#caleb pov

[mapofsouthdakota]

Caleb’s headcanon -

The Maze

Synopsis: In a future where war and technology have blurred the line between man and machine, Caleb was resurrected—not as who he was, but as who he was programmed to be. With only 3% of his original self left intact, the latest reboot of his chip has reshaped his logic, his purpose, and his understanding of his emotions towards you.

Bound by his own design, he has built you the Maze—a flawless, shifting sanctuary meant to protect the one person he refuses to lose. But protection and captivity are two sides of the same coin, and inside the Maze, freedom is just another unsolvable puzzle.

Will you escape, or will Stockholm Syndrome take hold before that day?

Details: 2600ish words. Some kind of spin off AU, but corresponds with in-game canons. Obsessive Caleb. Yandere Caleb. Controlling Caleb. Colonel Caleb. Crazy hot Caleb. 18+ due to psychological thriller/drama/angst galore (and a prelude for p0rn with plot, I’m just calling it now tbh lol). You are warned.

Tags: @gavin3469 @mcdepressed290

Disobedience | Chapter one

The Maze, you

The sheets beneath your fingertips are soft, smooth against your skin—yet the coolness of the night still lingers, a stark contrast to the heat of your own body.

For a moment, you just lie there, still. Listening.

The room hums with a faint, steady silence—too perfect, too controlled. There’s no creak of floorboards, no shifting of walls, only the barely-there whisper of circulated air filtering through vents.

A breath. A heartbeat.

Then—

“Morning, sunshine.”

The sound curls through the space, warm, teasing, familiar.

You don’t flinch.

Your hands, hidden beneath your pillow, run over the rough scratches in the headboard.

Ten days.

Ten days in Caleb’s Maze.

Ten days of carefully mapping the shifting corridors, learning the rhythm of the walls.

Ten days of waiting for a single mistake.

You let your thumb press against the newest line, the wood rough beneath your nail. The only thing here that feels imperfect.

Ten lines. Today makes ten.

Your fingers move carefully, hidden beneath your pillow, tracing over the rough scratches in the headboard. The grooves are uneven, worn from repetition.

A habit now. A ritual.

Another inhale. Another second where you are just waking up.

Then, deliberately slow, you stretch—arms reaching high, toes curling, your spine arching briefly before you relax again, exhaling softly. You force yourself to move naturally. To pretend.

“Did you sleep well, Pips?”

His voice is smooth, effortless, the same playful lilt it’s always had. The intercom crackles faintly at the edges, a reminder that he isn’t here.

You push the sheets off, swallowing down the tightness in your throat.

“I’ve had worse,” you murmur.

A low chuckle hums through the room. Soft, unbothered.

“That’s not an answer.”

You don’t give him one.

Instead, you slide out of bed, bare feet meeting cool marble flooring, and head toward the kitchen. It’s pristine, the kind of luxury that feels staged, artificial. Polished marble, deep walnut cabinets, light spilling through windows that show a perfect sky that isn’t real.

You reach for a glass from the overhead rack—thin, cool, smooth against your fingers—before pouring yourself orange juice.

It’s cold when you drink, tangy with just the right bite of citrus.

“The apple juice is fresher.”

You pause mid-drink.

His voice is still warm, too conversational for someone keeping you captive.

“But,” Caleb adds smoothly, “you’re free to choose whatever you please.”

Your jaw tightens. You set the glass down too hard.

“Oh, how generous.”

Silence stretches for a moment, and you swear you hear the faintest flicker of static in the speakers. Like he was about to say something else.

Then—nothing.

You don’t wait for him to continue.

You turn on your heel, leaving the kitchen, heading toward the bathroom.

——————————————————————————

The mirror doesn’t lie.

You brush your teeth, staring at your reflection. Messy hair, sharper eyes. With a slow inhale, you smooth down the wrinkled fabric of your pajamas, then splash cool water onto your face, letting the droplets slide down your jaw. You straighten, gripping the sink for a moment before exhaling.

You look fine. Healthy.

And yet, something invisible coils inside you as you step out of the bathroom. The plush carpet yields softly beneath your bare feet, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile reality of the Maze beyond this space.

The walk-in wardrobe is spacious, curated to perfection, a collection of clothes you never asked for but were chosen with meticulous care. Your fingers trail along the fabrics, skimming over silken dresses, impossibly soft loungewear, intricate embroidery.

Not clothes meant for movement.

Not clothes meant for running.

But today, you dress for yourself.

Your hands move with quiet certainty. A fitted, dark long-sleeve shirt, breathable and weightless against your skin. Black cargo pants with deep pockets, light enough for speed, flexible enough to run.

You don’t rush as you pull the shirt over your head, as you fasten the buttons on your pants.

You don’t care if he’s watching.

Let him.

You glance at your wrist, at the smooth, metallic weight of the watch he gave you—shaped like an apple, polished to perfection. A taunt. A joke only he found amusing. You’d scoffed when he fastened it around your wrist on the first day, smirking like he was doing you a favor. As if time mattered in a place like this. As if knowing the hour would change the fact that every second still belonged to him.

And yet, it had given you something.

You’d started noticing the patterns. The way his voice filtered through the speakers more often at certain times, his presence reduced to an unseen observer rather than the man himself. A shift in routine, a window of opportunity. If he wasn’t here in person, then maybe—just maybe—it was the best time to run.

Your best chance.

You step into the halls.

——————————————————————————

The Fleet, Administrative wing, Caleb

The Maze breathes.

Not in the way a person does—not with lungs or with a heartbeat—but with the constant, seamless shifts of its corridors, the silent recalibration of its pathways, the ever-adapting nature of its design.

It moves because it is meant to.

Because he made it so.

His design.

From his office aboard The Fleet headquarters, Caleb watches.

Multiple screens flicker in front of him, displaying live feeds from the Maze’s surveillance systems. Some show stark, metallic corridors bathed in cold fluorescent light, their silence almost oppressive. Others reveal lush, curated spaces—gardens where bioluminescent flowers bloom in a soft, otherworldly glow, their petals unfurling like whispers against the artificial breeze.

Waterfalls cascade down smooth stone walls, their shimmering descent captured in crisp, high-definition clarity. Libraries sleek and modern, with floor-to-ceiling glass, dark wood shelves lined with both rare books and glowing data slates, and plush leather seating bathed in soft, golden light—a seamless blend of luxury and knowledge.

Yet, despite the breathtaking variety before him, his attention is drawn to one screen in particular. Something about it—perhaps the flicker of movement, the subtle shift in shadow—demands his focus.

You.

You stand before the open wardrobe, fingers skimming over the array of fabrics, hesitating.

Something twists in his chest.

It happens fast, instinctive—like a flicker of old wiring trying to reroute itself. Something he shouldn’t feel.

But he does.

His violet eyes trace every detail as you shift through the clothing options. There’s an abundance of choices—elegant silks, soft cottons, layers meant for comfort rather than necessity.

And yet, when your fingers pause, it’s on something practical.

Dark, fitted. Movable.

A slow, amused sound escapes him—“tsk, tsk, tsk.”

He already knows.

Even before you strip off your nightwear and begin sliding into a long-sleeve shirt, breathable and light, he knows.

You’re planning to run.

Again.

His gaze lingers for a second too long as you fasten the buttons on your cargo pants, checking their fit, testing their flexibility. It’s almost methodical, the way you move—not just dressing, but preparing. A muscle feathers in his cheek, and without thinking, his teeth catch his lower lip, a small, unconscious bite—barely there, barely a reaction, but enough. A fleeting lapse in control before he smooths it away, blinking once, recalibrating.

Caleb exhales through his nose, fingers loosely tapping against the polished surface of his desk. The gesture is unconscious, almost idle, but there’s an undercurrent of something he can’t quite name.

Not frustration. Not even disappointment.

Something closer to sadness.

For a moment—just a moment—he allows himself the thought:

You don’t trust him.

Even after ten days in the Maze, after the security, the warmth, the meals he ensures are exactly as you like them—you still choose to run.

That small, dying fraction of himself—the part that still feels, still remembers, still wants—aches.

Then, just as quickly, he shuts it down.

His violet gaze hardens, refocusing his thoughts, and with a measured glance toward the digital clock in the corner of his screen, he makes a decision.

“Early lunch then.” The words are low, absentminded, spoken only to himself.

He stands, rolling his sleeves down, adjusting the crisp lines of his uniform. His movements are fluid, practiced—not rushed, not tense.

This isn’t unexpected.

You always were predictable in your defiance. And while he should be sitting through another briefing on Fleet logistics, securing operations for Skyhaven’s next expansion project, this takes priority.

You take priority.

Without another glance at the monitors, Caleb steps away from his desk, his boots echoing lightly against the pristine floors of his office.

His command to The Fleet’s automated systems is brief, quiet, and final.

“Cancel my schedule for the next hour.”

——————————————————————————

The Maze, you

The air is fresh, sterile. The Maze is designed to feel real, but it isn’t.

Some corridors have grass growing in patches, soft beneath your steps. Others are lined with polished stone, textured enough to feel almost natural. Somewhere, hidden beyond the walls, you hear the soft, rhythmic hum of unseen machines. The constant, inaudible shifts of the Maze adjusting itself.

Every sound. Every change.

Caleb built this place beautifully.

But a golden cage is still a cage.

You let your fingers graze the walls, memorizing the faintest seams. The air is still, too quiet. You keep walking, turning a corner—

Then—

A door stays open a second too long.

Your breath catches.

You move. Fast, silent, sharp.

Each step is calculated, your feet landing light against the ground as you slip through the threshold before it can close.

The first hallway is clear.

Your pulse spikes, adrenaline flooding your veins.

A second hallway—open.

You keep going.

Your heart pounds.

A third hallway. Open. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline burning hot in your veins.

You don’t stop. You don’t think. You move.

And then—

A shadow. A shift in the air.

Arms wrap around your waist.

A solid, crushing force, an unyielding grip stronger than your own body. Your breath leaves you in a sharp exhale, and you thrash immediately. Fingers claw at his forearm, at the muscle in his wrist, nails digging into flesh—but he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know better than this, Pips.” Caleb’s voice is too steady. Too calm.

The fight in you explodes.

You shove back, twisting, slamming your elbow into his ribs. It’s a clean hit, right where you aimed—

And he doesn’t even move.

“Really?” Caleb exhales, the sound a mix of amusement and something dangerously close to indulgence.

You fight. He doesn’t flinch.

In a single motion, he lifts you. Effortless. Controlled. Like this was always how it would end.

Your breath stutters as the world tilts.

His hold is secure, strong, completely unshaken. His body is warm against your back, his presence a wall you can’t break through.

“I’m disappointed,” Caleb murmurs. “I thought we were past this phase.”

You twist again, wild, desperate—he tightens his hold.

It isn’t painful. It’s just inescapable.

“Still fighting me, huh?” A sigh, low, almost indulgent.

Then—he turns.

And carries you back. Deeper into the maze.

——————————————————————————

The door hisses shut behind you, locking with an unmistakable click.

The room is warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Which only makes you hate it more. Everything here is chosen for you. The plush seating, the softest blankets, the bookshelves filled with titles you’ve mentioned in passing. There’s even a record player in the corner, already humming out a low, nostalgic tune.

Caleb has built you a paradise.

And then he’s tied you to the chair.

The contrast is almost comical.

A high-backed, cushioned armchair, angled just slightly toward the crackling fireplace. The restraints—thin, smooth straps, nothing rough or cruel—keep your wrists and ankles in place.

And once again it’s not painful. Just inescapable…

“You know,” Caleb says conversationally, adjusting the straps like he’s tucking you in for the night, “this wouldn’t be necessary if you behaved.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you glare at the bookshelf across from you, focusing on the hardcover spines of your favorite novels rather than the man currently fastening you into your luxury prison.

“Pips, don’t be like that.”

The nickname makes you grit your teeth.

Caleb straightens, stepping back, hands loosely resting on his hips as he surveys his work. His violet eyes flick over the restraints, your tensed arms, your jaw clenched in irritation.

Then—a smirk.

“Comfy?”

Your glare could burn through steel.

“Oh, come on,” he sighs, gesturing vaguely around the room. “I could’ve put you somewhere far less accommodating.”

Your eyes flicker around the room, unwillingly cataloging every sickeningly perfect detail.

The softest blankets in the universe draped over the nearby couch. A table of fresh fruit, chocolates, and a steaming cup of tea—your favorite blend. A window overlooking a perfect sunset, artificial but beautiful.

And worst of all—the armchair you’re currently restrained to? It reclines.

Your fingers twitch.

“See?” Caleb tilts his head, reading your expression effortlessly. “I’m not unreasonable.”

You huff through your nose, looking away.

Caleb leans down, hands bracing the armrests, his breath a whisper of warmth against your skin. Violet eyes—too sharp, too knowing—trace your features, his stare slow, deliberate, as if committing every defiant line to memory.

“I don’t like doing this to you, Pip-squeak.” His voice is softer now. Too close. Too careful.

His gloved fingers glide over your cheek, a slow, feather-light drag of cool leather against your too-warm skin. It shouldn’t leave an impression, but it does—a whisper of control, deliberate, inescapable.

Then, he moves—not back, but forward.

He leans in, slow, deliberate, until his breath ghosts against your lips, warm and steady, the space between you shrinking into nothing.

And then, just there, against your mouth—

“But you have to stop trying to leave me.”

The words are soft, almost gentle—but there’s nothing soft about the way they settle into your bones. A command, a fact, absolute.

He’s already gone.

Straightened. Moved away, as if he hadn’t just stolen the air from your lungs, as if he hadn’t just set your pulse stumbling. Like he’s in control.

Because, of course—he is.

Caleb he tilts his head slightly, gaze flickering down as he taps a single finger against the watch on your wrist—light, teasing, as if this is just another game.

“Should we say two hours of relaxation?” His voice is smooth, almost coy. Then, with a smirk, he leans in just slightly, like he’s sharing some playful little secret. “Then we can go play basketball later.”

And just like that, he turns on his heel, stepping away, unbothered, already moving on—as if he hadn’t just tied you down, as if he hadn’t just reminded you exactly where you belong.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, Caleb

Caleb stands just outside the room, his back to the door, his gloved fingers twitching at his sides. His breath escapes too sharp, too uneven, something off-rhythm about it.

He should be proud. He handled the situation with perfect efficiency.

You fought. He won.

And yet—his pulse is off. The air in the corridor feels heavier than it should.

He presses his fingers to his temple. Once. Twice.

Like he’s trying to force something back into place.

Steps sharp, too controlled.

He moves down the corridor, into the main halls of the Maze, the exit looming ahead.

Then, as if remembering something only he can hear, Caleb pulls a small device from his belt—sleek, no larger than his palm, its surface smooth and seamless.

His grip tightens around it.

It’s unnecessary.

You’ve made your choices. He’s made his.

And yet—his thumb presses down.

A soft, nearly imperceptible beep registers in his earpiece. Inside the locked room, the restraints will loosen. You won’t be free to leave. But you’ll be free to move.

His shoulders drop by a fraction of an inch, just enough that someone trained in reading body language might notice.

But no one is watching.

Caleb’s fingers press down on a door panel.

The door unlocks.

And Caleb steps through.

Behind him, the Maze remains unchanged, unmoving, silent. But no matter how far he walks, no matter how many doors close between you—

He will return to you.

He always does.

Because you are still inside.

And Caleb has never been able to stay away from you for long.

Not before.

Not now.

Not ever.

——————————————————————————

Chapter two

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: So I had this idea and I love crazy delulu Caleb. I kinda like it? It’s something? It has potential, I think? I’m playing around with writing styles and this is the product. I feel like anything could happen in this maze lol. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDS Men React To An Unexpected Pregnancy

AN: Pregnant reader. Not the boys. That genre is currently unexplored on this blog but not for long 🤭👺

Pairing: LaDS boys x Fem reader

Ingredients: 75% fluff, 25% angst.

My Fav: Rafayel's (new segment because I want to discuss which ones I liked best when writing)

Xavier:

You pass out during a mission. That’s how you find out. In the Hunter Association’s medical ward, you stare at the positive report in stunned silence.

The nausea hadn’t just been Xavier’s cooking.

How even…? You sit there, frozen, until he walks in, finding you pale and unmoving.

A child.

He leans against the wall, the report in his hand. God.

He had vanished the day he found out. Left you bitterly alone. But you didn’t need him, you could raise the child on your own. If Xavier was too weak to accept the truth, so be it.

But he returns. You don’t know where he went, only that when he comes back, he is broken.

"I couldn't change it." He falls to his knees. "The world remains unchanged," he repeats, voice hollow.

The destruction he had accepted, the grief he had worn like armor, now, it becomes unbearable. Because for the first time, he isn’t sure if he can ever manage to save it for his child.

Rafayel:

He dreams of it. Strange dreams.

He’s not one to obsess over omens, but even he, in his eternal wisdom, cannot decipher what a colony of seals playing with marbles is supposed to mean.

Then, one afternoon, he dreams of a baby seal. It coos at him, glumphing closer, making infant-like noises.

And in the dream, he bends down to pet it. Only for you to pick it up instead.

He jolts awake. Hands immediately over his stomach. Breath unsteady. No...not him...it was you. You picked the seal, that meant-

Then he stumbles out of bed, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to find you.

Drives like a madman. He counts the days. Two months. He counts the signs.

His heart refuses to slow down.

Barging into the Hunter’s Association, he’s chased by guards, by an exasperated receptionist, but none of it matters.

When he finds you, he grips your shoulders, searching your face. How could he have missed it?

By the tides, he was a fool.

And then—he feels it. A whisper, warm and murmuring, like the gentle pull of the waves.

A half-formed yawn, ringing softly in his mind.

The presence of his child.

Now all he has to do is tell you.

Zayne:

You watch Zayne eat dinner, half-listening as he talks about his day. He absentmindedly bites into another baby carrot.

Not just baby carrots, baby corn, baby potatoes, those tiny tomatoes.

"How’s dinner, Zayne?" you ask, feigning nonchalance.

He nods, smiling. "It’s good. Very healthy."

"Notice anything?"

He hums in thought. "You’re trying Italian cuisine these days." He places his hand over yours, gentle. "But you don’t have to cook if you’re tired after work."

He’s too kind to mention the small incident with the oven last week. To be fair, the bun in the oven analogy is a classic.

A week. A whole week of hints, and still, he hasn’t caught on.

Sighing, you give up on subtlety. "Darling, did you visit the pediatrics ward today?" you ask, pushing food around your plate.

"I didn’t have time. Had to miss the volunteering event for surgery."

You grin. Taking his hand, you guide it over your stomach. "Well, luckily for you, we’ll have one right here soon."

His mouth hangs open. Eyes darting between you and your stomach before his fingers brush over the nonexistent bump.

"Really? Are we—"

"Yes, you dummy!" You pull him into a hug. "I’ve been trying to tell you for days."

For a man obsessed with your health, he somehow had been ignorant of the biggest of surprises. Unplanned or not, you were going to give him the longest late night shift of his life.

Sylus:

The timing could have been better, he muses, wiping blood off his cheek.

But he had been too lax.

Not that it mattered. Everything was under control.

"Clean up," he orders, snapping his fingers. Shadows slither forward, dragging the remains of his enemies into the abyss.

The news of a child had changed things. He had let fate play its part for too long. Now, it was his turn.

Whatever slow-moving scheme he had let linger, ended now.

There was no way in hell he was letting you go on any mission while carrying his child.

Aether Core be damned. EVER be damned to NEVER. He would wipe them out if he had to.

For now, though, he had other priorities.

Leaving you safe at home, he finishes this last errand. Your only battle at the moment is morning sickness which, much to his surprise, isn’t just limited to mornings.

He wipes his hands clean, heading for his bike.

One last stop. You wanted pickles.

He smiles, revving the engine. Soon, only cars.

And then, he’s gone, speeding into the night, back to you. Back to his family. To cuddle the little dragon who gives you unrivaled heartburn and kicks like a menace at 18 weeks.

Caleb:

He knew.

Some would say he saw it coming, but just because he kept track of your cycle didn’t mean he could predict your ovulation exactly.

He was just…good at math.

Mental math.

And taking you to a convenience store for cough drops, right next to the pregnancy tests, had been pure coincidence.

Not that he totally snuck a glance at you eyeing them. And if he excused himself to grab a snack right then? Also not planned.

You hand him the test. "I think I’m pregnant."

He goes through all the expressions shock, surprise, joy, tears. So dramatic that it fools no one.

Seriously, he’s atrocious at being subtle about it.

Instantly proposes. Shotgun wedding because the baby will need a family.

Grins like a madman when it turns out to be twins.

Secretly, he’s very, very proud.

Heavens, he thinks smugly, I really am amazing at math.

[bleachblomde]

imagine being one of caleb's students rn. ludinus put his ass back its midterms season

[aleksatia]

MC:

You stand in front of the empty display, your stomach dropping. The shoes—your shoes—are gone. The ones you had dreamed about, saved for, imagined yourself wearing. Sold Out.

You had measured every step toward them—skipping coffee, counting every coin, lingering outside the store just to admire them. Now, some stranger, someone who didn’t need them the way you did, had taken them without a second thought.

The weight of it crashes over you. It wasn’t just about the shoes. It was about the wait, the longing, the tiny victory that was supposed to be yours. And now, even that is gone.

🦅 🖤 Sylus

He watches you for a moment, amusement flickering in his crimson eyes.

"You’re actually crying over this?" His voice is rich with mockery, but before you can argue, he’s already on his phone.

"Yes, I want the entire boutique. No, I don’t care about the cost. Send the keys to my penthouse."

He hangs up, then tilts your chin up with a finger.

"Congratulations, kitten. You own a shoe store now. Feel better?"

His smirk is infuriatingly smug, but the way he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear makes your heart skip a beat.

🍎 🌌 Caleb

His hands hover awkwardly as he watches you cry, his expression twisting into quiet panic.

"Hey, hey, come on now," he murmurs, pulling you against his chest. His grip is firm but comforting, his heartbeat steady under your ear. "They’re just shoes, pip-squeek. I’ll get you another pair, better ones."

He strokes your back, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Don’t cry, alright? I can’t stand seeing you like this."

His touch lingers, and for a moment, he forgets the world outside of you.

❄️ ⛄ Zayne

He sighs, folding his arms, watching you like you’re the most illogical puzzle he’s ever encountered.

"You’re crying over shoes," he states, as if saying it out loud will somehow make it make sense. Then, without another word, he lifts his hand, ice swirling in his palm. The frost takes shape, forming into delicate, shimmering heels—like Cinderella’s glass slippers but with the elegance of a winter night.

"They won’t melt, they won’t break," he says, adjusting his gloves. "And they’re yours. Now put them on. We’re going to the new restaurant, and I refuse to let you be late because of this."

☀️ 🐇 Xavier

He watches you in silence for a moment, then sighs, taking off his coat and draping it over your shoulders.

"Alright, let's take a deep breath," he murmurs, rubbing slow circles on your back. "I know you wanted them, but they’re just shoes. You’ll find something even better."

His voice is warm, steady, like he’s grounding you. Then, after a beat, his lips curl into a smirk.

"Or, if you really want them, I can track the buyer down and… negotiate."

The glint in his eye is teasing, but the way he squeezes your hand reassures you more than any words could.

🎨 🐟 Rafayel

His reaction is instant—gasping dramatically, clutching his heart.

"No! My love, my muse, my poor, delicate flower!" He pulls you into his arms, rocking you slightly as if you’re the most fragile thing in the world. "We must avenge your loss—wait, no, I know what to do!"

He lifts your chin, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"We’ll design our own! The most breathtaking, one-of-a-kind heels, handcrafted by the finest Lemurian artisans. And while we wait, you can wear my shoes. They’re far superior anyway."

He winks, tilting his head playfully.

"How can I let my beloved bodyguard suffer when I live to see you smile?"

[junespriince]

"oh this li would have beef with this li" "no no li would hate this li"

Zayne would hate every single li we have rn. Think about it in his shoes, your love one just drops that she has this jealous coworker who apparently been fighting wonders since 3yo (or that he's from S DIFFERENT TIME PERIOD), a man who claims to be a fish boy that conically paid someone to stalk ya so he could go to your college and an artist that painting kinda def killed someone, a mobster from the n109 that is the most wanted man ever, and ya dead childhood friend who might be evil (idk yet but ya ate a apple menacingly dude wtf) coming basically back from the dead and prob has some beef from childhood he def be carrying around for years and you try not to hate every single one of them lol

Tara be like get that bag baby, and him too but also wtf how do you keep adding more danger to your life.

In short, mc gonna make that man gray early or is and he's been dying his hair this whole time.

[koizumi-marichan]

Last thing before the finale

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Grief

Buckle down, this is a heavy one. I enjoy causing myself emotional pain, and this hurt/comfort fic is definitely it.

Featuring pre-relationship! Sylus and my OC Kit, regarding her past relationship with Caleb, her ex. Kit is NOT the MC (although Kiri, mentioned in this fic, is), but she is an assassin and Sylus's second in command. Ironically, this was established for me before I knew there were "assassin second in command" fics around.

Trigger warnings for this one: Grief, workplace abuse (not Onychinus, briefly mentioned in non-explicit detail), unintentional physical altercations, lack of eating due to grief. This is addressed and resolved in fic.

If you enjoyed this fic, please consider giving it a like or a reblog! It lets me know people like what I'm doing and encourages me to continue writing!

🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

The phone hits the floor, its screen shattering.

Kit is soon to follow, her knees giving out beneath her. She can hear Luke and Kieran speaking urgently to her, a voice on the other end of the call crackling out from the speaker, but it's all underwater. Muffled sound that should be words is nothing compared to the heart-rending cry that rips from her throat.

“No. No! Caleb!”

Kit doesn't leave her room for three days.

Later, she'll learn that no one thought to call her. The one who finally asked is River, part of the high school/university friend group who had witnessed the beginning and inevitable end of her relationship.

He's the one who broke the news.

Kit doesn't remember much from those three days. She doesn't eat, barely sleeps, and spends most of her time curled up in her lofted space in Onychinus's attic.

She's there when Sylus finally intervenes.

A hot cup of cocoa is put into her hands, its heat startling her enough to make her look up. Sylus's expression is inscrutable, and if she wasn't in shock, she'd have laughed at the way he's bent forward to avoid the low ceiling.

“Drink,” he says firmly. It's an order, not a request.

Kit’s lips touch the edge of the mug, the sweet aroma curling around her. Her mouth trembles, and her stomach twists. As if accepting bodily functions is a cruel smack against her grief.

A reminder that she is alive, and Caleb is not.

Sylus crouches in front of her. His gaze is steady as he waits. A single pale eyebrow raises in disapproval.

“Are you going to disobey?”

She tilts the mug, sweet chocolate coating her tongue, sugar forcing her back to reality.

Tears sting her eyes, and Kit begins to shake.

Sylus takes the mug. He sets it on a side table as she begins to lurch forward, drawing her into his arms.

He holds her tightly as she sobs, shattering apart once more.

At some point, her tears dry up, whether she wants them to or not. Sylus holds out a tissue, although she's not sure where he got the box.

“I got snot all over you,” are the first words out of her mouth.

Sylus snorts. “I know. That's what happens when you bottle things up, kitten.”

Kit closes her eyes tightly. “Not now,” she whispers. He hums a query, and she shakes her head. “I can't- not that one, Sylus.” She chokes up, unaware of the way his eyes widen at the first willing use of his name. “Cay- Caleb is the one who nicknamed me. When we were young. I told him I hated being called Camilla, and he told me that I reminded him more of a cat than a flower. He's the reason I started going by Kitty, and later…” she blew her nose, trying to fight off another wave of sobs. “And later, Kit. He called me Kitty-cat.”

A gentle hand grazes her cheekbone, brushing at the corner of her eye. She opens them to see Sylus’s expression. It's softer than she's ever seen it.

“Okay, sweetie,” he replies soothingly. “I won't use it.”

Kit leans into his touch, into the warmth of his palm, until he's cupping the side of her face. “Not forever,” she whispers. “I like it when you call me that. Just not right now.”

“He meant a lot to you,” Sylus says. It's a question as much as it is a statement, his hand staying in place where she needs it most. The point of contact feels grounding.

Kit nods. “My best friend, the Hunter who's recovering from the explosion, grew up with him like I did. The three of us were thick as thieves.” She laughs bitterly, staring out the attic window into the dark night.

“Everyone had their expectations, I suppose. They all expected Caleb and I would get together. Our feelings never really mattered, our families pushed us into it. His grandma and my father always seemed to have their heads together, as if they were planning our wedding.”

There's an odd flash of something on Sylus's face, something she can't quite discern. Still, he continues to listen. “Did you…have feelings, then?” He asks carefully.

She reaches over and takes the mug. It's lukewarm now, but she doesn't care. It gives her something to hold onto besides him.

“As I said,” Kit continues. “It never really mattered. Caleb and I were pushed together, like dolls in a dollhouse. We started dating in our first year of high school. It continued until…you know. When I was forced into this life.

I think Caleb knew that something was wrong, but by then we'd graduated, and our relationship began to crumble. My dad retired and fucked off on a trip round the globe, and without that constant parental pressure…” Kit sighs. “It was only right before he left for the academy that I realized I'd fallen in love with him somewhere along the way. I…never did learn if he felt the same way.”

“You can't be serious,” she'd said. Caleb sighs, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“I am. Sorry, Kitty-cat. I'll be staying at Grandma's until I leave for the academy. Her health’s declining, and Kiri has finals. Someone's got to watch over her.”

“But you don't want me there,” Kit says. She watches the line of his shoulders tense, his hand flexing against the leather handle.

Caleb doesn't look back. “No. I don't. I'll make up some excuse, tell her you're off doing important things.”

“Why?” She goes to move closer, wincing as her stitches pull. Her last job ended poorly, and she'd suffered quite the punishment as a result.

Thankfully, Caleb doesn't see her pain.

He sighs. “Because…she thinks that we're happy. It's her wish, you know. That you and I end up together.”

That hurts more than the cut on her side. “But you don't want us together. Is that it? Are you…” she hesitates, and pushes through. “Are you happy, Cay? With us?”

He reaches out for the door handle. “We'll talk about it when I get back.”

This time, she lunges forward, grabbing the back of his jacket. “When? When you get back from the Academy? Caleb!”

Finally, that gets a reaction out of him. He yanks away, and it sends her to the floor. Kit gasps sharply, black spots dancing across her vision.

Instantly, he whirls, crouching. Caleb’s expression is full of concern, torn between staying and going. “Shit, are you alright? I didn't mean- Camilla, I'm-” He reaches out, and she flinches. It's instinctual.

It's the first time she's ever seen him heartbroken.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers. “I'll leave.” Caleb rises to his feet.

“Caleb, wait-!” She reaches out, but the door’s already clicked shut behind him, and she hears his footsteps pounding down the outside stairs out of their apartment.

For a long time, she sits there. Her question rings over and over again in her head.

'“Are you happy, Caleb?”'

As the sun sets, the last beams of sunlight struggling through the blinds into the living room, Kit makes up her mind.

By the time night comes, all that remains in the apartment are memories left behind and a letter on his pillow, weighed down by a watch she'd intended to gift him for their anniversary, three days away.

Sylus's hands settle over hers on the mug, drawing her out of memories. “We all have regrets,” he says gently. “What's important is that you live on despite them.”

Kit frowns at that. “How cruel to say that to someone who's grieving.”

He squeezes her hands. “I'd rather be cruel than watch you waste away.” Sylus's tone is firm and reprimanding. “I know it hurts. Believe me, I know. But you have to eat. You have to drink. You have to take care of yourself, ki- sweetie. There are living people who care about you.” Sylus cups her face, making her look up at him. Their eyes meet.

Not for the first time, she feels her heart stutter at the intensity of his gaze, and a sharp pang of guilt accompanies it.

“If you can't find a reason to live without him,” he says, an odd bitterness to his voice, “then live because I forced you to. Make me the bad guy. Scream and fight against me, and hate me for it, as long as it gets you to keep going.”

“I could never hate you,” Kit whispers. Her lips tremble as she tries to hold back her tears. His expression is too open, too raw, as if he's showing her something she's not ready to see. She closes her eyes against it, pressing her face into his palms once more. “I just feel so guilty. Like the story of me and him has finished but someone ripped out pages, so I only got to read the very end.”

“Then write a new one with us,” Sylus replies. “That story’s ended, but it doesn't mean you have to. Don't let grief rot you. If he was anything good for you, he wouldn't have wanted that. And neither do I.”

“And neither do we!” The sound of the twins’ voices startles them both, and Kit looks over her shoulder over the edge of the loft. Luke and Kieran stand below, holding a tray of food. Steam rises up, and the accompanying smell makes her stomach growl loudly.

She blushes.

Sylus sighs exasperatedly. “This was supposed to be a private conversation,” he drawls.

“You were taking too long,” Luke throws back at him. “The food was going to get cold.” Kieran nods in agreement.

Kit and Sylus exchange glances, and he squeezes her cheeks until she squawks offendedly, batting his hands away. His eyes are warm, like melted cherry candy. “Come on, sweetie,” he says softly. “Let's eat.”

Kit looks at them all. Her Mischief and Mayhem, down below.

Sylus, her boss, who seems to always cut through her armor to reveal her tender heart.

She sighs in defeat.

“Alright. Let's eat.”

[c-kiddo]

i try with all my might not to be a hater but i just got to episode 100 on my cr2 rewatch and i keep thinking abt this moment in ep99 when tmn straight up ask essek about how it feels to see that adeen (who he framed for his own actions) is in chains instead of him, and essek replies "honestly, freeing" ..... 😐

[ninadove]

Alas… They were made for contrapuntal poetry… 😔

AO3 version here and alt text below!

Cal:

Come back!

I did not mean

to hurt you —

Well perhaps

I did,

but

only

for

that split

second.

Always

I put up a fight,

nurture

empty words;

which lie do you prefer?

You have no idea

how hard it was —

how much I love you.

I didn’t mean it!

I take it all back!

Come home,

brother!

Aron:

To the beginning,

to scrub you off my nails —

that’s where I’m headed.

My best —

it was never enough,

a joke,

a viper’s nest

as the punchline!

To the imperious call

I surrender,

nature

birthing sin.

How to live

when Heaven spat you out?

You read me all wrong,

every single one of you —

man, sinner, worshipper!

???

Come back // to the beginning:

I did not mean // to scrub you off my nails,

to hurt you —

Well, perhaps // that’s where I’m headed.

I did // my best,

but // it was never enough:

only // a joke

for // a viper’s nest,

this split // as the punchline,

second

always // to the imperious call.

I put up a fight, // I surrender:

nurture, // nature,

empty words // birthing sin —

which lie do you prefer?

You have no idea // how to live,

how hard it was when Heaven spat you out,

how much I love you.

I didn’t mean it — // you read me all wrong.

I take it all back! // Every single one of you,

Come home — // man, sinner, worshipper,

brother!

[tsuyalovebot]

ehhh this piece is taking longer than i expected ... (; ; )

it'll probably come out within the next few days! it's actually older than collared and was my first ever exploration of caleb's character, so it's taking me a little longer to polish over it because the ideas in them are kind of old compared to recent works.

have another crumb of my draft in the meantime! :]

[nopynopa]

Anakin : I don’t like sand

Obi wan : I will find the highground

[supercalifragipopculturevomit]

POV: Dr. Laszlo Kreizler is your psychology professor

[not-poignant]

Birthday Spotlight - Caleb Crawford

[9th April - Aries]

(Note, some of this information hasn't yet been posted on AO3, but has been written into Underline the Red!)

Caleb Crawford, an Indian-Australian alpha who works at Hillview as an alpha companion, is known for being the alpha that blows beta Faber Castle's mind during an ill-negotiated one-night-stand sex marathon that ends with Faber sore from overuse with a bad case of unrequited love, and Caleb uncertain why Faber rejected his offer to see each other again.

Caleb is a bold, well-educated, intense, and occasionally overbearing with his partners. He is most respectful to omegas and alphas, and displays some beta bigotry which is common among alphas and omegas in particular.

'I don't think you should be alone today. Just saying, when someone dicks you down as well as I just did, maybe someone should be looking out for you.'

Underline the Red

Underline the Black - Caleb first appeared as one of the alpha companions who is supervised by Dr Gary Konowalous. We first meet him via a supervision session between the two of them, and then later again when they share a conversation about his omega, Lucien, being ready to graduate, and Caleb admitting it will take some time for him to recover from the bond being broken.

Underline the Red - Also his main appearance, Caleb steals Faber's heart after a one night stand. They don't talk nearly enough, so Faber doesn't know that Caleb's doing an interview at Hillview to become a companion until the following day, at which point his heart is broken, and Caleb is shocked and horrified.

Over time, Caleb proves himself to be a competent omega companion who is still pursuing his PhD on Omega Studies, and despite Faber's best efforts, they keep being drawn into each other's orbits, time not soothing any wounds between them.

Small for an alpha, Caleb is Efnisien's height. He has medium-brown skin, and straight dark brown hair worn in a quiff. His hair is well-maintained and styled, and he cares a great deal for fashion. He has sharp, golden eyes, and wears thin gold-rimmed glasses, as well as button-up shirts and business shirts. He likes wearing bright colours with a dark ensemble.

30 years old.

Caleb's scent is earthy and clove-like, with glittery spikes that feel almost like poprocks.

It's joked that Caleb is arrogant enough and bold enough to be more like a peak alpha than an alpha.

Unlike many of other, softer-natured alphas at Hillview, Caleb is uniquely suited to a specific kind of jealous or possessive omega that is often at risk of murdering other omegas out of jealousy. As a result his cottage is kept more separate than the average cottage, to keep his omegas as far from other omegas as possible.

Caleb learns the skill of domestic discipline to deal with his latest omega, Lucien Beaumont, and ends up in the world of BDSM as a result.

Definitely most memorable for absolutely destroying Faber's ass and being cheerfully confident about it in a sex marathon that ends in Faber falling in love and Caleb developing enough feelings to be willing to not go to the Hillview interview to keep seeing Faber.

While it hasn't been mentioned yet, Caleb cares about fashion so much that he knew who Alois Flitmouse was before anyone else at Hillview, because he knew of his fashion and clothing and role as a Perth fashion icon.

Caleb's father is a well-known secondary gender-sex academic, and Caleb initially wanted to follow in the footsteps of his father and become a professor. He landed in Omega Studies and decided to interview for Hillview after a tour of the facilities for his doctorate. He paused his PhD as a result, and often continues to work on his PhD between omegas.

Despite Caleb's bold, arrogant, and sometimes crass nature, he is extremely thoughtful, calculating, and insightful. He often sees far more than he lets on, and he has one night stands to relax his over-active, busy mind.

I was always scared that Caleb and Faber wouldn't be strong enough to carry their own narrative, and started writing Underline the Red really scared of how it would turn out. As I wrote it though, I realised these two were a powderkeg that were ready to ignite over and over again. I can't wait for the journey these two are on. In some ways, it will be much bigger than the other journeys. For a start, some of the story will take place in another country!

You're the best thing in this town and you don't even live here. Maybe we'll see each other again one day.

Underline the Red

[inkshine]

So, realistically, Philip and Caleb have/had plenty of indirect descendants running around the human world, who have zero idea of anything that happened between their ancestors in the demon realm.

Can you imagine how insane it would be if they found out, though?

Yeah, so it turns out that your ancestors, Philip and Caleb, went through a portal and then had a falling out and Philip murdered his brother in another dimension. Then he cloned Caleb a bunch of times and killed those clones too, and also tried to mass-murder an entire population of people in the other dimension. Yeah we're still trying to figure out if you're technically related to the clones, but I'm assuming you are? Because they're clones of your ancestor...

Like what do you even do with the information that you're distantly related to an interdimensional colonizer and also have distant blood relatives still living in said other dimension because his brother had a child? How do you cope with that? What happens to family reunions after that?

[bibwak]

what's sexier than wizards

[sysig]

Everything falls into place so nicely when they’re together (Patreon)