#in love in love in love in love in love in love in love in love in love in love in love

[hellsitegenetics]

big shoutout to the handful of blogs who follow me for one specific organism and every time it appears they go hog wild

[alleesaur]

order mix up

[pangur-and-grim]

the pile of leaves might be a permanent fixture

[birintiharmelegi]

[titsay]

[aleksatia]

Possession, Obsession, Devotion: A Study in Five Men

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5 Lies Caleb Tells Himself About You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5 Lies Zayne Tells Himself About You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5 Lies Rafayel Tells Himself About You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5 Lies Xavier Tells Himself About You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5 Lies Sylus Tells Himself About You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[vaetis]

如你所愿，现在我们可没有退路了。 You got what you wanted. There's no turning back now. Love and Deepspace (2024), dev. Infold Games

[simstrouble]

Somewhere in New Orleans, Haus of Hoodoo: Apothecary for all your needs 🌛💀🌜

[balfeys]

Hey, he's gonna be okay. Thanks to you. You saved his life. It was a team effort.

[akanemnon]

Worth a shot

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐃-𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The walls of your shared apartment seemed to close in, the air thick with unspoken resentments that had been building for weeks. What had begun as a minor disagreement about household chores had somehow torn open wounds neither of you knew were still bleeding. Xavier stood across from you, his brows furrowed, the only visible sign of his distress.

“You weren’t listening to what I’m actually saying!” you shouted, frustration bubbling over like a pot left too long on the stove. “It’s like I’m talking to a brick wall. Maybe we should just get divorced since you clearly don’t care enough to even hear me!”

The words hung in the air like smoke, poisonous and suffocating. Xavier went completely still, the color draining from his face as if you’d physically struck him. His carefully maintained composure shattered completely. For a terrible moment, he looked like a lost child, confusion and raw hurt etched across features that rarely betrayed emotion, as if trying to process whether he’d heard you correctly.

“What?” His voice came out as barely a whisper, the single syllable laden with disbelief. The tremor in his hands was visible now as he took a halting step toward you. “You want to leave me?”

The question hung between you, fragile and devastating. His eyes—usually so guarded—were wide with a naked vulnerability that made your chest ache. You’d never seen him like this, stripped of his careful control, looking at you as though his entire world was crumbling beneath his feet.

“No,” he finally said, the word coming out stronger than you expected, though his voice still wavered. “No, I don’t accept that.”

He moved closer, his eyes searching yours intently. “Is that truly what you want? To end everything we have…?” Xavier was stumbling over his words, fear making his movements uncertain.

The raw pain in his expression doused your anger like ice water. You felt a crushing wave of regret as you realized what you’d done.

You felt your anger dissolve, replaced by immediate regret. “I... I don’t know what came over me,” you admitted, your voice softening as you reached for his hand. “I’m just... I’m drowning here, Xavier. I feel so alone sometimes, even when you’re right beside me.”

Relief washed over his face in stages, as if he didn’t quite trust it yet. The tension in his shoulders unwound gradually, his breathing becoming less ragged. He closed the remaining distance between you, his hands tentatively framing your face as if you might disappear at his touch.

“You scared me,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I thought—” His throat worked as he swallowed hard, then shook his head as if dismissing the painful thought. “I know arguments are normal, but please don’t say things like that unless you truly mean them.”

In a surprising move, Xavier pulled you gently against his chest, wrapping his arms around you. He rested his chin atop your head, his heartbeat gradually slowing from its accelerated pace. You could feel the subtle tremor in his body, still racing from the terror your words had inflicted.

“I know I’m not...” he struggled, pressing his face into your hair. “I know I don’t show it like others might. I know I’m... difficult to read sometimes.”

His arms tightened, as if afraid you might slip away. “But please understand,” he whispered against your temple, “never, never think that means I don’t care.”

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of your mingled breathing slowly synchronizing. His hand moved in gentle circles against your back, a gesture so tender it brought tears to your eyes.

After a long moment, he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own still haunted by the echo of fear your words had planted. “Let’s talk about what’s really bothering you,” he said softly. “The real issue—not threats we don’t mean.” His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. “I need you to know that I’m listening. Really listening.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The kitchen lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across Zayne’s tired face as another late night unfolded into another argument. The takeout containers sat cold and forgotten on the counter, another dinner you’d planned to share, ruined by the hospital’s relentless demands.

“This is the third time this week, Zayne!” Your voice echoed off the pristine tiles, resentment burning in your chest. “I’m tired of coming second to your patients. I’m tired of planning my entire life around a husband who’s never actually here!”

Zayne’s shoulders slumped, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. “What do you want me to say? That patient would have died if I’d left mid-surgery. You know that.”

“What I know is that our marriage is dying while you’re saving everyone else!” The words spilled out like blood from a wound. “If your work is so much more important than what we have, maybe we shouldn’t be married at all!”

Zayne went completely rigid, as if someone had just flatlined on his operating table. His eyes widened with an unmistakable flash of terror that transformed his features into something you barely recognized.

“What did you just say?” His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper, so unlike his usual tone that it startled you both. The mug he’d been holding slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor with a crash that neither of you acknowledged.

His hand instinctively reached for the counter edge, gripping it with such force his knuckles turned bloodless white. “Do you—” He took a deep breath, visibly struggling to regain his composed detachment but failing completely. “Do you understand what you’re suggesting?”

His other hand pushed through his hair, a gesture so uncharacteristically vulnerable it startled you. Zayne—always controlled, always collected—looked like he was coming apart at the seams.

“This isn’t—” he began, his voice unsteady. “This isn’t something to throw around in an argument.” His gaze locked onto yours, desperate and searching. “Do you genuinely want to end our marriage? Is that... is that what I’ve driven you to?”

The raw fear in his eyes struck you like a physical blow. Regret washed over you immediately, dousing the flames of your anger.

“No,” you whispered, moving toward him as if drawn by gravity. “No, Zayne, no. I don’t want that at all.” You stepped carefully over the broken ceramic, reaching for him. “I just... I miss you so much it physically hurts. Sometimes I feel like I’m competing with ghosts for your attention, and I’m always losing.”

The tension in his body didn’t immediately dissolve, but something in his expression shifted—a cautious relief mingled with lingering dread.

“You can’t—” he started, then cleared his throat, struggling to steady his voice. “You can’t say things like that. Not when you don’t mean them.” His eyes held a wounded vulnerability that made your heart ache. “Not even in anger.”

He reached for your hands, holding them between his own—hands that were always steady, now trembling slightly as they enveloped yours. His touch was gentle but desperate, like someone clutching a lifeline.

“I’ve lost patients before,” he murmured, his voice low. “Despite doing everything right, despite fighting with everything I had. It’s an inevitable part of what I do.” His eyes met yours, stripped of their usual protective distance. “But losing you... there’s no protocol for that. No training that could prepare me for a world without you in it.”

He pulled you closer, one hand moving to the small of your back while the other cradled your face. “We need to talk about this—really talk,” he said, his voice regaining some of its steadiness. “About my hours at the hospital and how they’re affecting you. About better ways to communicate when you’re feeling abandoned.” His thumb brushed gently over your cheekbone. “But threatening what we have... that can’t be your way of getting my attention. I can’t accept that.”

His forehead came to rest against yours, his breath warm on your skin. “I chose you,” he whispered. “Not just once at the altar, but every day since. The hospital gets my skills and my time, but you...” His voice caught. “You have everything else. My heart. My future. Everything that matters.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

“You promised, Rafayel. You promised you’d be there tonight.” Your voice trembled with hurt and frustration. “And you just... didn’t show up.”

Rafayel’s expression cycled through confusion, realization, and then dismay as he glanced at the clock. Paint smeared across his forearms, flecks of blue and gold caught in his disheveled hair. “The dinner... was tonight?” His voice was small, stunned. “I thought—I was sure it was tomorrow. I just—”

“Of course you did,” you cut him off, tears burning your eyes. “Of course you probably got distracted by a pretty sky while I sat there making excuses for you!” The shame and embarrassment of the evening washed over you afresh. “You never take anything seriously! Not my feelings, not my situation—nothing!”

You knocked over an empty paint cup, sending it clattering across the floor. “Maybe we should just get divorced if I’m so easy to forget!”

The words seemed to physically strike Rafayel. The ever-present light in his eyes extinguished instantly, as if someone had snuffed out a flame. His expression crumpled in stages—shock, horror, then a devastating anguish that transformed his features into something almost unrecognizable.

“No,” he whispered. Then louder, more desperate, “No, no, no—you can’t mean that. Please tell me you don’t mean that.”

He moved toward you with frantic urgency, nearly knocking over his easel in his haste. His hands reached for yours, fingers trembling visibly. “Please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please don’t say that. Don’t even think about it.”

Tears welled in his eyes, catching the light like a fractured crystal. His hands clutched yours with desperate intensity.

“I’ll do better,” he promised frantically, words tumbling over each other. “I’ll be better. I’ll set alarms. I’ll never miss another dinner. I’ll—” His voice broke. “I’ll do anything. Just please don’t leave me.” His breath hitched on a suppressed sob. “Please don’t leave me alone in a world without you in it.”

The raw panic in his eyes made your heart ache. You squeezed his hands, shaking your head quickly. “Rafayel, I didn’t mean it,” you said softly, reaching up to brush away a tear tracking down his cheek. “I would never leave you—I love you too much. I was just hurt and embarrassed, but I spoke without thinking. I’m so sorry I scared you.”

The relief that washed over his face was almost painful to witness—like watching someone being pulled back from the edge of a cliff. His shoulders sagged as if a crushing weight had been lifted, and a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob escaped him. Without warning, he pulled you into an embrace so tight it nearly stole your breath, his body trembling against yours.

“You scared me,” he whispered against your hair, his voice unsteady. “The world without you in it... it wouldn’t even be a world anymore.” His arms tightened around you, as if he could somehow merge you into himself, keep you from ever leaving. “The ocean would lose its blue. The sunset would mean nothing. Everything would be wrong.”

For a moment, you glimpsed the true depth of his feelings. Rafayel clung to you as if you were his only tether to sanity.

“You’re the only one,” he murmured brokenly, his fingers tangling in your hair. “The only one who’s ever truly seen me. The only one I’ve ever truly loved.” His voice caught on the words. “Others... they’re just shadows. Background noise. But you—” His breathing hitched. “You’re the melody I can’t stop hearing.”

He pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands, eyes still glistening with unshed tears. “I know I’m not... I know I’m difficult,” he admitted, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “I get distracted. I get lost in my head. I disappear when something catches my attention. But none of that means I don’t care.” He rested his forehead against yours.

Rafayel pressed a trembling kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then finally a feather-light touch to your lips. “I’m sorry about tonight,” he whispered. “I saw the sunset reflecting on the water, and it reminded me of the way your eyes catch the light when you laugh, and I just... got lost in trying to capture it. A moment that reminded me of you.” He shook his head slightly. “But that’s no excuse. I should have been with you.”

His arms wrapped around you once more, holding you as if you were something infinitely precious and terrifyingly fragile. “Tell me how to make it right,” he pleaded softly. “Tell me what you need from me, and I’ll give it to you. Anything. Just... just promise you won’t say those words again. Not even in anger. I couldn’t bear it.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

“You’re being reckless again,” he said, his voice cool in a way that only stoked your anger further. “You’re letting emotion cloud your judgment.”

Weeks of feeling second-guessed and undermined by the very person who should have been your greatest ally finally erupted. “Not everything needs your perfect, polished approval, Sylus! Sometimes instinct trumps your precious spreadsheets!”

His eyes narrowed slightly—the only outward sign that your words had struck a nerve. “Instinct without strategy leads to disaster. You know that.”

The argument echoed through the room. What had started as a disagreement about your latest ambitious ideas had escalated beyond reason when he questioned your methods.

“What I know is that you don’t trust me anymore,” you said, voice rising with each word. “If you think so little of my ideas and my capabilities, then maybe we should just get divorced and you can find someone who meets your impossible standards!”

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Sylus went completely, unnaturally still. Surprise and disbelief appeared on his features. He regarded you with an unfathomable stare, his jaw tightening visibly as a muscle worked in his cheek. You’d never seen him look so... shaken. The silence stretched between you, heavy with implications neither of you was prepared to face.

“Is that what you want?” he finally asked, his voice unnervingly quiet. There was steel underneath his words, but also something else—a carefully concealed pain that threaded through the syllables. His eyes never left yours, studying every micro-expression with devastating intensity.

He moved toward you in a few steps. “Very well,” he said softly, the words carrying a finality that sent ice through your veins. “If that is truly your desire, I won’t stand in your way.”

His hand reached out, hovering near your face but not quite touching, as if memorizing your features from a distance. The gesture held such unexpected tenderness that it made your throat tighten. “Though I would ask you to consider carefully if that is what you genuinely want,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Some decisions can’t be undone.”

The subtle vulnerability in his controlled demeanor broke through your anger. You could see it now—the carefully masked fear behind his eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders that betrayed how deeply your words had cut him.

You reached for his hovering hand, pulling it to your cheek. “No—please, don’t agree to that,” you said, your voice softening with immediate regret. “I spoke without thinking. I was hurt and angry and I lashed out in the worst possible way.” Your fingers tightened around his. “I value what we’ve built—what we have—more than anything in the world. I would never want to throw it away, especially not over a disagreement.”

Relief flickered across Sylus’s face, though so carefully guarded that you might have missed it had you not known every minute shift of his expression.

“I suspected as much,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. His hand, which had been hovering near you, finally made full contact, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “Still, you should be more careful with your threats. I might have taken you at your word.”

He pulled you against him then, arms wrapping firmly around your waist. The embrace held a desperate quality that belied his controlled exterior, as if he was trying to reassure himself that you were still there, still his.

“You are...” he began, then paused, choosing his words with characteristic precision. “You are irreplaceable to me.” Coming from Sylus—a man who measured every word as carefully as he measured risk—the simple statement carried more weight than flowery declarations might from others. “What we have built together is not something I would surrender without a fight.” His arms tightened infinitesimally. “But I would never force you to remain if you truly wished to leave.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“We disagree. We argue. That is the nature of two ambitious minds existing in the same orbit.” His thumb traced your lower lip, the gesture surprisingly intimate. “But don’t threaten what we have unless you genuinely wish to end it.” Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes. “I respect you too much to assume your words are empty.”

For a moment, you glimpsed behind the mask of the strategic leader who planned several steps ahead in every situation—seeing instead a man momentarily confronted with a possibility he hadn’t fully prepared for: your departure from his life.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The argument had been building for weeks, pressure accumulating like a storm system. What started as a seemingly minor issue—Caleb canceling dinner plans again due to a last-minute work emergency—had erupted into something far more devastating. The living room felt too small for the tension between you.

“That’s the fifth time this month,” you said, voice tight with hurt as you paced the living room. “I understand your work is important, but am I even a consideration anymore?”

Caleb ran a hand over his face, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. “It’s not like I had a choice. When—”

“You always have a choice!” The words burst from you, weeks of loneliness and frustration finding their target. “You choose your career over me, and I’m tired of making excuses for why my husband is never home, never present, never here when I need him!”

“That’s not fair,” he countered, his own frustration rising to meet yours. “You knew what my life was when you married me. The Fleet doesn’t care about our dinner reservations.”

“And clearly, neither do you!” You grabbed your keys from the counter, the metal biting into your palm. “Maybe we should just get divorced if your career is always going to come first! At least then I wouldn’t be waiting for someone who’s never coming home!”

The atmosphere shifted instantly, as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Caleb, who had been pacing, stopped dead in his tracks. His entire body went rigid, eyes widening with a look of such raw horror that it made your heart stutter.

“No,” he said after a long, terrible pause, his voice dangerously quiet. “No, you don’t mean that.”

He closed the distance between you in two swift strides, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something in his movement, a barely contained desperation, that made your breath hitch.

“You don’t mean that,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument despite the slight tremor underneath the words. “You’re upset, and you have every right to be. But that—” he shook his head sharply, “—that’s not an option. Not now, not ever.”

His hands found your shoulders, grip firm but gentle. The look in his eyes was a volatile mixture of hurt, fear, and something possessively fierce that sent a shiver down your spine. “We’re not doing that,” he said, each word emphasizing. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. That doesn’t change because we’re fighting.”

The intensity of his reaction cut through your anger like a blade, leaving only regret in its wake. You felt the fight drain out of you as you leaned into his touch, reaching up to cover his hands with yours.

“You’re right,” you whispered, tears finally spilling over. “I don’t mean it at all. I would never—” Your voice broke. “I’m so sorry, Caleb. I was trying to hurt you because I felt hurt, but that was cruel and unfair. I would never want to lose you. I just feel so alone sometimes, like I’m competing with the entire Fleet for scraps of your attention.”

The iron grip of tension in Caleb’s shoulders eased slightly, though the intensity in his eyes remained. He exhaled slowly, as if releasing a breath he’d been holding since your outburst. One hand moved from your shoulder to cup your face, his touch gentler than his words had been.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying a dangerous undercurrent. “Not even in anger. Not even as a weapon. Not ever.” The hand against your cheek trembled slightly. “I couldn’t bear it.”

He pulled you against his chest, one arm wrapping securely around your waist while his other hand cradled the back of your head. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, his breathing uneven.

“The thought of losing you...” he murmured against your hair. “It’s not something I can bear. Not something I would ever accept.” His arms tightened around you, as if he could physically prevent you from leaving by holding you close enough. “You’re the only thing that keeps me human out there. The only reason I fight so hard to come back.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “I know I’ve been distant,” he acknowledged, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. “The Fleet demands so much, but it’s no excuse. Nothing—” his grip tightened slightly, “—nothing is more important to me than you. Not my career, not my duty, not anything.”

“We’ll figure this out,” he promised, pressing his forehead to yours. “Whatever it takes. More time together. Better communication.” His lips brushed yours. 

“Just don’t ever threaten to leave me again. I need you to promise me that.” His voice softened, revealing a vulnerability you rarely glimpsed. “Because I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Phew, finally. This turned out to be one of my longest scenarios yet. I’m honestly pretty proud of it, and yeah, I got emotional—tears were shed, lol. I really hope it’s enough to repay all the love and enthusiasm you’ve shown. I’m so grateful you’re here to read it. Thank you!

[muqingslover]

guys. guysgyys

THE WAY HE LOOKS AT MC IM GONNA JUMP PH MY GOD

IT'S SO SOFT HE'S SO IN LOVE I CANT TAKE IT

I love the whole tension thing they have going on but my heart aches for lover boy Sylus he's so in love please let him love MC

OH AND

HIS SMIRK HERE?!?! HE'S SO HOT BUT SO DAMN CUTE AT THE SAME TIME WHAT IS HE DOING

[p1psqueaks]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — WHEN HE SNAPS AND REGRETS IT

a/n: this was an old work for a prev fandom that i found while looking through my google doc, so i spruced it up a little to make it fit the lads boys a little more, but most of it is the same! also unpopular opinion, i love the pipsqueak nickname and i love it even more when fic authors shorten it to "pips" IT'S SO CUTE

ZAYNE

The door slams.

That’s your first warning.

You freeze mid-step in the hallway, holding a freshly folded blanket you meant to toss on the couch. Zayne’s keys hit the bowl on the entryway table with more force than usual, his shoes kicked off without care. You can hear his breathing — sharp, uneven — as he moves around the apartment like he doesn’t want to be in it.

You peek around the corner.

He’s still in scrubs, half-wrinkled, stained near the cuffs. His hair’s a mess, and his eyes are dark hollows. There’s something about the way his shoulders are hunched — coiled, like a spring on the verge of snapping.

You swallow your instinct to step back.

Instead, you try your voice.

“Hey,” you say gently, quietly, like a test. “Long day?”

Zayne exhales through his nose, rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Long doesn't begin to cover it.”

You take a slow step forward. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” His tone is curt. Abrupt. You flinch — but stay where you are.

“I made dinner,” you offer, softer this time. “Something light. You haven’t eaten since—”

“God, can you just stop?”

The words are a gunshot. You freeze.

He’s facing you now, eyes sharp and wild with stress.

“Zayne…” you whisper, but your throat’s already tight.

“I walk into this apartment needing one second to breathe, and you’re already asking questions, hovering — offering food, talking about feelings — can you just give me space?”

It hits you harder than it should. Not the words — but the way he says them.

The volume. The edge.

The way your father used to sound just before slamming a door and making you feel smaller than the silence he left behind.

Your hands tremble. The blanket slips from your fingers and lands on the floor with a soft thud. You take a step back, but the walls feel too close, your ribs locked tight around the breath you can’t seem to find.

Zayne notices the shift in you immediately.

Your eyes go glassy. You’re not saying anything. Just… blinking. Holding yourself like your own body might break if you don’t.

He sees the tears before you feel them fall.

“Wait — wait, no,” he says suddenly, voice cracking. “Don’t — no, I didn’t mean—”

But you’re already backing away, hands rising halfway in that half-hearted gesture of surrender.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to help.”

His face falls apart.

“No, no, please don’t apologize,” Zayne says, stepping toward you — but gentler now. He reaches out, and when you flinch ever so slightly, he freezes. “God, I didn’t mean to yell. I never want to raise my voice at you. I didn’t think — I wasn’t thinking.”

You press a sleeve against your cheek, wiping away the tears that won’t stop. “I don’t like yelling. It — messes with my head.”

He breathes out a sound that’s half a sob. “You were just trying to care for me. And I treated you like — like everyone else treats me when I’m tired. Dismissive. Angry. Cold. And you’re not everyone else. You’re you.”

He’s in front of you now, his voice shaking as badly as your hands.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he whispers. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You look up at him, unsure — like any sudden movement might trigger another wave. But he’s nothing but stillness now. Open palms. Broken regret.

“I don’t want to be afraid of you,” you say softly.

“You shouldn’t be.” His voice cracks. “You never should be.”

And then he sinks to his knees in front of you, arms slowly wrapping around your waist, head pressed gently to your stomach like he needs to ground himself in the shape of you. Not demanding forgiveness — just asking to stay.

You don’t speak. You just run your fingers through his hair, slowly, over and over. And when your breathing starts to slow, he holds on tighter.

“You’re my home,” he says into your shirt. “And I hurt it. I’ll never forgive myself for that — not unless you tell me I can try again.”

You look down at him, cheeks tear-streaked. “I want to forgive you.”

His eyes lift, red-rimmed and desperate. “I’ll earn it. Every second. Just — don’t shut me out. Please.”

You sink down beside him on the floor, into the warmth of his arms, into the messy, painful truth of loving someone who sometimes breaks under the weight of his own heart.

“I won’t,” you whisper. “Just don’t forget — I break too.”

He nods, holding you tighter.

“I’ll remember. From now on, I’ll remember.”

XAVIER

The silence in the shuttle feels heavier than it should.

Not the usual quiet that follows the adrenaline of a completed mission, but something strained. Too sharp at the edges. Like neither of you can catch your breath, even though you’re technically safe now.

You sit across from Xavier, hands clasped in your lap, trying not to tremble. The mission was a success — on paper. No casualties. Objective completed. But it was too close. Too close when you were separated. Too close when you lost contact. Too close when you thought for a split second that he might not come back.

You’re trying to hold it together, but the tension inside you is unraveling, thread by thread.

“Xavier…” you say softly, hoping your voice won’t crack. “Can we just— talk? Or just… sit close? I—” You hesitate, then admit, “I still feel like I’m back there.”

He doesn’t even look up from the holo-screen he’s reviewing. His jaw is tight. His fingers tap too fast on the interface. “Now’s not the time.”

Your chest tightens.

“I’m trying to be okay,” you say, more fragile now, barely above a whisper. “I just need you to — be here.”

Xavier sighs. Not tired. Frustrated.

“Why do you need something from me every time things get hard?” His voice comes out sharp, unfiltered. “Can’t you see I’m trying to deal with my own mess right now?”

The words hit harder than they should. They’re not cruel, not really—but they come from him, and that makes them a knife.

You shrink back, eyes widening. “I didn’t mean to burden you. I just… I thought you’d understand.”

“I’m not your emotional anchor,” he snaps, then freezes — because he knows. He sees the exact moment your expression fractures. The flicker of hurt that flashes across your face like a dying star.

You stare at him, lips parting slightly, the burn of rejection rising in your throat before you can swallow it down. “Right. Of course.”

Your hands shake as you unbuckle yourself from the seat, turning away. “Forget I said anything.”

“Wait—” he starts, standing, but you’re already moving down the corridor, desperate for some distance. You need air. You need quiet. You need not to cry in front of him.

But you don’t make it far.

Your knees buckle against the wall just around the corner of the cabin, breath catching, the memory of the mission replaying behind your eyes. The chaos. The gunfire. The feeling of helplessness when the comms went dead. And now this — him — pulling away when all you wanted was him.

You don’t hear him follow, but you feel it.

You don’t answer. You hug your knees tighter to your chest and keep your gaze locked on the floor.

“I didn’t mean that,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

You blink hard. “You said it anyway.”

He crouches beside you, hands trembling just slightly as he reaches out — hesitates — and finally settles one hand on your arm.

“I was scared too,” he confesses. “I didn’t let it show, because I can’t. Not out there. But when we lost contact, when I didn’t know if you were alive… I went into survival mode. And when you needed me just now — I pushed instead of pulled. Because that’s what I’ve always done. But it’s not what you deserve.”

You finally glance at him, eyes damp. “I only ever wanted you to be someone I could lean on. Just for a moment.”

His face crumples. “You can. I was wrong. I was… tired and scared and I took it out on the last person I ever should.”

You breathe shakily, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “You scared me, Xavier.”

“I scare myself sometimes,” he murmurs into your hair. “But I’d never forgive myself if I let you believe that your feelings don’t matter to me. You matter. So much it terrifies me.”

His arms come around you then, warm and firm and anchoring you in a way no mission report ever could. You sit there on the floor of the shuttle, hearts thudding too fast, breaths slowly syncing as the panic begins to fade.

“I need you, too,” he whispers against your temple. “Not just in the fight. Not just in the mission. Here. With me.”

You nod, quietly pressing your forehead into his chest. “Then just… hold me. Don’t let go.”

“Never,” he says, holding you tighter. “Not even if the universe tears apart.”

RAFAYEL

The studio smells like paint and tension.

There’s a new canvas on the easel — half-finished, colors chaotic, brushstrokes angrier than they used to be. Rafayel stands in front of it with his back to you, arms crossed, jaw tight. His palette lies abandoned on the table, streaked with smeared reds and grays.

You hesitate in the doorway, watching him. He's been like this for days — restless, snappish, too quiet until he isn’t. His upcoming solo exhibition has devoured every inch of his attention, leaving little room for anything or anyone else.

Still, you try.

You always try.

“I brought you something to eat,” you say softly, holding up the tray with the kind of food he forgets to want when he’s deep in creation. “It’s not much, just — something warm.”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even shift.

You approach carefully, setting the tray down on the side table with a quiet clink. “You’ve been standing there for hours. I thought maybe —”

“Don’t,” he says, voice sharp like shattered glass.

You blink. “I just—”

“I said don’t,” Rafayel snaps, finally turning toward you with a look that doesn’t belong to him. Not the real him — the one who paints stars in your eyes and kisses laughter into your skin. This version is cold. Fractured. Exhausted. “I don’t need food. I don’t need conversation. I don’t need you hovering over me like I’m some broken thing you’re trying to fix.”

The air goes out of your lungs.

“I wasn’t—” Your voice wavers. “I wasn’t trying to fix anything. I just thought you needed someone.”

“I need space,” he says flatly, wiping his hands on a paint-stained cloth. “Not pity. Not babysitting. Space.”

The word space lodges in your chest like a splinter.

You stare at him, stunned, unsure if you should be angry or just… heartbroken. But the tears are already stinging at the corners of your eyes, traitorous and quiet.

“You think I’m here out of pity?” you whisper.

Rafayel opens his mouth to say something — another line, another deflection — but he sees the tears. And everything in him stops.

“Wait — Cutie, no,” he says quickly, voice cracking. “That’s not what I meant—”

But you’re already backing up, trying to blink the tears away, trying not to let your voice break the way your heart just did.

“I know you’re under pressure. I know this matters to you. But you don’t get to make me feel like I don’t.”

He’s silent.

And then, quietly — brokenly — he says, “You do.”

You turn your head, not trusting yourself to look at him.

“I don’t want space,” you whisper. “I want you. But maybe I was wrong about how much room I take up.”

That’s when you hear the scrape of his stool, the soft thud of his footsteps crossing the room. He stops just behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, but he doesn’t reach out yet. Doesn’t touch.

“I’m scared,” Rafayel says finally, his voice a hushed confession. “This exhibition… It’s the first time I’ve shown the real things. Not what people expect from me. Not the masks. Just — me. And I’m terrified they’ll look at it and see nothing worth keeping.”

You say nothing for a long beat, letting his words sink in. And then, gently, quietly: “That’s how I feel right now.”

He flinches.

And then his arms are around you, pulling you in with more tenderness than you thought he had left. He buries his face in your shoulder like he’s trying to disappear into you, like maybe if he presses hard enough, he can paint over the pain with love.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “I lashed out because I couldn’t control the fear. But I never wanted to hurt you. You’re the only thing that keeps me from getting swallowed whole.”

You don’t answer with words. You just wrap your arms around him and hold tight, letting his heartbeat thump against your own. Letting the silence stretch until it’s no longer a punishment — but a place of peace.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper eventually. “Even when it’s hard. Even when you forget how to let me in.”

His arms tighten, and this time, the tremble in his shoulders isn’t from anger or stress — but relief.

“Then stay,” he says. “Stay. And I’ll learn how to deserve it.”

SYLUS

The storm never shows in Sylus’s voice. It’s in the way his gloves come off more slowly than usual. In the way his coat remains folded across the back of the armchair, untouched. In the way he stands by the window of the apartment, staring into the city’s electric dusk, spine straight, but shoulders taut with the kind of restraint that always precedes a fracture.

You’ve seen Sylus under pressure before. He thrives on control. But tonight, he’s less conductor, more fault line — beautifully composed, dangerously close to collapse.

“They’re probing again,” he says at last, eyes still fixed on the glass. “Tapping surveillance threads, watching Onychinus operatives, cross-referencing movements that were never meant to leave shadows. Someone at Elysium is leaking information — and they’re becoming increasingly adept at masquerading as allies.”

You hesitate in the doorway, hands wringing slightly. “Is there anything I can do?”

That question — your question — snaps something subtle but sharp in him.

“You can stop asking me that,” Sylus says, voice low but laced with something volatile. “Every time something threatens to rupture, you offer comfort as though that alone might cauterize the wound.”

You blink, the sting immediate. “I was just trying to help—”

“And in doing so, you make it abundantly clear how little you understand what’s truly at stake.” He turns toward you now, eyes dark with restrained fury. “This isn’t one of your dreams where hearts and hopes rearrange the world. This is war in whispers. A battle fought in silence. Every misstep is a death sentence waiting for a signature.”

You recoil as if struck.

The words aren’t loud — but they cut with surgical precision.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you say quietly, voice already trembling. “I thought you’d want someone beside you… even if it’s just to listen.”

He doesn’t speak. And the silence feels like exile.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, taking a step back. “I didn’t come here to be in your way.”

And then you feel it: the burn behind your eyes. The ache in your throat. The slow, awful realization that your presence — the thing you thought might ground him — is only another variable he can’t afford.

You try to turn away before the tears fall, but one escapes anyway, sliding hot down your cheek.

That’s when he moves.

Not a sudden rush — Sylus never does anything without precision — but something in him shifts, like glass catching the light before it shatters.

“Wait,” he says, his voice no longer laced with steel, but smoke.

You stop, barely daring to breathe.

“I didn’t mean…” He trails off, then approaches with the solemnity of someone approaching sacred ground. “What I said was unconscionable.”

You don’t meet his gaze. “Then why did you say it?”

“Because I’m afraid,” he says simply. “And I hate being afraid.”

You finally glance at him. His mask has cracked — not the one he wears for Onychinus, not the one he wears in Elysium—but the one he wears when he thinks he must carry the weight alone.

“I don’t know how to shield you from me — from the fate we are forced to carry out,” he continues, quieter now. “And the thought of you being entangled in it — of you having to enact such an impossible decision again — terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.”

You wipe at your cheeks, still shaking a little. “Then don’t push me away. You've never had any qualms about me forging my own path. Let me choose to stay. "

Sylus exhales like the confession has hollowed him out. And then, finally, he closes the distance and gathers you into his arms — not fiercely, but reverently. Like you're something rare. Breakable. Too precious to risk, and too loved to let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “For weaponizing my fear and calling it logic. You are not a burden. You are the only calm I’ve ever known.”

You bury your face into his chest, breathing in the scent of ink and wind and home.

“I want to be here. Even if it’s hard,” you murmur. “Especially then.”

Sylus kisses the crown of your head, and something in him settles. Not the storm. But the eye of it.

CALEB

You find Caleb alone in his office, bent over a glowing tactical display. His gloves are discarded on the table, jacket unfastened at the collar. He hasn’t shaved, and the circles beneath his eyes are darker than the shadows cast by the ceiling lights.

He doesn’t look up when you step in. He probably heard you. He always does.

You take a breath. “You haven’t slept.”

“I don’t have the luxury,” he replies curtly, fingers flicking through holograms of ship placements and intel logs. “One mistake and we lose an entire outpost.”

“I’m not saying to ignore it,” you murmur, moving a little closer. “I’m saying maybe you could just — rest. Even for an hour.”

“I can’t.”

“Caleb, please—”

He slams his palm onto the console, startling you. The holo-map flickers. “Don’t you think I know what I need?!”

You freeze, breath catching in your throat. His voice wasn’t loud, but it burned. Sharp. Rigid. The kind of pain that’s been simmering too long.

He turns, eyes wide with anger — but the moment he sees your face, your stunned expression, your trembling hands, the fire drains from him.

You’re already backing away. “I was just trying to help,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he blurts out, stepping forward. “Wait — Pips, please—”

But you can’t. Not right now. Your vision blurs, and you blink hard, but the tears come anyway.

He looks stricken.

“I didn’t mean to raise my voice,” he says, quieter now, like the guilt is caving in around him. “I didn’t mean to say any of that to you.”

You try to compose yourself, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek, but it only makes the tears sting more. “Why would you yell at me like that?”

“Because I’m falling apart,” he says, barely above a whisper. “And I didn’t want you to see it.”

You look at him — this man who commands fleets and soldiers, who leads without hesitation — and you see the truth. His hands are steady in battle, but they’re shaking now. Not from fear. From pressure. From everything he carries and never lets himself set down.

“I always thought,” you say slowly, “that when things got hard, we’d face it together. That you wouldn’t shut me out.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice thick. “But the moment you came in, the part of me that was trying to stay composed… cracked. And instead of reaching for you, I lashed out. I’m so sorry.”

You watch him — his guarded posture crumbling, his eyes pleading, his voice no longer the Colonel’s, but Caleb’s. Just Caleb.

“You don’t have to be perfect with me,” you say, stepping close again, even though your cheeks are still wet. “I don’t need the soldier. I need you. And I need to know you won’t hurt me when you’re hurting.”

He closes his eyes, regret etched deep in every line of his face.

“I will never — never — forgive myself if I make you feel like that again,” he says. “You mean more to me than any title, any ship, any war. You’re my compass. My peace.”

When he opens his arms, you hesitate — just for a moment. But then you fall into them, and he holds you like he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers. His breath is shaky against your hair. His embrace tighter than it's ever been.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “Even when I forget how to show it. Even when the weight makes me forget how to breathe.”

You don’t speak. You just hold him back, one hand curling in the fabric of his shirt, grounding you both.

[rederoma]

[choso-ish]

₊˚⊹♡ welcome home !!

summary: the mission's over, he's safe. but something in caleb still burns, and you're the only way he knows how to cool it down. tags: NSFW, established relationship, rough sex, dry humping, unprotected sex, slight dom!caleb

Caleb is the type to fuck you right when he gets home from a long mission. 

The door hardly shuts by the time he gets his hands on you. No “hi” before you're crushed into him, one arm tight around your waist, the other fisting into your shirt, kissing you like he's dying for it. He's hard in seconds, grinding his dick against your hip like it hurts. 

“Missed you,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your neck.

“Missed this.” 

And fuck, how he loves it when you pull him closer by that damn dog tag. 

He groans—low, guttural—and pants against your skin like a man undone. “Thought about you every night,” he growls, a hand slipping under your waistband, fingers greedy. “In bed, in the shower—couldn’t even hear your name without getting hard. Couldn’t think straight.” 

His fingers find you soaked, his touch practiced but shaking with restraint. When he hits your clit—pressing, circling, teasing—you cry out, hips stuttering against him.

“You should’ve heard me,” he rasps, teeth grazing your ear. “Trying to jerk off quietly. Thinking about you bent over for me, moaning my name, dripping for it.”

You can barely breathe, barely stand, your legs threatening to give out beneath the force of his hand and the heat blooming low in your belly.

He catches you like always: one hand steady at your back, the other working tighter circles against your swollen bud until you’re whining into his shoulder, hips chasing his palm like you’ve got no shame.

“Just like that,” he pants. “Fuck—that's my girl. That’s what I missed. The way you melt for me. The way you need it.”

He drags his jacket off in one fluid movement, the heavy fabric falling to the floor without a second thought. His hands are on your thighs next—lifting, wrapping your legs around his waist like it’s nothing. Your back slams into the wall, and he grinds into you again, dick thick and pulsing through his pants.

“I’m not waiting,” he snarls, fumbling your pants down with one hand, the other still bracing you like it’s effortless. “Don’t need the bed. Don’t need to be gentle. I need you now.”

You manage to nod, and that’s all he needs.

He frees himself in seconds, belt already undone, zipper halfway down. His cock is flushed, hard, twitching in his hand as he strokes himself once, twice, just to hold off the edge.

“Gonna fuck you full,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “Not pulling out. Not after the week I’ve had.” 

He presses the tip against your entrance, dragging it through your slick folds with a shaky groan. He doesn’t push in yet, just nudges, teases, until your thighs are trembling around his waist, breath catching with every pulse. 

“So wet,” he grits. “You missed me too, huh? Say it.” 

“I missed you,” you gasp, nails clawing at his back. 

He smiles, breath ghosting your cheek. “That’s more like it.”

And then—he thrusts in. 

One slow, brutal push that stretches you open, drags the air from your lungs, and knocks all thoughts clean out of your head. 

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, hands flush against your ass. “There you are. So fucking tight. Made for me. “ 

He doesn’t move right away. He just holds you there: impaled, stuffed full, belly bulging with the imprint of his cock. 

Your walls flutter helplessly around him, and Caleb’s grin turns feral.

“I could stay like this,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “Right here. Balls deep. Never leaving again.” 

But he does move.

He pulls out slowly, leaving you empty for just a heartbeat, then slams back in with a harsh grunt. 

The rhythm builds fast—brutal, hungry, like he’s cramming every day apart into the space between thrusts. Each pump hits your cervix, dragging cries from your throat, his name tangled in each and every one. 

You’re close already. It’s building fast—too fast. How fucking much did you miss him for you to want to cum this quick? 

“Feeling close, sweetheart?” he pants, voice rough. “Come on. Want to feel you fall apart.” 

You arch your back, hands trembling. 

“Fuck—there it is,” he growls, slamming into you again.

You break.

The orgasm rips through you hard—legs shaking, nails digging into his shoulders, walls fluttering around him. You sob his name as you cum, clenching so tight around his cock it drags a noise from his chest that sounds like he’s choking on it.

“Fuck, Caleb!”

You can feel him unravelling, too. 

His hips jerk, pace faltering, grip bruising and tight on your hips like he’s trying to hold the whole world together with just your body. 

“Shit—fuck—you feel too good,” he gasps, burying his face in your neck. “I’m not gonna last either, pips.” 

You can barely answer, your knees wobbling, core aching, and his dick dragging so deep you swear he’s reaching your soul. Your grip tightens around his shoulders, grounding yourself in the one thing that feels real—him. 

“Fuck—fuck—take it,” he growls. 

He slams into you one last time, staying there, buried completely to the hilt. And then it hits—a twitch, a shiver down his spine, his cock pulsing as he cums with a whine ripped straight from his chest.

He holds you through it, thrusts slow and heavy, dragging every last spurt as he fills you. You feel it leak around where you both are connected, dripping down your thighs, soaking both of you. 

And still, he doesn’t pull out.  

He stays there, arms wrapped around you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. 

“I fucking hate leaving you,” he murmurs, finally, forehead resting against yours. He looks completely spent. 

You lean into him. 

Then, quieter, more certain, more him—

“Next time I come home?”

He kisses your neck. “I’m fucking you before the door even closes.”

Anyways... more caleb here :)