late—and pitch forward. A sudden arm catches you mid-air, and the two of you crash backward, tangled and breathless, landing squarely on the sagging attic couch behind him.

For a second, there’s only stillness. The dust floats around you like suspended time.

You’re sprawled half on top of him, one knee pressing into the cushion, your hand fisted into the front of his shirt. His arm’s around your waist, steady and secure. He hasn’t let go.

And you… haven’t moved either.

Because suddenly you’re noticing everything.

The way his chest rises beneath your hand. The way his voice dips low when he says your name, barely above a whisper. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod, but your voice doesn’t come. Because your gaze is stuck—on his hand, where it holds your waist. That faint, silvery scar on his wrist.

The one from when he climbed the fence for you in seventh grade to rescue your dumb sketchbook. You’d forgotten about it. But it’s there. Always has been.

Your eyes flick up. To his lips.

He’s not smiling now. Not teasing.

Just watching you.

Like you’re something fragile.

You feel his thumb brush your cheek—so softly, you could almost pretend it didn’t happen. But it did. A slow stroke, calloused finger grazing your skin like he’s memorizing it.

“Caleb…” you whisper, and you’re not sure if it’s a warning or a question.

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move.

His hand lingers at your jaw, fingertips gentle. And his gaze…

It lingers.

Not just on your face. But on you. Like you’re not the same girl he’s known all his life. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

You swallow.

Because you’re seeing him, too.

The soft yearning in his eyes. The weight behind it. The way he always offers you the last bite. The way he listens—not just hears. The way his presence fills a room without ever demanding it.

Your face is so close to his now. Just one breath away.

You lean forward.

Just a little.

Then freeze.

Because this isn’t nothing. This isn’t teasing. This is—

Caleb’s hand shifts, slides to cup your jaw. His thumb grazes the corner of your mouth, like he’s already read your thoughts.

And he murmurs, quiet and dangerous:

“I still owe you six points, don’t I?”

You exhale, trembling, torn between laughter and something deeper.

And suddenly, you realize—

You don’t want the points.

You want him.

Stage four: The Leap of Faith

It took ages to admit it—not just out loud, but to yourself. That maybe your childhood friend wasn’t just a friend.

You used to think feelings like this came in lightning strikes. One moment of clarity. One spark of sudden, overwhelming love. But this… this has been quieter. Slower. A steady ache, like light seeping in through the cracks. Like warmth you only noticed when it was gone.

And now you were older. A licensed Deepspace Hunter under the elite UNICORNS unit. Trained. Hardened. Supposedly brave. You fought shadows and monsters, crossed danger zones without flinching. So what was one confession?

If he was home today, you decided, you’d tell him. Just tell him. If he wasn’t—well, maybe it was the universe’s way of telling you to keep pretending.

The sun hung low when you stepped off the transport, casting soft amber light across the familiar neighborhood. There was the old tree you used to climb. The mailbox Caleb once painted purple because you dared him. Everything looked just the same.

Except you. You weren’t the girl who bit his hand when he stole your last candy. You weren’t the girl who cried when he left for his first mission without you.

You were someone who could say it now.

Maybe.

The door creaked as you stepped inside the house. The smell of roast pork greeted you first—warm, rich, nostalgic. And then—

“Grandma, I’m home,” you called out.

The old woman looked up from her place on the couch, her eyes lighting up. “Ah, sweetie,” she said, delighted. “You haven’t been visiting since you joined the Hunters. Did you miss me?”

A soft laugh escaped your lips as you walked toward her. “Of course I did. Is that roast pork? I’ve been learning how to cook. Want to be my taste tester?”.

She sniffed the air with dramatic flair. “What happened to the girl who couldn’t even boil water? I should’ve sent you into the battlefield sooner.”

Her words made you smile—but it wasn’t them that made your heart jolt.

It was his voice, coming from the kitchen.

“She still can’t boil water,” Caleb said, stepping out with a tray in his hands. “But hey, she tries.”

Your breath caught.

He wore a black jacket over a soft white tee, sleeves pushed up. His hair was a little tousled, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. And he looked just the same. Exactly like the day you last saw him. Too much like home.

“I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow,” you said, unable to hide your awe.

He raised a brow. “What’s wrong with coming home early to spend time with you and Gran?”

Then, casually, like it didn’t shake your entire chest, he reached out and ruffled your hair. “Go wash your hands. Let’s eat.”

The three of you sat together as the old TV played something soft in the background. The warmth of the food, the low hum of conversation—it felt like a piece of your past was stitched back into place.

You glanced at Grandma. “How’s your health? Still getting headaches?”

She waved you off gently. “It’s normal for people my age. As long as I take my medication, I’ll be fine.”

“But didn’t the doctor suggest observation in the hospital?” you frowned.

Grandma gave Caleb a pleading look. He stepped in smoothly.

“Already on it,” he said, placing his chopsticks down. “I submitted an application for long-term care. It’s a nice, quiet ward. Just her style.”

You blinked at him. “Wait. When did you do all that?”

“Caleb’s always been decisive,” Grandma chimed in before he could answer. “If I need to be in the hospital, visit me, alright? Oh, and talk to Zayne too. Maybe have lunch with him.”

You almost choked.

She was still trying to set you up—with Zayne of all people. While you were preparing to confess to Caleb.

“Even the world’s busiest guy has to eat. I haven't seen him in a looong time. We should invite him over for a dinner, right?”, Caleb added smoothly, looking straight at you with that unreadable smile.

You tried to recover, chuckling nervously. “Yeah. And we can kidnap him if he refuses.”

Caleb smirked, Grandma laughed, and for a brief second, things felt light again.

Then your watch beeped—sharp, sudden.

A crimson glow.

Wanderer alert.

You stood quickly. “I’m going to check it out. Just a quick patrol.”

“You sure?” Caleb asked, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah. I won’t be long.”

You stepped outside, adjusting your gear, boots thudding softly against the pavement. The afternoon light was golden, casting long shadows on the sidewalk. But the warmth didn’t reach your chest this time.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You didn’t even turn around. “Caleb.”

He fell into step beside you.

“What kind of hunter lets their childhood friend tag along to work with them?” you said, exasperated.

“I’m not tagging along,” he said, voice perfectly straight. “I’m going to the store. To buy vinegar.”

You blinked at him. Then pointed at the store right across the street.

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, maybe two things.”

You huffed, half-laughing, half-defeated, and nudged him toward the store.

You continued down the street, scanning the neighborhood with practiced ease. There was no unusual energy. No ripple in the atmosphere. No Wanderer lurking in the shadows.

Everything was calm.

Too calm.

And maybe that was why, when you turned to look for Caleb again, your chest pulled tight. Because the quiet gave your mind space to wander. And in that silence, your heart drifted—

Back to the attic.

Back to the moment when everything nearly changed.

Back to the almost-confession.

And everything you couldn’t say.

Caleb’s voice breaks the stillness, teasing but gentle. “I still owe you six points, don’t I?”

The words hang between you both like a delicate thread, something playful, but it doesn’t land like it usually does. No, not this time.

You exhale, your breath uneven, as you fight the mix of emotions swirling inside you. There's a lightness to it, yes—like laughter that never fully escapes—but something deeper lingers just beneath the surface. It wraps around you like the warm summer air, suffocating yet comforting at the same time.

You want to laugh, to push away the growing tension, but it’s impossible. Not when his eyes are on you like that, so soft, so sure.

You don’t look away from him, and you feel it, the weight of his gaze on you, pulling you closer, not physically, but in a way that has your heart racing and your pulse quickening. You want to move, to break the distance, but your body’s betraying you, your feet rooted to the spot, as if the universe itself is pausing for what comes next.

He notices, of course. He always does.

“Are you… okay?” His voice is quieter now, something like concern threading through it. His hand moves ever so slightly, the warmth of his fingers brushing against your arm. The touch makes you shiver, a slight tremble running through you. It’s not cold—no, it’s warmth, and yet it freezes you in place.

You lean closer without thinking. The air between you crackles with that unspoken promise. You barely register it, but your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, a tight, anxious grip.

And suddenly, it’s too much. The tension is thick, so thick you could cut it with a knife. Every inch of your body is on edge, every nerve alight with the anticipation of something you can't put into words. Something you’re afraid to touch, even though you know it’s there, right beneath the surface.

For a split second, you both stay still, neither of you daring to move. You don’t even blink. Your lips part slightly, but no words come out.

And then, just when you think you might close the gap, just when you think you might finally be brave enough to bridge that space between you… he pulls you into his arms, holding you close.

His embrace isn’t hurried or desperate, but it’s enough to make your heart skip, to make every part of you ache with what could’ve been.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice warm, but with an edge of something softer, something that makes your chest tighten even more. “I didn’t mean to rush you.”

You stay in his arms for a moment longer than you expect, your breath slowing, his steady heartbeat against yours grounding you, and for a moment, the world feels smaller, just the two of you, wrapped in this suspended reality.

But even as his hands find their way to your back, even as he pats you gently, you can feel it. The unspoken words. The almost-what-could-have-been.

His words linger, not pushing, not demanding. “Take your time,” he says, his voice the same soft, sure thing it’s always been. “I’ll always be here. Whenever you’re ready, you can come back to me.”

It’s like a promise. It feels like a soft thread tethering you to him, pulling you back to reality just when you’re teetering on the edge of something you’re not quite ready for.

But you know he’s right. You’re not ready. Not yet. But you might be someday.

The street is quiet in the afternoon sun, the world still turning even when your heart hasn't caught up.

“Found your big bad Wanderers?” Caleb’s voice cuts into your reverie, gentle but teasing, like always.

You blink, startled—had you really zoned out that long? “False alarm,” you murmur, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll report it to the agency later on.”

But his eyes don’t leave you.

They dip lower, scanning over your arm—over the place where the skin is faintly grazed from your last mission, the one where the man with protocore syndrome scratched you. The makeshift wrap isn’t hiding much, and you can see the moment his expression changes. Jaw tensing. Eyes darkening.

“That’s not from today,” he says quietly, and then—flatly, “Who hurt you?”.

”Uh... This, I was petting a cat and...“, You hesitate, avoiding his eyes.

Caleb doesn’t laugh. He just stares at you.

“A straycat, huh,” he mutters, crossing his arms. “Guess I’ll go find that cat and teach it a lesson.”

You sigh. “I’m telling the truth.”

“No, you’re not,” he replies softly.

The silence that follows is heavier than you wanted to admit.

You look down at your wrist, fiddling with the edge of the cuff, avoiding his gaze. “We already have enough on our plate, Caleb. There’s no need to stress you and gran about this.“

He nods slowly, but you can see something flickering in his eyes. Not anger, exactly—just something tired. Something… hurt.

“I understand why you’d hide it from her,” he says, voice low. “She’s old. She’d get anxious.”

Then his gaze flicks back up to you. There’s a faint crease between his brows, and his voice breaks just a little.

“But why hide it from me?”

Your breath catches.

He lets out a soft laugh, like it doesn’t matter—but you both know it does. “Isn’t it better to trust me now that…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just sighs and offers you a sad smile. “Never mind.”

He gestures toward the house. “If you’re going to come back home, maybe hide that better, yeah?”.

And just like that, he turns, walking ahead, the door creaking open as he steps inside.

You stare after him, your heart aching with the weight of unsaid things. He thinks you don’t care anymore. He thinks maybe you’ve outgrown him. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know you were going to tell him tonight. About everything. About how nothing’s changed. About how everything has.

You look down at your wrist, pull your sleeve lower, and follow. You take a breath. One step forward—

And then everything erupts.

A deafening roar, a blast of heat. The ground lurches under your feet, flinging you backward like a rag doll. Your ears ring instantly, a high-pitched whine swallowing the world.

You don’t even realize you’ve hit the ground until you taste blood.

Smoke. Heat. Light. Everything’s on fire—your thoughts, your skin, the sky itself. The house is a glowing furnace, collapsing inwards, wood splintering and walls caving in.

You push yourself up—arm trembling, ribs burning—just enough to see shapes in the smoke, all flickering gold and black. The air is too thick to breathe.

Then something glints near you, half-buried in the rubble.

A broken chain.

His necklace.

You reach for it, fingers scraped and bleeding. It’s the only thing you can hold onto.

Pain pulses behind your eyes. You try to stay awake—just a moment longer—but the world is tilting, too loud, too hot.

Your hand curls around the metal—

And then, nothing.

Darkness claims you before you hit the ground again.

[pikachulads]

First Love and Deepspace fanfic writing, and I am nowhere near completed even after 2k? . Lord, bless me.

[pikachulads]

I GOT SYLUS BIRTHDAY CARD IN FIRST 10 PULLS. THIS IS CRAZY.

Maybe talking to him about caleb last night worked. He got jealous. This is me being delulu but OMG. I am starting to think he can see us. The self-aware Au are getting to me TT

[pikachulads]

Okay! Her name is Darcy Argent. Who do you think? I honestly just love all of LADS.

Bored. Drop your MC below and I'll pair them with a LADs boy ☺️💙

[pikachulads]

LaDs Story:

When you suddenly wake up in Linkon City (Part 19)

Pairing: Rafayel x reader

Content: isekai!reader, twin!MC, fluff, hurt, angst, romance - we have it all, spoilers for myths and main story, use of evol

Word Count: ~1900

Authors Note: I prepared this chapter weeks ago and finally it’s time for it! 😍 And the reason why there’s another chapter this fast. The next will take a while again, so don’t set your hopes too high for another one this quick ��

Masterlist

<<Previous Part 🦄 Part One 🦄 Next Part>>

You hurry after him, not sure why, only that you can’t let him go on this dangerous mission without talking to him. You want to say so much to Rafayel, firstly that you are sorry that you commanded him to stay back enabling Sylus to leave with you. Then why does he act so cold? Lastly, you have a bad feeling about this whole situation. Something feels odd, and the fear that you won’t see him again gnaws at you.

That is why fast steps carry you through the deep gray and dusty fog of the N109-Zone, the shadows of the high buildings eating all the surrounding light. Soon you lose Rafayel’s dark hooded figure in the pitch-black surroundings and your pace gets slower and slower. 

A tall wire fence appears in front of you. Nearly popping out in the dim twilight of these early morning hours as you reach the end of that alley you scooted through in search of Rafayel, and the light left behind by dawn is back. But the fog has gotten stronger, and you can’t see more as in the darkness of that backstreet you just left. 

For a second it feels like you have lost him as you’re unsure how to overcome this obstacle as something catches your eye. A tiny black leather cloth piece hangs at a part of the wire and with a closer look you discover a hole in the pattern of the fence and as you touch it, it grows big enough to slip through. With deliberate movements, you do so and the wire behind you falls back into its place, nearly hiding the breach. Did Rafayel came along here?  

All nerves on the edge you continue on your path. You’re now on Ever’s ground and if any of the patrolling guards catch you, it’s over. A few meters ahead the building comes into sight, and you slip into its shadow, keeping yourself close to the stone wall. The fog has thickened to a solid mass, and it’s hard to see further than a few steps. This helped you to stay undiscovered so far, but it also made it more difficult to find the Lemurian.

Then you have suddenly turned around with something grabbing your shoulder and your rear side is touching a cold wall. A body is pressed against yours and Rafayels low voice whispers into your ear. “Shush. Don’t make a sound, there are guards nearby.”

It’s his leather-clothed chest that is flushed at yours and his face is only inches away from yours. It’s barely visible in the shadows of the narrow spot he’s guided you into, a small booth in the gray walls of the Ever building. His bluish-pink eyes are sparkling lightly, mustering yours with curiosity and a twinge of something else… Anger? Surprise? You don’t know, and your heart starts beating faster behind the cage of your ribs.

But it doesn’t matter as heavy steps near your position, and you hold your breath. A guard! None of you is moving as the footsteps cross your position and leave without taking notice of the figures that are pressed close together in that little booth in the wall. Rafayel’s dark attire hides you successfully in the pitch-black shadows.

As the patrol has gone, the assassin’s face is still turned in the direction of the human who left your hideout unnoticed. “Why were you following me?” The Lemurian asks you silently, his voice barely above a whisper and even more muffled through his mask. His eyes flicker to you before he observes the surrounding area again.

After taking some stuttering breaths you mouth back at him “Couldn’t let you go like that.”

That gets Rafayels full attention and now the blue and pink of his irises is focused on you, close as never before and your heart skips a beat. If it weren’t for his mask your lips would touch, and his breath coming out beneath the seams of his leather barrier tickles your cheeks.

“You didn’t hesitate to leave me back then.” a little accusation swings in the whispered words.

The heart between your ribs starts to fasten its pace even more, now frantically pumping blood through your system. Rafayel’s closeness makes it hard for you to think, but the hurt in his voice brings you back to your senses. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to command you this way, just wanted to prevent you from fighting with Sylus.” eyes bored into him to underline your sincerity “I didn’t know that would happen as I called out to you. I was afraid that something bad would have taken place that I accidentally commanded you without thinking.”

 “Why did you go with him?” is another serious question from the Lemurian, and now you feel how desperate he is to hear the answer from you, how furious he is about your leaving with Sylus.

“We needed his help, Rafayel, and he wanted me as a prize. I agreed to his conditions and that’s simply as it is,” you answer helplessly. Why does it even matter to him? You’re not his beloved, shouldn’t he be glad that Sylus was able to help?

All you hear from Rafayel is an upset “Tsch!” as he moves his face away to check the surroundings again.

You sneak up a hand in the claustrophobic space to the smooth leather on his chest, placing your palm close to his heart, and with a tight feeling in your breast you add “I saw how you suffered from being away from her, how it gnawed on you that you weren’t able to find her and I couldn’t stand it. I want you to be happy, you deserve it.” your voice wavering at the last words. Is it that hard for him to understand? You did it for him, for his sake, for his love.

Your heart feels heavy and aches. A sudden hot tear drops down your cold cheek at the fact that you would be giving up everything, even your own life to keep the Lemurian safe and happy. You realize that you fell in love with him, utterly and without any restraints—Not only a crush anymore. Oh, you’re so stupid, you curse yourself inwardly as another tear accompanies the first one.

The salty witnesses of your devotion for him are caught with a thumb in black leather before they reach the edge of the jaw as his hands cup your face with tenderness.

Rafayels forehead comes to rest on yours, the hood of his attire enveloping the side of both your faces. And the only thing you hear is the heavy breathing from the man that owns your heart and his hoarse whispered words through his mask “Silly girl…”

Then he eases back, freeing you from the confinement of his caging body. His hand entwined with yours, Rafayel starts pulling you along the gray stone facade of Ever’s laboratories with firm and soundless steps.

“Maybe it’s good that you’re here. With your Evol you should be able to find her, tracking down the frequency of her.” he changes the topic as he drags you with him through a hidden door in the building.

Confused, you don’t fight against his lead, trying to keep up with his steps now laced with urgency as you both hurry along a brightly lit hallway. “Wh- What?” you don’t know what he is talking about. 

Rafayel stops by opening a door that leads to an internal staircase. The metal stairs let you either step deep down to the basement or higher up to countless floors.

After a quick look around he pulls you both through, closing the door without making a sound, turning and whispering “Resonate with the world around you and try to find that frequency that resembles your own. Should be easy for you, Cutie.” he winks and pokes your cheek playfully with his gloved index finger.

You only stare at him and a few seconds later. “Are you sure about that? What’s with your fishie sense? And did you forget what happened the last time? I can’t control it!” you whisper, filled with panic. Is he crazy? Now? In a place like this, he wants you to use your evol? Which you hardly know how to do properly?

His ocean eyes lock into you and with a caress of your cheeks, he hushes back “When it spares us the time to search every nook and cranny, yeah then I’ll risk it. And you’re strong, Cutie! You can do it!” 

His faith in you is nice you have to admit, but he didn’t answer your other question. This evasive fishie! “And why don’t you try to rely on your own tracking method? What’s with that?” you insist.

Rafayel lets go of your face and takes a step back to observe the staircase closer in its ups and downs. “I can’t,” he admits quietly. “It’s not working anymore.”

Stunned you step closer to him again, this time it’s you cupping his face with both hands and forcing him to look at you “What do you mean it’s not working anymore?” and the blue and pink of his eyes widen in cute rounds, startled by your sudden proximity. 

An adorable red hue creeps into his cheeks and suddenly shy he frees himself of your hold and looks to the side “I can’t tell you yet…” his hoarse wavers, and then he adds more firmly “and it doesn’t matter now, we need to find her before Sylus sets up hell at the main entrance.” 

And with new energy, he takes your hand in his “Please, try it.” ocean eyes now begging and pleading for your help.

And of course, you fall for it, as if you ever could withstand it when Rafayel looks at you like this. It’s your weakness, always was in the game, and it’s no different in reality. With a little sigh you surrender and close your eyes. 

In the dark behind your lids, you try to blend out the world. Rafayel, everything that distracts you from your inner being. You don’t know what you’re doing, but somehow there’s a flicker in your senses. A faint vibration that feels like yourself, and then more. Three more to be exact. You decide to focus on the one that seems the closest, and you know where to go—down.

You open your eyes again and meet Rafayel, bending to observe your face. You push him back by his shoulder and walk toward the metal stairs that lead down to the basement. “I felt it, let’s go.”

The eyes of the Lemurian sparkle and he follows you to take the steps down. “I knew it! You’re amazing, Cutie!”

And like that, you make your way down to the last floor. Sneaking through some clinical white hallways with cold lighting, avoiding the scientists and cameras that are crossing your path as you come to stand before an inconspicuous metal door. Nothing reveals what lies behind it, but your feeling tells you enough. 

She’s there. Right behind that door.

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