“If you are not the free person you want to be you must find a place to tell the truth about that. To tell how things go for you. Candor is like a skein being produced inside the belly day after day, it has to get itself woven out somewhere. You could whisper down a well. You could write a letter and keep it in a drawer. You could inscribe a curse on a ribbon of lead and bury it in the ground to lie unread for thousands of years. The point is not to find a reader, the point is the telling itself. Consider a person standing alone in a room. The house is silent. She is looking down at a piece of paper. Nothing else exists. All her veins go down into this paper. She takes her pen and writes on it some marks no one else will ever see, she bestows on it a kind of surplus, she tops it off with a gesture as private and accurate as her own name.”
But I was left with all the loss, none of the reward. Stuck here lurching through my living, lurching from grief to grief. Just inertia, just tumbling forward.
you grew up with caleb. he was your older brother in everything but blood. your protector, your shadow, your home. he knew the way you thought before you spoke, knew what you feared before you even named it. there were scraped knees and lullabies, pinky promises and long walks home. nothing ever crossed the line. not really.
but then you grew older. and your gege changed.
no, that wasn’t quite right. he didn’t change, he revealed.
it started slow: the way he watched you too closely, too quietly. how his touch lingered just a second too long. how he no longer waited to be invited in - into your space, into your life, into you.
you try to make sense of it - of him. but every time he’s near, the lines blur.
you’re still learning whether this is love, or possession dressed in devotion.
a/n: can't get enough of my sweet boy calebyy, so here are some headcanons that I think about him sometimes. My requests are open btww! Have fun reading dolls. (人*´∀｀)｡*ﾟ+
Caleb who's love speaks softly—never with grand declarations, but in the quiet consistency of care. A warm drink materializes on your counter, perfectly timed to your worst days. The bulb that flickered last night? Fixed before morning. When the frost settles on the windows, your coat and gloves are already waiting by the door, touched by hands that never ask for thanks. He never says, “I did this for you.” But when you catch his eye after noticing, there’s a flicker of a smile there—like he’s trying not to glow too much. Like loving you is something sacred he’s choosing to keep humble.
Caleb after his missions, when the adrenaline fades and silence stretches thin, he drives—somewhere quiet, somewhere star-swept. He doesn’t speak much on the way, only reaches for your hand as though that’s all the grounding he needs. You lie beside him under the cosmos, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the universe breathe. Sometimes he whispers things—not to the stars, but to you. “When the stars get loud, I look at you, and they get quiet again.” You don’t always answer. You just squeeze his hand and let the silence cradle you both. Stars don’t speak, but Caleb does.
Caleb who secretly has an interest in riding a big bike. Okay here me out, with him as a pilot whenever he's flying in a small/open-cockpit plane—sends of freedom, thrill, and wind-in-your-face exhilaration that he may miss when flying sealed aircraft. Just like when riding a bike, the breeze during a fast ride contributes to that immersive, high-energy feeling, similar to low-altitude flying. The rush of wind on a fast-moving bike closely mimics the sensory experience of flying in an open cockpit or glider. Both activities provide an adrenaline rush and it attracted him who enjoy controlled risk and excitement.
Caleb's insomnia visits often, but so does he. He settles beside you, opens a worn book, and starts to read—not to pass the time, but to share space with you. His voice is low, smooth, like waves against the hull of a ship. You rest your head on his chest, feeling every word more than hearing them. When your breathing slows, he doesn’t stop. He keeps reading—quietly, carefully—as if the story might guard your dreams better than silence ever could.
Caleb has a photo of you he keeps hidden, tucked in the lining of his helmet like a secret prayer. Every mission, just before the launch seals him away, he looks at it. Only for a second. No one else sees. No one needs to. Once, you asked him why. He said, “Because there are places out there that want to strip the human out of you. But when I look at this... I remember who I am. And who I’m coming back to.”
Caleb doesn’t talk about his soft side. But you see it in the way a stray dog curls up at his feet, or how a kitten somehow finds its way into his arms, even on a space station. Once, you caught him crouched beside a baby bird, gently feeding it crumbs. He didn’t know you were watching. He just murmured, “You’re cold, aren’t you?” He looked up, startled, and gave the smallest shrug. “Someone had to help.” You didn’t tell him, but in that moment, your heart broke a little wider for him.
Caleb when someone flirts with you, doesn’t get angry, just quiet. A subtle shift. A glance. His fingers graze yours, almost like a question. Are you still with me? You smile at him—really smile—and that’s all it takes. The tension slides off his shoulders like water off armor. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, says nothing, but holds your hand just a bit tighter. The message is clear: I don’t need to fight for you. You’ve already chosen me.
Caleb even when the world freezes around you, hands stay warm. On distant moons, in frostbitten ships, when your bones ache from the cold, he reaches for you. Always. His palms are steady, wrapping yours like a promise. No words—just touch. Gentle, grounding, there. It’s not just about warmth. It’s about reminding you: You are not drifting. You are not alone. I’m here.
Love and Deepspace | Caleb (Xia Yizhou) x Main-Character!Reader | M | 3.5k words | ao3 link
A treatise on hunger, intimacy, and protection.
Content Warnings: character study, Caleb-centric, unpleasant and violent imagery and themes (one metaphor hints of cannibalism, several body horror/gore), obsession and possessive thoughts/behavior from a yandere character, implied pseudo-incest (mostly as a canonical context), pining, purple prose, angst(?), solipsistic narrative, spoilers.
A/N: I'm going to post this now before I lose any more confidence and chicken out. Nothing actually happens in this fic, I'm only pretentiously waxing philosophical about Caleb. I'd argue that this is tame, contrary to what the warnings suggest (arguably!), but still please heed them. This is primarily inspired by the main story. The line, "You’re only safe when you’re by my side. No one will be able to find you ever again. I’ll protect you forever." is directly lifted from the main story. This fic is just hyperfocused on Caleb's desire to protect MC and desire in general in relation to MC hence the hunger metaphor, so other plot-related characters and whatnot are ignored. However! I included the winter soldier arm because why not.
In conclusion: please be gentle? lol. Divider by @/saradika
you dangle on the leash
of your own longing; your
need grows teeth
—Margaret Atwood, Speeches for Dr Frankenstein
I.
He is intimate with hunger. A marked emptiness hollowing the core of his being, and each step he takes it rings an echo inside the walls of his flesh, refusing to settle.
No matter what he does to fill it, it never sates, and eventually this hunger grows to eat away at his organs, down to their tissues, and, finally, their cells. It births a set of sharp teeth that scrapes everything, including his ribcage, where inside his heart beats; until all that’s left of him are torn scraps of his remains and an aching need that gives itself life, gaining claws and a voice, desperately whispering to him every nightfall so he lies in bed awake, eyes desperately wide and desperately open.
In the darkness of his room, only one word this voice whispers:
devour
Caleb turns in the direction where your room lies, the bed in it cushioning your sleeping form, always and forever unaware.
II.
He remembers the simpler things, once upon a time.
A kitchen. Silver utensils lined up neatly on the island, glinting under the summer sunlight streaming through the window. The smell of home-cooked meals wafting along his nose. You, sitting at the dining table, leaning forward with huge curious eyes, waiting for him to set down the plates.
Your gaze trailed over the path Caleb carved around the kitchen like a moth fluttering closer to a source of light. It had been like that, always, with you, a compass seeking the magnetic North, and he, stalwart in his promise of protection – and care.
A meal shared between two people signifies closeness, intimacy. Seated across each other, face to face. A direct, transparent meeting of words and actions. No secrets, just equilibrium.
You told him of your day, narrating your adventure through the arc and sweep of your hand, and Caleb listened to your tale, mind and body his own compass pointing to your own North, interjecting every now and then with affirmation and light-hearted teasing. The rise and fall of your expressions satiated him, albeit inchoately, but Caleb swallowed them all greedily in the hopes that one day the feeling of fullness would arrive.
This – what you had with him then – was intimacy, the kind that called upon the image of children running across meadows, their laughter tinkling along the sepia-tinted sky, leaves caught between their windblown hair. This was the kind of intimacy that invited soft, warm dreams, and the weightlessness of waking.
It was the intimacy Caleb had with you, but not the intimacy he yearned for. What he wanted – needed – was the kind that peels away the skin to reveal the muscles, veins, and even bones beneath. Watch the blood circulate all over the body, pulsing with life, a proof of existence. He needed to see what’s protected under the layer of flesh and all its vulnerabilities, darkening from exposure.
III.
Dying, in some ways, is a form of relief that eliminates the persistent hunger that rattles at his core. There are regrets, of course; the last image of his waking life is the memory of you crumpled with hesitation, with secrets – and that is another reminder all over again of the intimacy that you no longer shared with him. Gone are the sepia laughter that floats wistfully at the back of his neck. Though in reality and upon further examination, when it comes down to it, the hunger is stronger than the acceptance of death, because relief is not satisfaction – it is, merely, escape, something that Caleb all his life would never turn to. Secrets, yes – but never escape.
And so this rebirth, he supposes, is another form of intimacy: the unbending will of conviction, of hunger devouring itself and transmogrifying into something else – a fleshless creature pure of want. The bones are his cage that he longs to gift to you; he calls it protection. Intimacy that splinters, that lodges itself deep inside your soul.
This is the price of dying and being born again.
IV.
To everyone else a reunion is an emotional celebration that is as climactic as the peak of a symphony. To Caleb, it is altitude and freefall, the drop into an abyssal pain, all steel walls and surveilling lenses, secrets shadowed into the corners.
When you ask him, Is it really you? and the sheen of your disbelieving gaze cuts through the darkness of the interrogation room, the hunger inside him whips into life. It feels like decades since he had seen you, and Caleb is distinctly aware that you’re no longer that little girl who clung to him whenever something frightening jumped into the frame as you two watched a movie. When you attempt to figure him out it is with the hardened look of a hunter, its own exoskeleton catalyzed through suffering and experience.
It is a reminder that you truly are far from being fragile, and that is a grief Caleb has to swallow. Let the hunger settle with it, if only for a moment.
Who else would I be? he returns. A reunion like this pushes into the surface the long-buried feelings one had stamped down in order to go through each day, as if everything’s still normal. He sees that in the cracks of your posture, the fine, webbed lines that encircle your body, despair leaking out, the proof of your truth. There’s only one Caleb in your life, isn’t there?
The cracks spread until you shatter before him. Caleb catches you in his arms and the warmth seeping through your skin feels like a distant echo against his embrace. Dull, muted – an imitation of stimulus that elicits no correct response except the surge of hunger lunging inside him, overtaking his heart, clamoring for your continuous presence.
His hunger has always toed the line of danger, but now it is precariously so.
His flesh hand climbs to the crown of your head, the strands of your hair oily as he curves his palm according to your shape. It’s easy to fall back into well-worn habits. A pat on the head for praise; a tousle of hair for teasing. A stroke on the top of your head for consolation. And you – bury yourself further into Caleb’s chest, listening to the soothing rhythm of a beating heart.
I missed you, you whisper, the words felt more than heard, and Caleb reinforces his hold on your back. I missed you so much.
The correct response to this stimulus is to say the same sentiment, that he has missed you just as much, and that he’s sorry that he’s had to keep his survival a secret from you, but now that he’s returned, things will go back to normal once again.
But then again – what is normal?
Certainly not the way he misses you – a chimera of ugly limbs with dagger-pointed claws and the torso of a gluttonous beast, black tar dripping from its orifices. If you peel away the veil that hides this creature, you’ll discover the enormity of his hunger, the dense substance that will trap you like glue until it devours you feet to head. There is no escaping it after it is revealed.
And certainly it’s not the way he’s sorry. You know Caleb the best, and that is a truth. But it is also a truth that he’s lived a life full of secrets, and this is just one addition to all other secrets he’s kept from you.
The correct response is to say he misses you too, and that he’s sorry things turned out this way. But this response is not Caleb’s truth, and Caleb may hide many things from you but he has never lied to you. There’s no point in starting now.
So what he says to you in return is: I know.
V.
It’s not their home (home is at Linkon, already reduced to charred rubble); it’s only a house, but it can be a home if you want it.
A lifetime ago, at the cusp of his high school senior year, his teacher asked the class their dreams and aspirations when they reach adulthood. Caleb’s initial answer had been a careless scribble of his first impulsive thought, and he was summoned to the office for it. Is this truly what you want, inquired his teacher, and Caleb said, Yes, I’ll take any lucrative job I’m good at.
He didn’t mention the rationale of that answer, how years before, he had already cemented his plan of providing you a place you and he could call home, and how his future earnings would be solely for you. At the time, that was how Caleb defined the idea of protection – a sanctuary that you and he shared. It’s almost idyllic, how simple his wish had been in the past.
You said you wanted to become a pilot.
Yes, because I like the thrill. Then he added after a thoughtful measure: And it pays well.
Wariness rippled across the teacher’s movements, in the sway of the hand that dismissed him, and Caleb returned to the classroom already forgetting the entire exchange.
Now, that long-forgotten memory resurfaces, and Caleb faintly smiles as you interrogate him about the state of his abode.
Why don’t you decorate your house more?
How long do you stay here until you’re called back to duty?
Don’t you ever feel lonely?
I never found it to be necessary. Not very long, just a few days. All the time, because you’re not with me.
What he says instead is: This is just a place to stay and sleep.
It’s only a house, not a home. Home is protection, precludes it, a sense of belonging and comfort, security and assurance. It’s more than a roof over one’s head; it is a sanctuary.
Your arms akimbo, a challenge in the tilt of your chin. Well, we can’t have that, can we? Just give me a couple of days.
What is a sanctuary? A place built upon pieces of one’s self, familiar and intimate in every reflection. And Caleb looks forward to discovering your reflection in the pieces of his house that may soon be called a home.
Years ago, this was his dream: a sanctuary for you and him, a place that you and he could call home.
Now: the home you will make out of his house he will fortify with his bones and his hunger. He will place pieces of himself in the hidden cracks of the walls, the threshold of each door, in the mechanism of each lock. He will leave his imprints in the foundation that sustains its sturdy structure. He will make a fortress out of your kindness and keep you there, inside, for as long as he can.
You told him, once upon a time, that you no longer needed protecting – except who else but him could look out for you?
VI.
Growing up, though part of life, tasted a little bitter on his tongue.
Sometimes, Caleb thinks that he is cursed with this inconsolable hunger, impossible to soothe despite all attempts to quell it. It only recedes into the background, a low hum that blends into everyday noise. And then it bares its teeth at the first sign of your freedom.
It feels like a long, continuous burst of snapshots – you getting older, fat and flesh and muscle filling out, inches stacking up yet still remarkably shorter than him (a sore point to you but a point of delight to him), and most of all: the confidence in the way you carry yourself, spine straight and chin up. The days when you stepped behind his protective back, when your fingers hooked into the edges of his sleeves in a coy attempt to make him stay – they’re all rapidly decreasing like a withering tree. And something in Caleb panics, the fear of his becoming obsolete in your life more tangible than the risk of death in his every flight.
Your freedom, then, becomes his shackles. Imprisoned by his hollowness. A role reversal: it is you who flies away and it is he who is trapped on the ground. He can only watch you soar high without his help. His hunger rages at that, at that devouring fear that is rooted at the very core of him. A fear that is actually unfolding in real time.
What can he do? What can he do to vanquish this all-encompassing fear?
VII.
To be human is to feel. To feel, though, requires the presence of sensation.
Rebirth comes with sacrifices, and Caleb has already paid the price.
When he tousles your hair in jest, there is only the pressure of solid object colliding with another. He has to calibrate the strength of his grip to avoid breaking things; has to mind the arc of his gestures so as to remain visually natural, not mechanical. For all the technology afforded in this era, degradation of vital functions is still explained as an unavoidably unfortunate tradeoff.
Take pain, for example. Caleb does not feel anything else, except pain. Blazing heat narrowed within fine, delicate nerves. Pain and numbness, like oil and water swirling at intervals.
In this sacrifice it is the sensation of touch that’s taken the greatest casualty. Texture is the first to go, then weight, then pressure, then pleasure. Only the memories of sensation fuel Caleb’s imagination as he drags his fingers down your cheek, conscious of the amount of force he exerts in the act. Everything now is calculated, down to the minutest of motions.
It’s only a matter of time before the loss moves on from sensation to emotion, and Caleb knows himself to be an indifferent man. Like an ascetic he does not indulge on many a thing, only religiously devoted to one constant truth. He will not mourn the absence of luxury, or boredom. Or the impatience during a wait that’s taking longer than what is originally expected.
He will not consider a loss the fear of death (he has defied it once; who’s to say he won’t defy it again?), or the panic wrought by Wanderer threats. He will not miss the thrill of the extreme, the speed, the alighted nerves like freefall sans precaution. All these ultimately do not matter to him – because he has long been living the life of decimation, a gradual diminishing of everything that he is until all that’s left are the barebones of what’s truly precious to him. Hunger, after all, when overwhelming, does not discriminate.
Consumption, then, becomes another type of numbness.
Only one thing truly matters; the rest are inconsequential.
VIII.
In the end a confrontation cannot be avoided, and Caleb must face this truth.
Betrayal casts a jarring sweep across your floundering form. The sofa muffles your desire to melt into the molecules of space, away from the cage of his arms and the desperation of his hunger. From an outsider’s perspective you and he are engaged in an intimate closeness, the kind of which raises doubtful questions about affinity. At some level Caleb relishes that impression, but on another, it is not enough. It is never enough.
A hunger that has consumed everything and still furious for more is a hunger that is raw, dark, exposed with its bloody bones and its bloody teeth, stripes of flesh insinuated between.
It is his hunger, then, that speaks when Caleb says, You’re only safe when you’re by my side. No one will be able to find you ever again. I’ll protect you forever.
It is hunger that speaks, no longer whispers bleeding into the shadows of his bedroom but a tectonic roar that shifts and upends the status quo between you and him. It is the hunger that covets the intimacy between intertwined souls bereft of bodies and worldly matter, everything pared down to their essence, to their very marrow, solipsistic in their embrace. It is the hunger that promises sanctuary made out of his bones and blood and the metal-wires-processors that convert his pain into life. His hunger speaks, because Caleb, in the end, is still a man in love, and that love is what propels his existence.
You don’t have to protect me, you say, cruel in your tenderness, tender in your rejection. I haven’t needed your protection for a long time now.
Caleb staggers, expires a shaky breath. His head sinks into the crook of your neck. The hunger still burns, but he is sapped of energy, tendrils of resignation slithering around his feet.
Why couldn’t you accept? Why couldn’t you see?
He could tell you all he had seen and gone through in Deepspace – the deafening silence and loneliness; the cavernous black that creeps into your pores and wrings out a seismic tremor throughout your body that lingers on for weeks; the grotesque forms of Wanderers that have yet to reach Earth – and claim that these are the inevitable things, like destiny, that will befall upon the world, and how would you fight them on your own?
Things were better when it’s just the two of us.
Caleb –
I wanted to be your sanctuary. I still do.
Caleb.
A pair of hands cradles his face, light, painful in its softness, and he meets your misty gaze brimming with something he refuses to acknowledge.
In this shiver of a moment, the hunger climbs up to his mouth and the acidic taste of bile scorches his throat, the words push themselves out of his lips but he resolutely clamps them shut, clinging to the last shred of his control.
Otherwise, this confession would have ravaged out of him:
I’ve held onto this hunger for most of my life; it fuels me but also destroys me, and there is no cure for it. One day it will devour me whole, this monstrous, unrepentant hunger, and when that happens I want you to build a castle out of my leftover bones, call it your sanctuary, so that whenever the world hurts you, you will find solace in the intimacy of my devotion. And when you sleep, we will meet in dreams. I will offer my heart for you to take a bite of, and my flesh hand will wipe the blood into the crevice of your mouth. Protection is the savage passion of love, and you can use every atom that makes up what I am, because what I am is nothing if not for you.
Your fingers descend on his lips, tracing their outline until your fingerpads rest over the plumpest part in the middle. The harsh breath he exhales pierces through the thick silence, and Caleb watches you inhale the very air he released – and he savors that moment of indirect union.
Unbidden, he parts his mouth until the tips of your fingers fall inside, and he shapes his lips around them, your nails brushing against his teeth. You taste of salt and rain, his tongue darting out at the point between fingernail and skin.
Not this way, Caleb. Can’t you let me go?
The fingers retreat, and Caleb swallows the arguments that formulate readily in his mind. Instead, he drags out, In what way then?
In what way would you accept the gravity of him – all his hunger and pain and numbness and dreams and wants and needs – if at all?
But you shake your head, and disappointment lances at him. You have so many secrets now, you whisper, almost loathing in its sibilance. I want to trust you, but I don’t recognize you anymore.
And that’s the crux of everything, isn’t it? Trust. Safety does not exist without trust. He cannot protect you if you do not trust him. Even without ever lying to you, Caleb supposes that he could still lose your trust – in so many other ways.
He knows a losing battle when he sees one, and this is one of them. In spite of the lacerating words – or maybe because of it – your expression collapses, and Caleb cannot endure the confrontation any longer, not with you threatening to break at any moment.
So with great reluctance he takes a step back, grants you all the time and space that you need, and isolates himself in his own room. His hunger still pulsates, but Caleb chains it until it subsides. Until it regresses into a background hum once again.
Some battles are easily won, others need tactics. A battle like this necessitates patience and care, short-term losses for long-term gains, and meticulous, meticulous strategy. This is not new to Caleb, so he will plan. Experience only requires recontextualization, but the foundation is still the same.
After all, there’s no point in stopping now.
IX.
He is intimate with hunger. A marked emptiness hollowing the core of his being, but now this hunger has mutated into a chthonic abyss that spares no one, not even the remains of him. It will gorge itself on everything that comes in its way, a savage journey that has no end in sight, no conclusion to this eternal terror.
And this unstoppable force is left to promise you one final thing:
If he can no longer protect you, then he will make it so that the world – no, the universe – can no longer harm you.
◘
Humans in love are terrible. You see them come hungering at one another like prehistoric wolves, you see something struggling for life in between them like a root or a soul and it flares for a moment, then they smash it. The difference between them smashes the bones out. So delicate the bones.
The sound of tumbling and a series of thuds echoed through the hallway of the Hunter Association building as you lost your footing at the top of the stairs. Your body bumped and rolled down the entire flight before landing in an ungraceful heap at the bottom. Xavier, who had been walking a few paces ahead, turned at the commotion.
He blinked once, then twice, his eyes widening as you simply stood up, dusted yourself off, and continued walking as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“Are you okay?” Xavier finally asked, his voice carrying a note of concern. He stood perfectly still, analyzing you with careful eyes.
“Just a little slip. Nothing to worry about,” you responded casually, as if commenting on the weather rather than your spectacular tumble.
When you reached him and nodded casually, he continued to stare, his eyes tracking over your form as if conducting a silent assessment.
“The impact of your fall might cause potential contusions to your left side and possible minor fractures to your wrist based on how you landed,” he stated matter-of-factly, pointing back at the stairs. “Yet you’re displaying no signs of physical distress.”
“I’ve had worse tumbles than that during training,” you replied with a shrug, continuing to walk forward.
As you dismissed his concern with a wave of your hand, a subtle crease formed between his eyebrows.
He reached out, gently taking your arm to stop your forward momentum, and examined you more carefully. His touch lingered for a while.
“Your physical endurance is... unusual,” he observed quietly. “I’ve witnessed similar falls result in hospitalization for others.”
“I’ve had worse during missions,” you said with a hint of pride, meeting his gaze.
Xavier’s eyes narrowed slightly, the only indication that your comment had given him pause. He studied you for a moment longer before releasing your arm.
“If you say so,” he said, falling into step beside you. Yet throughout the remainder of your walk, he stayed unusually close, his hand occasionally brushing against yours. At one point, he subtly adjusted his pace when you winced slightly turning a corner—a reaction so minor most would’ve missed it, but not Xavier.
“The human body often reveals what the mind attempts to conceal,” he remarked softly, hours later, offering you a small container of what appeared to be homemade salve. “For the bruising you claim doesn’t exist. Mission injuries included.”
His last words carried the faintest hint of what might have been amusement, gone so quickly you almost missed it.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
The cascade of thuds drew Zayne’s attention immediately. He turned just in time to witness the last half of your tumble down the hospital’s stairwell, your body bouncing off the final steps before sprawling across the polished floor. His posture stiffened as you simply stood up, straightened your clothes, and began walking away as if you hadn’t just fallen down an entire flight of stairs.
“Stop right there,” his voice cut through the shocked silence of onlooking hospital staff, his tone commanding.
You turned around with an exaggeratedly innocent expression, eyes wide, pointing to yourself as if to say “Who, me?” despite being the only person who just performed an impromptu demonstration of gravity’s effects.
Zayne’s eyebrows knit together, clearly not amused by your feigned innocence. His footsteps quickened as he approached you in a few strides.
“As your doctor, I’m not giving you an option here,” he said firmly, moving directly into your path and effectively blocking your escape. “Come here. Now.”
“Is this your professional opinion or personal concern talking?” you asked, a hint of challenge in your voice as you met his stern gaze.
Something flickered briefly across his features—perhaps surprise—before his professional demeanor reasserted itself.
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” he said, his expression hardening as he gestured to his office that happened to be nearby. “You just fell down an entire flight of stairs. Adrenaline can mask symptoms of a concussion or internal bleeding. This isn’t negotiable.”
He guided you firmly but gently into the room, his trained hands already examining the back of your head for contusions.
“Follow my finger,” he instructed, moving it side to side before your eyes. His expression remained serious, but you caught the slight softening around his eyes—a look of concern he didn’t bother hiding from you. “Even if you feel fine now, delayed symptoms are common with trauma injuries. The human spine isn’t designed to bounce down twenty steps.”
“Is this really necessary?” you sighed, even as you complied with his instructions.
“Yes,” he replied curtly, not breaking his concentration as he continued his examination. “It is absolutely necessary. And if you were anyone else, you’d already be on your way to radiology.”
After completing his thorough examination, his expression softened slightly. He reached into his pocket and offered you a piece of candy.
“What’s this for?” you asked, surprised.
“Sugar. Helps with shock,” he explained, pecking your forehead. “Next time, please hold the railing.”
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
Rafayel was midway through a call with Thomas, describing his latest artistic inspiration with gestures when the thunderous cascade of your body tumbling down the stairs interrupted him. His expression froze in horror as he watched you bouncing and rolling down the entire flight, wincing visibly with each impact.
“Oh—” His eyes widened comically as you hit the bottom with a final thud. But before he could rush to your aid, you simply stood up, brushed yourself off, and continued walking as if nothing had happened.
Rafayel stared at you, mouth slightly agape. He blinked rapidly, looking from you to the stairs and back again.
“Wait, wait, wait!” He ended the call abruptly, not even bothering with a goodbye, and hurried after you, his long legs quickly closing the distance. “Did you really just—? And you’re just—you’re just walking?!”
“Your face right now is priceless,” you said with a small laugh, watching his expressions shift rapidly between shock, concern, and disbelief. “Take a breath, Rafayel. You look like you might pass out.”
His face scrunched up in a dramatic wince as he examined you from all angles, hands fluttering near your shoulders as if afraid you might suddenly collapse.
“Are you okay? That looked painful…” His voice rose several octaves. “Do you have any idea how terrifying that looked?”
“I’ve had plenty of practice at falling gracefully. Well, semi-gracefully,” you replied with a casual shrug.
Rafayel’s jaw dropped a fraction further. “Practice? You practice falling down stairs?” He made a wild gesture toward the staircase. “That wasn’t graceful in any way, semi or otherwise! That was terrifying!”
When you tried to brush past him, Rafayel gently grabbed your shoulders, looking straight into your eyes, his expression still a mixture of disbelief and concern.
“Seriously? You’re just going to walk that off like it’s nothing? Like you didn’t just do a full somersault down those stairs?” He squeezed your shoulders gently. “Even cats have the decency to look embarrassed when they fall.”
He let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You scared me, you know? I thought I was about to witness a tragedy in five acts, complete with a dramatic finale at the bottom.”
“Would it make you feel better if I limped a little?” you asked with a mischievous smile. “I could throw in some groaning for dramatic effect. Maybe clutch my side like this?” You demonstrated with exaggerated theatrics.
Rafayel’s worried expression cracked slightly, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t you dare mock me when I’m genuinely concerned about you,” he said, though the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. “Though your theatrical skills need work. That limp was completely unconvincing.”
He continued to hover around you for the rest of the day, periodically reaching out to touch your arm or shoulder as if confirming you were still intact. Later, he appeared with an ice pack and painkillers.
“Just in case,” he said. “Also, I may have told everyone to clear a path when they see you coming. You know, for public safety.”
“Public safety or my safety?” you asked wryly.
“Both,” he grinned. “Clearly, stairs have declared war on you, and I refuse to let it win another round.”
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
The sound of your tumble echoed through the corridor of Onychinus’s base. As you picked yourself up and continued walking as if nothing happened, Sylus, who had been observing from a few paces behind, arched a single eyebrow—a rare display of surprise crossing his features.
“Well,” he remarked at the unexpected scene he just witnessed. “Such a dramatic descent. I wasn’t aware you had an interest in impromptu acrobatics.”
“Just didn’t want to make a scene,” you replied, straightening your clothes casually. “Is my dignity still intact?”
The corner of his mouth quirked upward in a subtle smirk. “Your dignity? Perhaps partially. Your reputation for grace, however, may require some rehabilitation.”
He fell into step beside you, his usual smug smile returning as he studied your face with those piercing eyes, missing nothing.
“Most people would at least acknowledge their intimate encounter with a flight of stairs,” he commented, his tone casual yet observant. “Your nonchalance is either admirable or concerning. I haven’t decided which.”
“Would showing weakness earn me special treatment?” you asked, meeting his gaze with a challenging look of your own.
Something intrigued flickered in his eyes. “From me? Sure. Though I find your stubborn resilience equally fascinating.”
He reached out, straightening a piece of your disheveled clothing with his fingers, the touch lingering just long enough to assess for a reaction of pain.
“While I admire your endurance, even remarkable individuals such as yourself are subject to the laws of physics and biology,” he observed, his words carrying a subtle undercurrent of genuine concern beneath the calm exterior.
He gestured for you to continue walking with him, matching his pace to yours, watchful of any irregularity in your posture.
“I do hope you’re not concealing injuries for the sake of appearances,” he added after a moment. “While I appreciate your fortitude, I prefer my favorite person intact and functioning optimally.”
“If I admitted it hurt, would that satisfy your curiosity, Sylus?” you asked, your voice deliberately light.
His smile widened. “Curiosity? No. That requires a far greater mystery than your apparent immunity to staircases.” He paused, studying you with increased interest. “But my concern might be somewhat alleviated.”
“Next time,” he murmured, “perhaps consider taking the elevator if you don’t feel like walking.” His hand found the small of your back as you walked, the gesture appearing casual but actually allowing him to subtly assess if you were truly as unaffected as you claimed.
Later that evening, a package arrived, containing an ornate bottle of sophisticated bath salts. “For muscles that may protest their earlier mistreatment, despite your claims to the contrary. Consider it a reward for providing me with such an entertaining diversion to my otherwise mundane day.”
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
The moment you hit the bottom step and stood up as if nothing happened, Caleb’s expression transformed into one of shock and concern. He was at your side in an instant, hands hovering near your shoulders as if afraid to touch you.
“What the—? That wasn’t just a stumble, that was a full disaster in motion,” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you serious right now? You just… fell down the entire flight of stairs.”
“It looked worse than it felt,” you assured him with a small smile. “I’m fine, really.”
Caleb’s eyes widened further, clearly not buying your casual dismissal. “Looked worse than—? It looked like you were auditioning for a role as a human slinky!”
When you tried to brush it off and keep walking, he stepped in front of you, his hands finally settling on your shoulders to stop your movement.
“No, no way,” he said firmly, his authority briefly showing through his normally relaxed persona. “You know normal people actually feel pain when gravity wins, right? You don’t just walk away from something like that.”
“Fine, check me for injuries if it’ll make you feel better,” you conceded with a sigh.
He guided you to a nearby chair, kneeling in front of you to check for any visible injuries. “What happened? Did you slip or something?” he asked, his voice softening with a hint of teasing returning.
His hands gently examined your arms and shoulders, careful not to hurt you further. “Look, I need to know you’re actually okay, not just pretending to be tough. Those stairs didn’t hold back, and neither should you if something hurts.”
“Fine, it hurts,” you admitted with a slight grimace. “Happy now? But I’m still walking away from it.”
“I knew it,” he sighed. “And no, I’m not happy you’re hurt. I’m happy you’re finally being honest about it.”
He finished his inspection, seemingly satisfied that you were fine, and sat beside you, one arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders. “That was quite a fall, Pipsqueak. You scared the hell out of me,” he chuckled, but the worry hadn’t completely left his eyes. “Promise me you’ll be more careful next time, okay?”
“I promise to at least try to stay upright,” you said with a small smile.
“I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get from you,” he said, shaking his head with fond exasperation.
As you finally convinced him you were okay enough to continue your day, he helped you up, but didn’t let go of your hand, though you noticed he maintained a vigilant watch over you for the rest of the day, positioning himself on the stair side whenever you walked near any steps.
“Just in case gravity decides it wants another round with you,” he explained. “Next time, I might have to catch you. That would be more fun for both of us, don’t you think?”
“Next time I’ll just aim for you instead of the floor,” you replied with a grin.
“Deal,” he said instantly. “I’m much softer to land on than those stairs, guaranteed.”
So there's this post with a troubling number of notes going around insisting that "dead dove" is not a genre, it doesn't inherently have anything to do with darkfic, and that the tag could be applied to fics that are "100% fluffy where everyone's having a good time" if they happen to contain some abnormal (though entirely non-problematic) content like an unusual kink. The claim is that "dead dove: do not eat" is simply a "courtesy tag" that means "this is a very specific niche, mind the tags." And that's just... wrong.
I wrote up a whole rebuttal to this post since I can't stand misinformation and frankly OP was being kinda rude and judgey on top of their wrongness. But right after I posted my reply, OP turned off reblogs because, and I quote, “some fuckwad added some dumb shit onto this post and it is no longer educational” (the “fuckwad” being me and the “dumb shit” being proof that they were wrong). A couple people have asked me to make a rebloggable version of my response, which I've decided to do because this isn't the first time I've heard similar claims and I want to help set the record straight. However, I'm not linking the original post on the off chance this gains traction because OP did the right thing by turning off reblogs, preventing it from circulating further, and I don't want them to get hate for being unfortunately misinformed.
For those who don't know the history, "dead dove: do not eat" was originally proposed as a catchall "hydra trash party" alternative label for any fandom to warn that the content of a fic may be considered problematic or potentially upsetting and to read the tags carefully so you know what you're getting into and won't complain later. Specifically, DD:DNE was intended to convey that the Bad Things in the fic would likely be reveled in and not explicitly condemned by the narrative, which some people tend to get up in arms about, hence the need for the extra warning in addition to the tags. Don't believe me? Here's the original proposal (note DD:DNE can be found on a handful of fics dated before 2015 but this is when it really took off and became a Thing).
There are currently around 50,000 fics tagged as "dead dove: do not eat" on AO3 and close to 50% of those also include the rape/noncon warning (which of course is not the only type of "dead dove" but is one of the most popular and most consistently tagged). The normal percentage of noncon fics in any given fandom? Around 1-3%. That's a HUGE disparity. So don't tell me that dead dove is just a general "courtesy tag" and doesn't or shouldn't have dark connotations. Even the context of the original joke on Arrested Development has a dark undertone. Micheal Bluth casually finds an animal carcass in a bag in his refrigerator with the label "do not eat", as if eating it would be any sane person's first thought. The whole situation is kinda fucked up. And this fucked up vibe very much carries over into fandom usage too, as was intended.
The claim that dead dove has nothing to do with the content's genre and could just as easily be used to describe a 100% fluffy fic in which everyone's having a good time is straight up Wrong, or at the very least, severely warping the original meaning. Also, when someone these days says that they like/dislike "dead dove" most people in fandom automatically understand what that means because of the consistency of its usage over the years and the way language evolves. Whether you like it or not, "dead dove" IS a genre now and the term does carry a specific connotation. I do agree that DD:DNE should definitely still be used in conjunction with other tags, when applicable, to be explicit about the exact type of fucked up content you may find, but to say that the term is meaningless on its own is patently false and I'm tired of people who don't know what they're talking about pushing this narrative and causing even more confusion.
You want a generic term that also means "mind the tags" and doesn't have any inherently dark connotations? Just use good ol' "what it says on the tin" instead of trying to force dead dove to be something it's not.
He still calls her pipsqueak because she’s still shorter than him, but she’s taller than an average woman.
Idk Caleb looks like he’d be into tall girls.
He’d love your long brown legs and your thighs were killer when you had them exposed. He’d be the type to beg to fuck your delicious thighs of yours.
Caleb would constantly buy you thigh high socks, buying them a size smaller just to see them tighten around the middle and the excess fatty part to spill out .
Caleb is absolutely in LOVE with the idea of you wearing heels too, you end up being his height and he’s the best at making you feel like you were MEANT to be even taller.
“Keep the heels on.”
“But baby I—-“
He loves nothing more then to see your legs dangle from his shoulders when he is fucking himself into you, the anklet with his name dangling in his ear.
Caleb, after years of being with his tall girlfriend still has a crush on you. Catching himself staring at you as you walk around in his shirt, but so help him if he sees you bending over. His shirts never really were DRAPPED over you like most women. You’ve complained about this before, kinda of envious of girls that can wear their boyfriend’s clothes like a gown, but fuck that Caleb let’s you know wearing his shirts is more than welcomed, the shirts always just BARELY covered your ass so once you practically flashed him while reaching for your dropped pen—uh oh no and he’s hard again.
Caleb who loves his tall girlfriend, but still knows how to make you feel small.
He can lift you, throw you around, and he’s already so naturally big you sometimes always have the pleasure of feeling smaller than what you really are.
“Y’really think you’re that much bigger than me?” He strained to speak while thrusting upwards with your back against the wall, your mind was fuzzy all you could focus on was your claws on his shoulders, you clench down on him as his chuckles send a chill down your spine while he’s in your ear trying to suppress a moan, “You’re so cute…”
You’re still his Pipsqueak at the end of the day regardless of your height.
Synopsis: Caleb is going back into the Deepspace tunnel.
Details: Short 600ish w. Just sad romantic fluff. Caleb’s emotional range is exclusively yours. If you’re in the mood for a lil sob, please check the track below.
Come back
Caleb lies beside you, his bare chest rising and falling in the hush of the night. The room is dark except for the silver glow of the moon slipping through the curtains, catching in his hair, catching in the violet depths of his eyes. His arm is draped over your waist, his fingers tracing slow, aimless shapes against your skin. You know this touch—it’s not casual. It’s memorizing.
The sheets are tangled around your legs, still warm from him, from you, from everything you gave each other in the dark. But time is cruel. The clock on the wall ticks toward the moment he has to leave, toward the hour when he’ll step into his uniform, buckle his boots, and fly into the Deepspace tunnel.
You swallow against the ache in your throat, your fingers idly tracing the cool metal of his dog tag where it rests against his chest. “You’re quiet,” you murmur.
His fingers still against your side, but only for a second before he exhales, long and slow. “So are you.”
You reach up, brushing his hair back from his forehead, letting your fingers linger along the sharp line of his jaw. His face is unreadable, but you can feel the tension in him, the way his body holds onto something just beneath the surface.
“You think I want to let this go?” His voice is quiet, rough at the edges.
“I don’t know what you want,” you admit. It’s easier than saying I’m scared. I don’t know how to hold onto you when the world keeps trying to take you away from me.
His jaw tenses. Then, he shifts, pulling you closer until your bodies are pressed together, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm against your skin, but there’s a tremor in it. His hand cups the back of your head, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.
“I’m going to hurt you,” he says. Not a question. A quiet, terrible truth.
Your throat tightens. “You already have. And I’d let you do it again if it means I get to have you, even for a little while.”
His breath stutters. And then he laughs—soft, breathless, but with no humor in it. It shakes against your skin, and before you can pull back, before you can see his face, you feel it—his shoulders trembling, his fingers tightening in your hair, the way his body curls toward yours like he’s trying to press himself into you, disappear into the safety of your warmth.
He’s crying.
Caleb, who has faced death. Caleb, who never falters, who never shakes, never shows his wounds.
Your chest aches as you wrap your arms around him, pressing a hand to the back of his neck, feeling the shudder of his breath against your skin. “You’re allowed to be scared too,” you whisper.
His fingers clutch at you, his voice cracking as he finally speaks.
“I’m not afraid of dying, Pip-squeak.” A shuddering breath. “I’m afraid of coming back again. Of what that will do to you. Afraid of the day you look at me and see I’ve shattered too much for you to piece back together.”
His words knock the air from your lungs. You watched him disappear—torn from your hands before you could even scream. And yet, somehow, he found his way back. A miracle. But miracles don’t come without a price. He returned to you, but not whole, not untouched. And neither were you.
You press your forehead against his, your own eyes burning. “Caleb… come back to me. Even if you’re just fragments, even if you don’t know how to be whole. Just—come back.”
His grip tightens, and he doesn’t answer—not with words, at least. But the way he holds you, the way he lets himself break in your arms, tells you enough.
For now, this is enough.
Writer’s note: This song has been with me for many years and it came up in an old playlist I was listening to the other day. Then this scene unfolded in my head. I cried writing this. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻
missing someone is crazy because you’ll have dreams that r like “we went on a nice walk together :)” and you’ll wake up feeling like you’re gonna throw up
