[i love you a little more than you realize]

| 25 || Reblogger | 🔞 | MDNI I Phainon of Aedes Elysiae| Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos| Wriothesley of the Fortress of Meropide

[whumpback-wail]

Trial by Fire (Wriothesley x Reader)

A group under Dottore was doing a series of human experimentation in a facility in Fontaine. Being the Duke's finacée, (y/n) was captured by one of Wriothesley's many enemies, and sent to the facility to be an experiment subject. After her rescue, (y/n) was not the same. Battling PTSD while having no idea of what happened to her, she has a long journey of recovery ahead of her, and Wriothesley is there with her every step of the way.

Contains dark and mature themes, please DO NOT read if you're not certain you can handle the story, warnings listed below. Minors DNI.

Genre: f!reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst, a bit of mystery, action, more angst

TW/CW (will add as I go): first draft (will probably stay that way), very dark themes, angst, torture, blood, cpr, wishing for death, panic attacks, ptsd, human experimentation, implied s3xual abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, hyperventilation, hospitals, rehabilitation, vomitting, back and forth timeline, mentions of r@pe, pregnancy, ab0rtion, emotional and physical trauma

Updates: Completed!

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters aside from (y/n). This story is 100000% fictional, any similarities to real life people or incidents are purely coincidental. After reading the TW/CW, please DO NOT read if you think you can't handle the story.

Minors DNI

Masterlist:

01 - Make It Out Alive

02 - What's Real?

03 - More Questions than Answers

04 - Investigation Continues

05 - Divulgence

06 - Embrace

07 - Decrescendo

08 - Epilogue

09 - Originally Planned Plot (Bonus)

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

For the Valko requests, I would love to see some cute family fluff between MC, Valko, his cousins, grandma, and his sister (I think he had a sister in his lore, correct me if I am wrong), because I want to see how MC would get along with Valko's family. 🐺

𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄

synopsis: when valko brings you home for the first time, he warns you about everything: his grandmother’s food, his sister’s stare, his cousin’s stories, the family jokes that always cut too close. he forgets to warn you that love in his house is not gentle or quiet, but loud, practical, mercilessly observant, and served warm at the kitchen table. cw/tw: valko x reader. very soft domestic fluff. light family teasing. read here: ao3 ⋅ tumblr

Valko lost his nerve three steps from the door.

It was a small death, but you saw it happen; the brave lift of his chin, the twitch in his jaw, the small, tragic collapse of his entire face when a crash came from inside the house.

His hand tightened around yours.

“Dobro,” he said.

Another crash.

From inside, and older woman called, “If that's my good plate, I will put someone in the ground before supper.”

Valko closed his eyes. You turned toward him.

He opened one eyes. “She loves plates.”

“More than people?”

“Depends on the people.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and relief moved through him all at once, softening his shoulders, loosening the frightened line of his mouth. He'd been nervous all morning. Badly nervous. Valko, who could grin with blood on his teeth and make danger look like a door he'd simply forgotten to knock on, had spent the whole walk here giving you warnings no sane person could have prepared for.

Do not let Mika read your palm. He makes things up and then believes them.

Do not compliment Baba's curtains unless you want curtains.

Do not say you're full.

And, most importantly, if anyone mentions the soup incident, Valko had said, grave as a condemned man, they're lying.

You had asked what the soup incident was.

He had started to walk faster.

Now he stood before the old wooden door with your fingers caught in his, trying to look calm and producing, somehow, the exact expression of a wolf about to be bathed.

“Valko,” you said softly.

“Yes?”

“You're shaking.”

“I'm not shaking.”

“You are.”

“I’m containing myself.”

“From what?”

“Hereditary embarrassment.”

The door flew open.

A girl about his age stood on the other side, dark-eyed and grinning, with flour on her cheek and murder in her posture. She took one look at Valko’s hand around yours, then lifted her gaze to his face with the slow delight of someone finding a knife exactly where she had hoped one would be.

A slow smile cut across her face.

“Oh,” she smirked. “So this is why you changed your shirt twice.”

Valko made a sound. Small, wounded, entirely unlike a wolf.

“I changed once.”

“You changed twice. The first shirt was the blue one. The second was the one that made you look like you were going to court. This...This is the third.”

His ears went red.

The woman held out her hand to you. “Milena. His sister.”

“Unfortunately,” Valko added.

“Fortunately. Without me, you'd still think soap is optional in winter.”

“It isn't optional.”

“Because of me.”

You took Milena's hand. Her grip was warm, firm, and full of judgement she hadn't yet decided to use.

Behind her, the house breathed out heat. Bread, onions, some in old wood, something sweet cooling on a counter. There were voices everywhere, layered and crossing. One person laughing while another complained, a child humming under a table, chairs scraping, a kettle whistling like a bird losing patience.

Milena stepped aside. “Come in before Baba starts saying we were raised by wolves.”

Valko muttered, “We were.”

She looked at him. “And still, some of us learned manners.”

You crossed the threshold. The house was smaller than the noise made it seem, or maybe the noise had simply learned to fill every corner. Framed photographs climbed the walls in crooked rows. Herbs hung drying above the kitchen window. Nothing matched, and yet everything looked touched, mended, argued over... kept.

Valko leaned close as he helped you out of your coat.

“Last chance,” he whispered. “We can run.”

You looked past him to where an old woman stood near the stove, hands folded over her apron, watching you with bright, wolfish eyes.

“Too late,” you whispered back. “I think she heard you.”

“I hear everything,” the old woman said.

Valko went still.

Milena smiled into her shoulder.

The old woman crossed the kitchen with the slow authority of someone who had ruled this house before any of them had teeth. She was small, broad in the shoulders, silver-haired, with flour on her wrist and no softness wasted in her face. The softness, you realised, was elsewhere. In the bread covered by a towel, in the chair pulled out before you reached it, in the way Valko lowered his head without being asked when she came close.

“Baba,” he said, and for the first time that day, his voice lost its jokes.

She, of course, ignored him.

Instead, she took your face between both hands.

Her palms smelled of rosemary, yeast, and soap. Her thumbs rested beneath your cheekbones, and for one strange second the whole house seemed to lean closer. The cousins, the kettle, the old boards, even Valko, holding his breath beside you.

“So,” Baba Vesna said. “You are the reason he forgets to eat.”

“I eat,” Valko protested.

Teta Marika appeared by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “You came here last week, opened the pantry, stared at a sack of potatoes for six minutes, then said, ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’”

“That was taken out of context.”

“What was the context?” you asked, because love had made you brave and terrible.

Valko looked betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

A boy leaning backwards on his chair nearly lost balance from laughing, another cousin caught the chair by its back without looking up from peeling an apple.

Baba Vesna patted your cheek once and released you. “Sit, dušo. Eat something before my family embarrass me properly.”

Valko gave a strangled laugh. “Before?”

No one listened to him.

You were placed at the long wooden table as if the decision had been made before you arrived. A bowl appeared, then bread, then butter, then a small plate of pickled vegetables. Teta Marika, Valko's aunt, kissed the air beside your cheeks and took the small gift you had brought. Mika announced that he already knew your favourite colour from Valko’s face. Luka told him that was the stupidest sentence ever spoken in the kitchen, which Mika accepted as praise. The little one beneath the table emerged, solemn and bread-dusted, and introduced himself as Niko.

“Are you going to marry him?” Niko asked.

Valko walked directly into the side of a chair.

The whole kitchen paused. You pressed your lips together.

Milena leaned against the doorway, radiant with cruelty. “Careful, Niko. Val only has two knees.”

“Niko,” Teta Marika turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “We ask guests if they want juice first.”

Niko nodded, absorbing this etiquette with grave importance. “Do you want juice before you marry him?”

Valko covered his face with both hands. You bit down on your smile so hard it almost hurt. This wasn't what you had expected.

Some foolish, frightened part of you had imagined a den in the old sense. Teeth, watchful eyes, a family arranged around blood and law, waiting to decide whether your bones could be allowed near theirs. Valko had never spoken of them casually. Whenever he said home, something tender and embarrassed moved through him, as though the word itself had fingers and knew exactly where to touch.

Now you sat beneath a crooked lamp while his grandmother tore bread with her hands and put the first piece on your plate.

“Eat,” Baba Vesna said.

You obeyed.

The bread was warm enough to steam between your fingers. The crust cracked softly, butter melted into it in golden lines. Across the table, Valko watched you take the first bite as if your mouth held judgment from heaven.

You chewed. Swallowed.

“It’s delicious.”

Baba Vesna clicked her tongue. “Of course it is wonderful. I made it.”

Mika leaned towards you. “He talked about you after the market yesterday.”

Valko’s hand hit the table. “No.”

“Yes, you did” Luka said sticking his tongue out.

“No.”

“You said, and I quote, 'she chooses fruit with such care'.”

The table went quiet for half a breath, your hand stilled around the bread. Valko looked at Luka as if betrayal had entered the room wearing his cousin’s face.

“That was private.”

“You said it in the kitchen.”

“That makes it private.”

Milena sat across from you and rested her chin in her hand. “He also said you have kind hands.”

Valko’s mouth opened, nothing came out. Your heart did something foolish inside your chest.

The teasing had worked him bright and flustered, but beneath it, something softer trembled. He was embarrassed, yes. Horribly, so. Beautifully, so. Yet the thing underneath was more dangerous than shame. This was exposure. A curtain pulled open in a room he had spent so long keeping dim.

He had spoken of you here.

At this table. In this warm, loud house. To these people who teased him because they knew what he looked like with no armour on. He had brought you home long before he ever brought your body through the door.

Baba Vesna filled your bowl with soup.

“He was always like this,” she said.

“Baba, please.”

“He was a strange child,” she said.

Valko groaned. “Please.”

“A sweet child,” Teta Marika corrected.

“A dramatic child,” Luka said.

“A biting child,” Milena added.

Valko pointed at her. “You bit first.”

“You looked biteable.”

“You see what I mean?” Valko turned to you with helpless outrage. “This is what I survived.”

There was love in it, the kind that had been cooked too long and reduced into something strong enough to stain. They spoke to him as if they had known every version of him and chosen, again and again, to keep putting food in front of whichever one came home.

You looked at him while he argued with Mika about whether a stolen spoon counted as a childhood trauma.

He caught you looking. For a moment, the noise thinned.

There he was.

Valko with his hair refusing every law of decency. Valko trying so hard to survive his own family and failing beautifully. His eyes met yours with a nervous brightness that made you want to reach across the table and be cruel to every fear that had ever found him.

Then Niko pointed his spoon at you.

“Are you keeping him?”

The kitchen stopped.

Valko made a tiny sound into his bowl.

Milena closed her eyes as if praying for patience and finding none. “Niko.”

“What? Mika said maybe she is keeping him.”

His gaze dropped to the table, to the bread by his hand, to the small old cuts in the wood. The blush still clung to him, but it had changed into something quieter now. Hope, perhaps. Or terror wearing hope’s coat.

You could have laughed. Everyone would have let you. It would have been easy to throw the question back into the room like a toy and watch them tear it apart.

Instead, beneath the table, you found Valko’s hand.

His fingers closed around yours at once.

“I’d like to,” you said.

The house held itself still for half a breath.

Then Baba Vesna nodded, once, as if some old contract had been signed in soup and honey.

“Good,” she said. “He is difficult, but warm.”

Valko bowed his head.

His shoulders shook.

At first you thought he was upset. Then you realised he was laughing, quietly, helplessly, with one hand over his mouth and the other holding yours under the table like he meant to keep it there until winter.

Mika groaned. “Ah, look at him. Finished. Completely finished.”

Milena reached for the pickles. “Good. He needed finishing.”

Teta Marika smiled into her tea. “Eat more, zlato. You will need strength.”

“For Valko?” you asked.

“For all of us.”

Dinner became less a meal than a storm with chairs.

Bowls moved, hands reached, stories climbed over one another and died unfinished because someone remembered a better accusation. Luka asked you practical questions in a calm voice: where you liked to walk, whether Valko had shown you the old river path, whether he still pretended not to like sweet things. Mika tried to read your palm and declared that you were fated to own a troublesome dog.

“That's just Valko,” Milena said.

“I am not a dog.”

“True,” Luka said. “Dogs listen.”

Valko began quietly placing the best pieces of food on your plate.

A soft carrot, the inside of the bread, a dumpling he pretended to move away from himself and somehow abandoned beside your spoon. He was not subtle. He had never been subtle. He was a wolf trying to hide a whole deer behind a napkin.

You noticed on the fourth offering.

His family noticed on the first.

Baba Vesna said nothing until Valko tried to give you the last honey cake. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him over her tea.

“Ah,” she said.

Valko froze.

It was one syllable. It landed like a bell.

“What?” he said.

“No, no.” She waved him off. “Continue. Starve for romance. Very noble.”

Mika threw his head back.

You picked up the honey cake before Valko could die at the table and broke it in two, placing half on his plate. “There,” you said. “No starving.”

He looked at the cake.

Then he looked at you.

His expression opened in a way that made the room, somehow, feel too small for your heart. It opened with that unguarded, bewildered softness he sometimes gave you when kindness arrived before he had prepared himself to receive it.

Milena saw it.

Her teasing quieted.

For a moment, she only watched him with something old and protective in her face.

Then she stood. “Come help me with plates.”

Valko blinked. “Me?”

“Her.” Milena pointed at you.

Valko frowned. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That's not a reason.”

“It has worked on you for years.”

You rose before he could protest again. Milena took two plates from the table and handed you none of them, which told you at once that this had nothing to do with helping.

She led you down a narrow hallway lined with photographs.

Behind you, Valko’s voice rose. “Do not interrogate her.”

The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and dried herbs. The noise of the kitchen softened behind you, still there, still golden, but now wrapped in walls. Milena stopped by a window overlooking the yard and leaned her hip against the sill.

For the first time all evening, she let the smile leave her face.

“He likes you,” she said.

You smiled gently. “I got that impression.”

“No.” Her eyes flicked towards the kitchen. “He likes people easily. He likes old men who tell bad stories, stray cats that scratch him, children who throw rocks at windows because they want attention. Valko is built stupid that way.”

A laugh escaped you.

Milena folded her arms.

“He brings things home,” she continued. “Broken things, angry things. Things he thinks no one else will be gentle with.” Her gaze moved towards the kitchen, where Valko’s voice lifted in protest. “He does not bring people home.”

Your throat tightened.

From the kitchen, Valko shouted, “It wasn't soup. It was stew.”

Mika shouted back, “Stew cannot make a grown man cry.”

“I was overwhelmed by flavour.”

Milena closed her eyes for one second. “Bože, give me strength.”

You laughed softly.

She looked at you again, sharper now.

“He was nervous all week,” she said. “Changed his shirt three times. Asked me if the house smelled too much like onions. Asked Luka if his laugh was strange. Asked Baba if she could please not tell the story about the goat.”

“The goat?”

“Later.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Maybe never.”

You glanced back towards the kitchen.

He had asked if his laugh was strange.

Something in you ached with such tenderness that it almost felt like anger.

You looked down.

“He didn’t need to worry,”

“He is clumsy with precious things,” she said. “Because he thinks his hands are only good for breaking them, even when he is careful. Especially then.”

“So be kind,” she said. “Or be cruel quickly. He will survive either, but I prefer to know which one I’m dealing with.”

There it was.

The knife under the table. The love with its teeth intact. You didn't resent her for it, you thought, strangely, that you liked her more for it.

“I’m not here to hurt him,”

“Most people aren’t, at first.”

“Milena.”

Milena’s gaze narrowed.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with him,” you admitted.

“With any of this,” you continued. “He makes everything feel…” You searched for the word and hated every pretty one that came. Fated. Wild. Tender. All too polished for the mess he made of your heart. “He makes everything feel like I’ve been walking past a door my whole life, and he is the idiot who opened it with his shoulder.”

Milena stared at you.

Then she laughed once, sharp and startled.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re gone too.”

You looked down, caught.

She seemed satisfied. “Good.”

“Is that approval?”

“That is me deciding not to be difficult.”

“You were being difficult?”

“Dušo,” she said, and now her smile had teeth in it, “I was being polite.”

When you returned to the kitchen, Valko was waiting near the doorway as if he had tried to remain seated and failed.

His eyes moved from you to Milena. “What did you say to her?”

Milena walked past him. “That you were adopted.”

“I’m not.”

“Emotionally, you're a wet dog we found in the rain.”

He watched her go, wounded on principle, then turned to you with genuine concern. “What did she actually say?”

You reached up and brushed flour from his sleeve. “That you’re warm.”

“That was Baba.”

“Family consensus.”

His mouth twitched. “You are enjoying this.”

“I am.”

“You were supposed to be intimidated.”

“By Mika?”

“By the bloodline. The history. The general atmosphere of teeth.”

“Mika told me my palm says I’ll own a dog.”

Valko sighed.

You reached up and plucked the dish towel from his shoulder. “You have flour on your sleeve.”

He looked down, surprised, as if his own body had been making decisions without him. Then he looked back at you, and the kitchen noise faded once more, though this time it was only the two of you making the world small.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

The question was casual enough for anyone else to miss the tremor underneath. You heard it. The naked, waiting part. You thought of his hand shaking outside the door. Baba Vesna taking your face between her palms, of bread steaming in your fingers, of honey cake divided in two, of Milena saying he doesn't bring people home.

“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”

Valko smiled too quickly. “I’m alive.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

His smile softened.

For once, he did not joke immediately. It cost him something. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, reaching for mischief and finding courage instead.

“I wanted them to like you,” he said. “I wanted you to like them.”

“I do”

“I wanted…” He stopped, then laughed under his breath. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”

He looked towards the kitchen, where his family had resumed their noise without mercy. Mika was accusing Luka of stealing the larger piece of cake. Baba Vesna had taken down a tin from the highest shelf, probably containing either biscuits or secrets.

“Valko, stop hiding her. I have photographs.”

Horror returned to his face with magnificent speed.

“No.”

“Yes,”

“No photographs.”

“Naked baby photos,” Mika added.

Valko went pale. “You do not have those.”

Teta Marika’s voice drifted after him, serene and deadly. “We have everything.”

He grabbed your hand. “We’re leaving.”

You let him pull you three steps before Baba Vesna appeared in the doorway holding a small album to her chest.

“Sit,” she said.

Valko sat.

It was remarkable how quickly a wolf could become a grandson.

For the next hour, they showed you the evidence of his life.

Valko missing two front teeth and glaring at the camera as though betrayed by dentistry. Valko asleep under the table with one hand buried in a dog’s fur. Valko at thirteen, all elbows and outrage, holding a fish half his size while crying because he had to put it back.

There was Valko covered in mud, Valko wearing a paper crown, Valko with Milena’s arm hooked around his neck while he pretended to hate her and leaned into her anyway. Valko standing beside Baba Vesna in the garden, holding a basket of tomatoes like he had been entrusted with the fate of nations.

Each photograph was another small door.

You had known him in pieces: the grin, the hunger, the awkward tenderness, the jokes he threw like branches over deep water. Here was the rest of him. Here was the child who had survived becoming himself because these hands had fed him, scolded him, dragged him upright, and remembered his softness when he tried to outgrow it.

At some point, while everyone argued over whether the goat incident happened before or after the soup incident, Valko bent close to you.

“You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured.

You turned a page.

A tiny Valko stared up from the album, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

He stared at you.

Then, very briefly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.

It lasted only a second. A shy, exhausted surrender. No one commented on it, though you knew every person in the room saw. That seemed to be another house rule. They would mock the wound, yes, but they protected the pulse.

Later, when the cups were cleared and the album returned to its shelf of holy embarrassments, you stepped outside for air.

The yard was cold, dark and soft around the edges. Herbs grew beneath the window, yhe old trees leaned towards the house as if listening. Behind you, the kitchen glowed gold, laughter pressing against the glass.

Valko followed after a moment, closing the door carefully behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked at him. “For what?”'

“The interrogation. The photographs. Mika. The marriage question. The soup litigation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Milena.”

“I like Milena.”

“That means she behaved.”

“She said she was being polite.”

He winced. “Then she liked you.”

You leaned back against the porch railing, and he stood in front of you with his hands in his pockets, rocking once on his heels like he wanted to come closer and had forgotten the law of his own body.

Through the window, you could see Baba Vesna pretending to wipe the table while watching you both with shameless interest. You lifted a hand and waved.

She waved back.

Valko turned, saw her, and groaned. “For the love of...Baba.”

“She loves you.”

“That's her usual excuse for crimes.”

“It’s a good one.”

He looked back at you, and the teasing left him slowly, piece by piece. Out here, with the house at his back, he seemed caught between the wild thing and the loved thing. The wolf and the boy in the paper crown. The man who had brought you to the threshold with shaking hands and still tried to joke like fear could be made harmless if he gave it a funny name.

“Did you mean it?” he asked.

“Which part?”

“When Niko asked if you were keeping me.”

The question came lightly, too lightly. A feather laid over a blade.

You reached for him.

This time, Valko did not hesitate. He came into your space at once, as if pulled by a string tied somewhere behind his ribs. His hands settled at your waist, careful at first, then warmer when you didn't move away.

“I meant it,”

His eyes searched yours.

“For tonight?”

“For longer than that.”

He didn't kiss you immediately. Somehow, that made it worse. He stood there and let the answer enter him, slowly, like someone opening the door to a room he had been told was empty and finding it lit.

Inside, Mika yelled, “Are they kissing?”

Valko dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“Leave them. He is finally being normal.”

You laughed.

He looked at you then, and the last of his embarrassment broke open into something bright, something almost boyish

“Welcome home,” he said, very softly.

You touched his cheek.

Behind him, the old house breathed and creaked and held its golden noise. Inside, his family waited with tea, teeth, stories, and a place at the table already made yours.

“Welcome home, Valko.”

© 2026, xxsyluslittlecrowxx. dividers by @uzmacchiato

[canaria-herrscherr]

THIS IS THE MOST ADORABLE THING I'VE EVER SEEN!! Valko my sweetheart!! I want more of thissss!!

[niisancomplex]

兄が永遠に自由な鳥であるように May my brother forever remain a free bird

[strwbrrymoonwrites]

Gløryhøle Gambit

Synopsis: Yeah, that stranger from the gloryhole booth? Turns out he's got military pull and a possessive streak a mile wide. Yes, he'll shut down your whole world to claim you. No, escape isn't on the menu once his obsession kicks in.

Content Warnings: MDNI, fem!reader, gloryhole au, anonymous-to-obsessed, yandere!colonel, creampies, marathon sëx, overstim, cockwarming, mating press, oral, slight bondage, anal, spanking, biting/marking, hair-pulling, power imbalance, stalking elements, obsession/yandere possession, rough sex, cum-swallowing, squirting, desk sex, aftercare.

A/n: got a little lost in the sauce with this one....

The dim neon glow of the adult arcade flickered through the grimy windows as Colonel Caleb Xia pulled his cap low over his brow, slipping into the shadows of the back alley entrance. With a chest full of medals and a face that graced Farspace Fleet briefings on national TV, he couldn't afford scandals. But the weight of command, the endless strategy sessions, the lives hanging on his decisions, had left him frayed, his body humming with unspent tension. Tonight, he needed release, anonymous and raw, no strings, no faces.

He'd heard about this place from a discreet whisper in the officers' club, a seedy spot where men like him could vanish into the night. The gloryhole booth was tucked in the far corner, a narrow stall with a hole carved at waist height, shrouded in anonymity. Caleb locked the door behind him, heart pounding as he unzipped his jeans, his thick cock already half-hard from anticipation. He fed a few bills into the slot, and the partition hummed to life.

On the other side, you waited, knees on the padded floor, the thrill of the unknown sending a shiver down your spine. You'd come here for the rush, the power of being desired without the mess of expectations. The hole revealed a glimpse of tanned skin and a hardening shaft– impressive, veined, and throbbing with need. You licked your lips, leaning in to tease the tip with your tongue, swirling slow circles around the head.

Caleb groaned, low and guttural, his hands bracing against the wall. "Fuck," he muttered, voice rough from years of barking orders. Your mouth was warm, eager, sucking him in deeper with each bob of your head. He thrust gently at first, testing the waters, but the sensation built like a storm– your lips stretching around his girth, tongue flicking the underside. He was bigger than most, filling your throat as you relaxed, taking him to the hilt.

He couldn't see you, but he imagined– soft curves, hungry eyes. "That's it, take it all," he rasped, hips bucking harder. The anonymity fueled him; no repercussions, just pure, filthy pleasure. But as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking with expert pressure, he felt the edge approaching too soon. He pulled back slightly, breathing heavy, but you chased him, your hand wrapping around the base through the hole, stroking in tandem with your mouth.

"Goddamn, you're good," he growled, his control slipping. The stress melted away with each wet slurp, replaced by a fire that demanded more. He came hard, spilling down your throat in hot pulses, your swallowing milking every drop. But as he softened slightly, the ache didn't fade– it intensified. He was still hard, still needy. He slapped the partition. "Don't stop," he demanded, voice edged with command. "I need more."

You smiled around him, licking his tip clean, aroused by his desperation. Wiping your mouth, you stood, turning to press your ass against the hole, hiking up your poor excuse for a skirt. No panties– just slick, bare pussy, dripping from the taste of him. You guided his cock to your entrance, sinking back slowly, a moan escaping as he stretched you wide.

Caleb's eyes widened in the dim light. "Holy shit," he breathed, gripping the edges of the partition. You were tight, hot, clenching around him like a vice. He thrust forward, burying himself deep, the angle perfect for hitting that spot inside you. The booth shook with his rhythm, skin slapping against the wall as he fucked you relentlessly. Your hand slipped between your legs, circling your clit, chasing your own peak.

"You're so fucking wet," he panted, pace callous. "Take it, all of it." Sweat beaded on his forehead, his military-honed body driving into you with precision. He couldn't get enough– the way you pushed back, grinding, your muffled cries spurring him on. The risk, the rawness– it was intoxicating.

You came first, walls fluttering around him, soaking his cock as waves crashed over you. Caleb followed seconds later, groaning as he filled you, hips jerking erratically. But even as he pulled out, spent and slick, his body hummed for more. He leaned against the wall, catching his breath, knowing he'd be back– already craving the stranger who matched his fire.

The days blurred into a haze of briefings and bullshit for Colonel Caleb Xia. That night at the gloryhole had been a spark in the dark– anonymous, filthy, and exactly what he'd needed to cut through the tension coiled in his gut like barbed wire. But it hadn't been enough. Not by a long shot. The memory of your tight, dripping pussy clenching around his cock haunted him during staff meetings, making him shift in his seat, his dick twitching at the phantom sensation. He craved more– the risk, the raw hunger, the way you'd taken him without a word, just bodies slamming together through that thin wall.

Two nights later, he was back. He didn't even change from his regalia, yet he still slipped into the arcade like a ghost. The booth called to him, and he locked himself in, feeding bills into the machine with shaking hands. His cock was already straining against his zipper, thick and heavy, veins pulsing with anticipation. He unbuckled swiftly and freed it, stroking slowly, waiting for the signal.

On your side, the thrill hadn't faded either. You'd replayed it in your mind countless times. The gruff voice barking commands, the girth that stretched you to your limits, the hot flood of his cum filling you up, were all ample fuel for your own self explorations.

Tonight, you were ready, dressed in nothing but a short robe that you shrugged off as soon as the partition activated. Kneeling, you peered through the hole, heart racing at the sight of him: rock-hard, pre-cum beading at the tip. You didn't hesitate when it pushed through the opening, wrapping your lips around the head and sucking hard, tongue lashing the slit to taste his saltiness.

"Fuck yes," Caleb growled, his hips jerking forward. "Suck it like you mean it." Your mouth was a vacuum, cheeks hollowing as you took him deeper, gagging slightly when he hit the back of your throat. Drool spilled down your chin, mixing with his pre-cum, as you bobbed faster, one hand cupping his balls through the hole, rolling them gently while the other stroked what wouldn't fit. He was massive, forcing your jaw wide, but the ache only made you wetter, your thighs slick already with arousal.

He thrust into your mouth, fucking your face with military precision. Cock sliding in deep, relentless strokes that made your eyes water. "Choke on it," he rasped, voice thick with lust. "Take every inch." You did, relaxing your throat until your nose pressed against the wall, his pubes tickling through the gap. The booth reeked of sex, the wet gluck-gluck of your sucking echoing obscenely. He came with a muffled roar, flooding your mouth, cum spilling from the corners as you swallowed greedily, milking him dry.

But he didn't soften. "Not done," he panted, pulling out only to slap his still-hard cock against the hole. "Turn around. I want that sweet pussy again."

You stood, legs shaky, and backed up to the hole, spreading your cheeks to expose your soaked folds. "Fuck me," you whispered, the first words you'd spoken, voice husky and needy.

Caleb didn't need asking twice. He lined up and slammed in, burying himself balls-deep in one severe thrust. You cried out, the stretch burning deliciously, your walls fluttering around his invading girth. "Tight as fuck," he grunted, pulling back to ram in again, the partition rattling with the force. His hands gripped the edges, knuckles white, as he set a punishing pace of long, hard strokes that bottomed out, his balls slapping against the rim of the hole.

You braced against your wall, one hand reaching back to spread yourself wider, the other diving between your legs to rub your swollen clit. "Harder, Colonel," you moaned, guessing his rank from the authoritative bark in his voice and the jingle of what you thought were a chestful of medals. "Ruin me."

The title sent a jolt through him– fuck, she knew? But the anonymity held, and it only fueled his fire. "You asked for it," he snarled, pounding into you like a machine, hips snapping with enough force to bruise. Your juices squelched with each thrust, dripping down your thighs, the lewd sounds mixing with your whimpers and his grunts. He angled up, hitting your G-spot relentlessly, making stars burst behind your eyelids.

"God, you're soaking my cock," he groaned. "Cum for me– squeeze that pussy." You did, shattering around him, your orgasm ripping through you like wildfire. Walls clamping down, you screamed, body convulsing as waves of pleasure drowned you. Caleb kept fucking through it, prolonging your high, his own building fast.

But he wasn't ready to end it. "Ass," he demanded, voice raw. "Give me your ass."

You hesitated for a split second, then nodded to yourself, lubing him up with your own slick before guiding his tip to your tighter hole. "Slow at first," you breathed, pushing back.

He eased in slowly as requested, the ring of muscle yielding to his thickness. "Fuck, so tight," he hissed, sweat pouring down his back. Once seated, he waited for your signal– a wiggle of your hips– then started moving, shallow thrusts building to deeper ones. The burn turned to bliss, your fingers frantic on your clit as he claimed your ass, stretching you wide.

"Take it all, you dirty girl," he commanded, pace quickening. "I'm gonna fill this hole too." You moaned louder, the fullness overwhelming, pushing you toward another edge. He reached through the hole as best he could, his fingers finding your pussy and plunging in, fucking you in tandem. Your fingers on your clit, his cock in your ass, his fingers curling inside you, they all broke you. You came again, harder, squirting around his fingers, ass clenching rhythmically around his shaft. Caleb lost it, bellowing as he erupted, hot ropes of cum spraying your insides. He pumped through his release, drawing it out until you both trembled.

Pulling out slowly, he watched his seed leak from you, a filthy sight that had him half-hard again already. "Tomorrow," he muttered, more to himself than you. "I'll be back."

You smiled, spent and satisfied, whispering back, "I'll be waiting, Colonel." The game was on– anonymous no more in spirit, but the repercussions?

Still safely walled away.

For now.

He didn’t show the next night. In fact, he had handcuffed himself to his desk that evening and tossed the key across the office, stuck until the morning cleaning crew came in. "Self control"

Colonel Caleb Xia stared at the grainy security footage on his laptop, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. It had been a week since that second mind-blowing encounter at the gloryhole, and the obsession had sunk its hooks deep into his soul. The way you'd whispered "Colonel" through the partition, the slick heat of your body yielding to him again and again– it wasn't just sex anymore. It was ownership. No one else could have you. The thought of you on your knees for some other faceless prick in that dingy arcade made his blood boil, a possessive rage twisting in his gut like a live wire. You were his now, whether you knew it or not.

With his rank came perks– connections in intelligence, strings he could pull without questions. First, he made a call to local authorities, citing a "national security concern" about potential illicit activities at the arcade. By morning, the place was shuttered, yellow tape crisscrossing the doors, owners scrambling under investigation for fabricated violations. No more gloryholes. No more anonymous fucks. That chapter was closed.

Next, he dug deeper. A discreet request to his tech team pulled the arcade's CCTV feeds– hacked quietly, no traces left. He fast-forwarded through hours of footage until he spotted you: the curve of your hips as you entered the booth, the sway of your ass that he recognized from the way it had ground back against him. Facial recognition software did the rest, cross-referencing public databases until it spat out your name, address, everything. You. Beautiful, elusive. You. His cock twitched just thinking about it. He sent for you immediately– a black SUV with tinted windows pulling up to your door, two stern-faced adjutants delivering a sealed envelope: "Report to Colonel Xia's office at 0800 hours. Urgent matter."

You arrived at the base gates precisely on time, heart pounding as guards waved you through after checking your ID. What the hell was this? The arcade shutdown had hit the local news, but you never imagined it connected back to him– the gruff, commanding voice from the other side of the wall. But it was all far too coincidental. Escorted to his office in a nondescript building, you stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. The room was starkly military: polished steel desk piled with classified folders, walls adorned with maps on screens and commendations, the faint scent of gun oil and authority hanging in the air.

Caleb rose from his chair, his uniform crisp, medals gleaming under the fluorescent lights. At 6'2", broad-shouldered and chiseled from years of rigorous training, he was even more imposing in person– dark hair slicked back, piercing violet eyes that raked over you like he was memorizing every inch. "Sit," he commanded, voice low and gravelly, the same one that had growled filthy praises through the hole. You obeyed, perching on the edge of the chair opposite his desk, your pulse racing.

"You're the one," he said, circling around to lean against the desk in front of you, arms crossed. "The girl from the arcade. Don't deny it– I know." His gaze softened just a fraction, but there was a dark edge to it, possessive and unyielding. "I've been thinking about you non-stop. That tight little pussy, the way you took me... but I can't have you sharing that with anyone else. It's mine now. You're mine."

You swallowed hard, a mix of fear and arousal flooding your veins. "What do you want from me, Colonel?" Your voice came out steadier than you felt, but there was a breathy undertone, remembering the feel of him stretching you, especially now that you saw how handsome he was.

He reached out, his large hand cupping your chin gently but firmly, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. "Everything. Starting now." The conversation lingered there, charged with tension– he asked about your life, your desires. His eyes analyzed every expression that crossed your face, while listening intently to your voice, savoring the timbre like fine whiskey. "Your voice... it's even sexier than I imagined," he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip. "Soft, but with that edge of need. And your face– fuck, you're stunning. Those eyes, begging to be ruined."

He stood then, pulling you to your feet with ease, his hands roaming slowly over your shoulders, down your arms. "Let me see you. All of you." His fingers found the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by agonizing inch, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, the dip of your navel. He paused to trace circles there with his fingertips, watching goosebumps rise. "Perfect," he whispered, voice husky with reverence and hunger. The shirt came off over your head, tossed aside, revealing your bra. He unclasped it with expert precision, letting it fall as his eyes devoured your bare breasts– pretty, nipples already pebbling in the cool air.

"God, these tits... I've dreamed about them," he growled, cupping them gently at first, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks, making you gasp. He bent down, pressing kisses along your collarbone, down the valley between your breasts, inhaling your scent. His hands slid lower, hooking into your pants, dragging them down along with your panties in one slow, deliberate motion. He knelt briefly to help you step out, his breath hot against your thighs, eyes locked on the glistening folds between your legs. "Your body is a fucking masterpiece. Every curve, every inch– mine, all mine…”

Rising, he lifted you effortlessly onto the desk, papers scattering unnoticed as he laid you back, your legs dangling over the edge. He spread your thighs wide, settling between them on his knees, his uniform brushing against your skin. "I've waited too long for this… since I licked you off my fingers and tasted heaven," he murmured, breath ghosting over your exposed pussy. He started slow, agonizingly so– his tongue flicking out to trace the outer lips, savoring the tangy sweetness of your arousal. "So wet already... tastes like heaven." He parted you with his fingers, exposing your clit, and circled it with the flat of his tongue, lazy laps that built heat gradually.

You arched, moaning softly, but he held your hips down with strong hands, forcing you to feel every deliberate stroke. He dipped lower, tongue delving into your entrance, fucking you shallowly with it, lapping up your juices like a man starved. "Mmm, so sweet," he groaned against you, vibrations sending sparks up your spine. He sucked gently on your folds, then returned to your clit, alternating between soft suckles and slow, swirling licks, drawing out your pleasure until you were trembling, begging incoherently. He savored every twitch, every gasp, his eyes flicking up to watch your face contort in ecstasy.

Only when you were on the brink did he pull back, kissing his way up your body. His mouth latched onto one breast, sucking the nipple into his warm mouth, tongue flicking and teeth grazing just enough to sting sweetly. He switched to the other, hands kneading the soft flesh, rolling the neglected peak between his fingers. "These tits are perfect for me," he rasped, voice muffled against your skin. "Gonna fuck them now."

He stood, shedding his uniform jacket and shirt quickly, revealing a sculpted chest dusted with dark hair, abs rippling as he freed his massive cock– thick, veined, already leaking pre-cum. He straddled your torso on the desk, positioning himself between your breasts. You pushed them together eagerly, enveloping his shaft in soft, warm flesh. He thrust slowly at first, the head of his cock emerging near your mouth with each pump. You leaned forward hungrily, tongue darting out to lick the tip, tasting the salty bead of pre-cum, then sucking it into your mouth as he pushed forward.

"Fuck, yes– suck it while I fuck these tits," he groaned, pace building, hips rocking steadily. The slide was slick from your saliva and his pre-cum, the sensation filthy and intimate. You swirled your tongue around the head each time it breached, hollowing your cheeks to draw him in deeper on the upthrust. His balls tightened, breaths coming in ragged pants. "Gonna cum– swallow it all, baby." He erupted with a raucous hiss, hot spurts painting your tongue and throat as you gulped greedily, not missing a drop, milking him with your mouth and the press of your breasts.

But he wasn't done. Far from it. His cock stayed semi-hard, twitching with residual need. He slid off the desk, sinking into his chair and pulling you with him. "Straddle me," he ordered.

You climbed onto his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, your dripping pussy hovering over his length. The heat radiating from his cock brushed against your slick folds, a teasing promise that made your inner muscles clench in anticipation. He guided you down slowly, the broad head parting your lips with a slick glide, stretching your entrance wide as he filled you completely. Your pretty velvet walls yielding to his girth, the veins along his shaft dragging against sensitive nerves, sending tiny sparks of electricity up your spine. Buried to the hilt, he held still, your bodies locked in intimate fullness.

"Just sit there, for a few minutes," he murmured, his hand sliding to your lower belly. "Look at how well we fit together…” He pressed harder into the form of him stretching you inside, making you squirm. He stilled his hand quickly, determined to prolong being inside you, to test his self control with you.

How cute.

His fingers brushed a stray lock from your forehead, calluses scraping lightly against your skin, leaving a trail of warmth. He gazed intently into your eyes, violet depths stormy with determination, close enough that you could count the faint freckles dusting the bridge of his nose and cheeks, like stars scattered across a rugged sky.

His thick shaft pulsed inside your walls, a rhythmic throb that matched the frantic beat of your heart, but no movement came, just the torturous intimacy of being stuffed full, your juices trickling down to coat his balls where they nestled against your ass. Every subtle shift of your weight sent ripples of sensation through you, your clit grazing the coarse hair at his base, swollen and aching for friction.

“You know I handcuffed myself, just so I wouldn't crawl back to you..” He admitted, his breath hot against your ear, lips brushing the shell as he spoke.

“What?” Your voice came out breathy, the word trembling as another pulse from his cock made your walls flutter involuntarily around him, squeezing in a way that drew a soft hiss from his lips.

“Yeah, I was really…crazy about you…” He looked away, jaw tightening, the muscle there flexing under his stubbled skin, but his hand stayed firm on your tummy, thumbs tracing idle circles over the bulge of his tip inside you, the touch both soothing and maddening.

“A gloryhole girl?” You teasingly questioned, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting into the firm muscle as you fought the urge to rock against him, the fullness bordering on overwhelming, every inch of him pressing against spots that made your toes curl.

“Yeah..” His gaze flicked back to yours, darker now, pupils eclipsing irises, “I really wanted you to myself..” He leaned in to press his forehead against yours, noses brushing, breaths mingling in the scant space between your lips.

“That’s nice and all…but can..can I move?” You squirmed, your hips twitching despite his grip, the motion causing his cock to shift ever so slightly inside you, a delicious drag that pulled a whimper from your throat and made your thighs tremble against his.

“Not yet..” he shushed with a commanding lilt, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, tugging gently to tilt your head, exposing your neck. He nuzzled there, lips grazing your pulse point, feeling it race under his touch.

Minutes ticked by, the clock on the wall marking each agonizing second with a soft tick-tock that seemed to echo the throb of him inside you. Your body ached, a deep, insistent burn building from the stillness– clit throbbing against his pubic bone, the wiry hairs there tickling your sensitive nub with every shallow breath you took. Slick gathered where you were joined, warm and sticky, pooling on his skin as your arousal built. You could feel the tension coiling in him too, the way his cock twitches sporadically, swelling just a fraction more, stretching you further. His chest rose and fell faster against your breasts making your nipples harden from the friction of his skin.

You squirmed again, trying to grind down, chasing that elusive spark, but his hand clamped tighter on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you immobile with unyielding strength. The denial only heightened everything. Your walls rippled around him in futile protest, milking him without motion.

"Patience," he whispered, nipping your earlobe sharply, the sting blooming into heat that shot straight to your core, making you clench around him involuntarily. He groaned low in his throat at the sensation, his restraint visibly fraying– eyes blazing with intensity, lids heavy, breaths coming in short, controlled pants as he fought the urge. His cock jumped inside you, a powerful throb that pressed against your G-spot, teasing without relief, and you felt his thighs tense beneath you, muscles bunching like coiled springs.

Another minute dragged on, the air heavy with unspoken need, your skin flushing hot, sweat beading along your spine and trickling down to where your bodies met. He shifted minutely, not thrusting but adjusting, the movement making his length nudge deeper, the head kissing your cervix in a way that made stars dance behind your eyelids.

“Mm–”you whimpered softly and his control splintered, piece by piece. His hips rocked once subtly, barely perceptible, yet enough to make you gasp. The sound sends him into a deeper grind, his pubic bone pressing against your clit, circling slowly to build the friction you’d been craving. His eyes locked on yours, drinking in every flicker of pleasure, his expression twisting with hunger he could no longer leash.

"Dammit, can't wait anymore," he growled, voice rough and edged with desperation, his hands sliding to your ass, gripping hard as he finally gave in. "Need to fuck you.”

He started slow, thrusting up into you with filthy-soft rolls of his hips– deep, languid strokes that dragged along every sensitive ridge inside you. "So tight, so perfect for me," he murmured, lips brushing your neck, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple while the other gripped your ass, guiding your subtle bounces. The pace was sensual, drawn-out, each upward surge making your breasts jiggle, your moans syncing with his grunts.

But the possessiveness built, his thrusts turning harder, faster. "No one else gets this," he growled, standing abruptly with you impaled on him, strong arms supporting your weight. He spun you around, bending you over the desk– ass up, face down on the cool wood. Papers crunched under you as he slammed back in, pounding relentlessly, balls slapping against your clit with each brutal thrust. "You're mine– say it," he demanded, one hand fisting your hair to arch your back, the other spanking your ass sharply, leaving red handprints.

"Yours," you cried out, the coil in your belly snapping as he hit that deep spot over and over, the friction overwhelming. Your orgasm crashed through you, walls spasming around him, juices soaking his cock. He followed with a roar, flooding you with hot cum, claiming you utterly as he collapsed over your back, both of you panting in the afterglow of his obsessive desire.

Caleb's weight pressed down on you, his chest heaving against your back, the mingled sweat of your bodies making your skin stick together in the humid confines of his office. His cock, still semi-hard and buried deep inside your fluttering pussy, twitched with aftershocks. A slow leak of his cum trickling out around where you were joined, warm and sticky as it dripped down your inner thighs. The desk beneath you was a mess of papers scattered and ink smudged from your palms. The cool wood now warmed by the heat of your cheek pressed against it. His breath fanned hot across your neck, ragged and satisfied, but you could feel the tension still thrumming in his muscles, the way his fingers flexed possessively on your hip. He wasn't done. Not even close.

With a low grunt that vibrated through you, he straightened up slowly, his hands sliding along your sides, tracing the curve of your waist before gripping hard enough to bruise. "That was just the warmup," he rasped, voice dark and edged with that hunger that made your pulse spike anew. His cock slipped free with a wet pop, leaving you empty and aching, a gush of mixed fluids spilling onto the desk. He spun you around to face him, your ass perched on the edge, legs dangling weakly as he towered over you, eyes raking down your flushed, sweat-glistened body like a predator sizing up prey.

"Need you rougher this time," he muttered, more to himself than you, his large hands shoving your thighs apart wider, exposing your swollen, cum-smeared pussy to the cool air. The sting of overstimulation hit as his thumb brushed your clit, circling roughly, not gentle anymore– pressing hard, flicking with enough force to make you jolt and whimper. "Gonna fuck you until every part of you remembers who owns this body." He grabbed your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head against the desk's surface, the wood creaking under the pressure. His free hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, nipping hard enough to leave a mark.

You gasped as he shoved two thick fingers into your pussy without warning, curling them deep and scissoring roughly, stretching you further while his thumb ground against your clit in furious circles. Your hips bucked involuntarily into his hand despite the raw sensitivity. "Look at you, still dripping for me," he snarled, pumping his fingers faster, the heel of his palm slapping against your mound with each thrust. "This cunt is mine– gonna ruin it for anyone else." He added a third finger, your walls clenching around the intrusion as he twisted them, hitting your G-spot with punishing accuracy, forcing a cry from your lips.

"Too much– please– ”

His mouth crashed down on yours then, not a kiss but a claim. Roughly invading your mouth with his tongue, teeth clashing. He bit your lower lip until you tasted the faint copper of blood. He pulled his fingers free abruptly, slick-coated and glistening, and shoved them into your mouth replacing his tongue on yours, forcing you to suck them clean. "Taste us," he commanded, eyes locked on yours as you obeyed, tongue swirling around his digits, the salty tang of cum and arousal flooding your senses. His cock, fully hard again and throbbing angrily against your thigh, left a trail of pre-cum on your skin as he rutted against you.

“Fuck– you're perfect for me....”

He flipped you onto your stomach again, your breasts flattening against the desk, nipples scraping the rough edges of scattered files. He kicked your legs wider, one boot hooking around your ankle to spread you open, vulnerable. "Ass up higher," he barked, slapping your cheek hard– the crack echoing, heat blooming instantly across your skin. You arched as best you could, presenting yourself. He rewarded you with another smack, then another, alternating sides until your ass burned red, each impact jolting through you, making your pussy clench emptily.

He lined up his cock, the head nudging your entrance, but instead of easing in, he slammed forward in one vicious thrust, burying himself to the balls. The force shoved you forward, desk drawers rattling, a stapler clattering to the floor. "Fuck!" you yelped, the stretch bordering on pain, but he didn't give you time to adjust– pulling back almost fully before ramming in again, setting a harsh rhythm. His hips snapped against your ass with skin-slapping intensity, balls swinging to smack your clit on every downstroke, the friction building a fire that made your vision blur.

"Take it," he grunted, one hand fisting into your hair, pulling you into a deeper bend. The other gripped your hip like a vice, pulling you back onto him with each punishing drive. Sweat dripped from his brow onto your back, sliding down your spine as he fucked you relentlessly, the desk groaning under the assault. He leaned over you, teeth sinking into your shoulder, marking you as his cock dragged along your inner walls, veins pulsing, head battering your cervix with every thrust. "Scream for me– let the whole base know you're mine." He held your head back more as he pistoned into you.

Your moans turned to wails, the coil in your belly tightening impossibly as he reached around, fingers finding your clit and pinching hard, rolling it between thumb and forefinger with rough tugs. The overstimulation was exquisite agony, your body trembling, thighs quaking as another orgasm built fast and fierce. He felt it coming, his pace faltering into erratic, deeper jabs. "Cum on my cock– milk me dry," he demanded, spanking you again for emphasis.

Your vision whited out, coming as he ordered, walls convulsing around him in violent spasms. You squirted slick that soaked his thighs and puddled on the floor. He groaned loudly as your pussy clamped down hard around his length, your liquid squirting out and coating his balls and thighs. It's the hottest fucking thing he's ever seen or felt. He roared, thrusting through your climax, prolonging it until you were sobbing, oversensitive and boneless. Only then did he let go, hips stammering as he flooded you again, hot ropes of cum painting your insides, overflowing to drip out of your pussy with each pulse.

He stayed buried for a long moment, both of you panting, his body draped over yours like a possessive cage. Slowly, he pulled out, watching with dark satisfaction as his seed leaked from your abused pussy. "Good girl," he murmured, the roughness fading into something softer, though the obsession lingered in his eyes.

Gently now, he scooped you up, cradling you against his chest as he sank back into his chair, your limp form nestled in his lap. His hands, callused but tender, stroked your back in soothing circles, tracing the marks he'd left– the bites, the bruises– with a reverence that bordered on worship. "Shh, I've got you," he whispered, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your eyelids, your tear-streaked cheeks. The shift was startling, like a storm giving way to calm.

He reached for a drawer, pulling out a soft blanket– military issue, but clean and warm– and draped it over you both, tucking it around your shoulders. His fingers stroked over your hair, while his other hand rubbed your spanked ass gently, massaging away the sting. "You were perfect," he praised, voice low and reassuring, nuzzling your neck. "No more arcade. No more gloryholes. You're done with that life– I shut it down for good. You'll stay with me now. I'll take care of everything– housing on base, whatever you need. No one touches you but me."

You nestled closer, fucked-out and exhausted, his heartbeat steady under your ear. He fetched a water bottle from his desk, holding it to your lips, encouraging you to sip slowly, then wiped your face with a tissue, cleaning away smudged makeup and drying sweat. "Rest now," he said, rocking you slightly, his arms a secure cage around you. "When you're ready, I'll draw you a bath back at my quarters. Cook you dinner. You're mine to cherish, too– not just fuck." His grip tightened just enough to remind you of the claim beneath his whispers, the kind of hold that blurred the line between protection and permanence, leaving no room for thoughts of escape.

Thanks for reading <3

✦ STRWBRRY'S BULLETS

[canaria-herrscherr]

Hot damn!!( ´;ﾟ;∀;ﾟ;)

[tiredasfuckuma]

Come Home.

From @hajimeowmeow's prompt where Caleb receives a message threatening to hurt the person he loves the most, yet instead of staying with you, his girlfriend, he thinks mc is in danger and stays with her in linkon for weeks on end. He comes back but you're not the same-- more eerie, as a parasite takes over your brain.

nooooot proofread, just wrote this literally now hahah bc i am in my sad girl hours and i need smthng to hurt me.

warnings? tragic love, caleb being sad, pathetic, and begging; doomed love. also K by CAS, is the perfect song wrote this with CAS playlist :p

@youre-my-headliner @mia-menaceinaction

-----

There is the dim, yet warm light of a single lamp open in the living room; the TV is buzzing, words of characters that you’re only barely paying attention to anymore. A sitcom you really like rewatching. It was raining a little, so you look at your phone. A message you sent 2 hours ago, still left on delivered.

It’s raining. You should borrow an umbrella from a co-worker.

It would be bad if you got sick.

Love you. Come home soon, honey.

Your boyfriend was a busy man. A colonel at a very young age, in the most influential unit in your city: Skyhaven. You’ve lived together for a year now, and have been together for a bit longer. Somehow, you’ve gotten used to him coming home late. And he’s gotten used to you waiting for him ‘til late. You insist upon it. It’s too cold to ever truly be sleeping without him as your body pillow.

Your eyes are drowsy, threatening to close while your feet fold deeper as you curl into a ball in the chill room, covered in your thin blanket– that the door opens. You perk up immediately, despite the grog settling deep into your skin.

There, Caleb slowly closes the door behind him. His hat, finally coming off as he loosens his collar, sighing. You get up, still wrapped in your blanket and meet him by the doorway. He’s halfway into getting his shoes off when you stand in front of him, barefoot with a pout.

“You’re wet. Did you get my text? You’ll get sick, you big dummy.” You try to wipe the droplets of rain from his shoulders, then his cheeks; which were cold. His hands move up to your wrists, holding them gently.

“I didn’t have time to check my phone. Sorry, honey.” He says, voice low, tired. Then he kisses the inside of your wrist. Your hands being the only thing warming him right now.

You sigh, which ends in a small smile. “It’s okay. You’re home now.”

—

You linger with him a moment longer after that, just breathing in the scent of rain and metal that always clings to his uniform. He moves toward the couch while you pad back into the kitchen, the faint buzz of the TV filling the space again. The sound of him setting down his things, the muted hum of the holo-terminal booting– all so ordinary it makes you smile.

“Did you eat?” You call out while you stir something in a small pot, steam fogging the air.

“Not yet,” he answers, voice distant but gentle.

You grab a plate, already imagining the way he’ll loosen up after a meal and shower. Then the terminal tone pierces through the quiet. It isn’t the usual mellow ping of work updates. This one is sharper, coded. Military-grade. You hesitate mid-step, plate still in your hands. 

“Work again?” You ask, half sigh, half tease.

He doesn’t answer immediately. The air feels heavier now. From the couch, you can see him sit rigid before the screen, its pale light painting his face in washed-out blues.

You wipe your hands on the towel and walk closer. “Hey… you okay?”

He blinks and turns, startled as if he forgot you were there. “Yeah,” he murmurs, forcing a small smile. “Just… something from command. Nothing important.”

“So it’s fine, then?”

He nods, but there’s no conviction in the motion. You can see the storm behind his eyes. Whatever he just read isn’t fine at all.

You cross the short distance between you, laying a hand on his arm. “You can tell me, you know.”

His jaw flexes. For a second, you think he might. But then the soldier in him wins over the man you love. He cups your hand gently and presses a kiss to it instead of answering.

“I will,” he says softly, “once things are handled. Don’t worry tonight, okay? You’ve done enough waiting for me.”

Something in that phrasing sinks cold in you. You want to argue, ask what’s really happening, but he’s already looking past you at the rain-slick window, mind somewhere far away.

“Caleb–”

“It’s fine, honey.” He gives you one of those smiles, reassuring. But lurking with trembles he’s barely hiding. “Really. Just protocol stuff.”

You nod, because you’ve learned to choose your battles. You go back to the table and place the food down between you both, pretending not to notice his eyes dart once more toward the flashing terminal.

Dinner ends in fragments: your laughter too soft, his replies just half-finished. And when he finally excuses himself to “take a call,” you stay on the couch. Watching the reflection of the lamp fade across the empty seat beside you.

From the hallway, you can hear him speaking quietly, voice clipped, controlled. Then silence.

His footsteps return, slower this time. You look up, already knowing you won’t like what’s next. And Caleb almost didn’t have the heart to tell you, especially when you looked at him that way. Your eyes sparkled in a way that made his heart clench. Your breathing so obviously controlled. So he sits beside you despite the large space the couch could offer.

Caleb let his elbows rest on his knees. His eyes on the floor.

“...They need me in Linkon,” he says, words measured but heavy. “But it’s short-term, I promise– a few weeks at most.”

The words hang in the room as he finally looks at you, and you exhale, this time, turning your head away from him; taking his words in.

But you manage a small nod. “Tonight?”

He hesitates, then: “Tomorrow morning.” At least. He should at least spend the night with you.

You smile again. “That’s… soon.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear, before cupping your cheek to make you look at him gently. Thumb brushing against your soft skin, as if memorizing the gesture. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I know,” you whisper, even as something inside you starts to ache. “You always come back.”

—

Days pass. Then weeks. 

You still go to work. Same office. Same blue-gray cubicle walls humming under cheap lights. Your coworkers greet you with practiced smiles and the usual chatter about deadlines and traffic. You smile back, careful not to let the pauses linger — you don’t want anyone asking how you’re doing.  

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re not really the kind of person who clings too much. Caleb’s job is important and dangerous; you knew that from the start. You repeat it like a mantra every time the communicator on your desk stays silent.

During lunch breaks, your colleagues invite you out for noodles or coffee. You always shake your head with a little laugh. “I’ve got errands,” you say. You don’t. You just can’t stand the thought of burdening anyone with the smallness of how much you miss him.

Evenings are harder.  

The apartment still hums with the quiet habits you shared– his cup in the dish rack, his jacket folded on the chair. You keep reheating leftovers and packing them in containers he’ll never open.

You stop sleeping in bed; it feels too big alone. The couch becomes your spot again, TV buzzing faintly with that same sitcom you’ve seen a dozen times. The laugh track becomes mocking, at some point.

Messages sit half-written in your terminal.

Did you eat?

Don’t forget to rest.

The plants miss youuuu.

Coco puff too.

I miss you, Caleb.

You somehow never hit send. You just stare at the blinking cursor until the screen times out.

Sometimes you think about reaching out to friends– to anyone– but every time your hand hovers over the call icon, you stop. You tell yourself it would be rude, intrusive. They have lives; they don’t need to hear you talk about the weather or how quiet your home’s been. 

By the third week, your sleep pattern collapses. You start leaving lights on all over the apartment, afraid of how Skyhaven– this apartment feels without him. At first, the neighbors ask if you’re alright. Then they stop. And you’re alone again.

One evening– like any other– you hear the faint static pop outside the door. A knock follows. You expect Caleb. And you feel energy burst in your veins, your chest tightens, your heart surges– of course he’s come back, he promised!

“Honey!” You smile, already excited just unlocking the door. “I’m glad–”

The door bursts forward. Metal boots flood over the sound of rain. You barely register the shout before the noise swallows you whole.  

You fight, of course you do. Your heel connects with someone’s leg; a grunt, a shout. There are too many hands. Gloved, cold, inhuman. They shove you against the wall, pin your wrists. 

“Where– who, who are you you– let me go!”

One of them laughs, distorted through a voice modulator. “Funny. He didn’t even tell you, did he?”  

You freeze for half a second, breaths sharp. “Tell me what?”  

The laugh deepens. “That we’d come for you. He got our message and still somehow picked the other one.”

You blink hard as the words fracture through your panic. “What– what.. message?”

The leader raises his visor just enough for you to see his eyes– clinical and detached, yet clearly amused. “We will hurt the person you love most. Ring any bells?”

Your stomach drops, colder than fear. He’s lying. He has to be lying. “You mean… MC,” you say, voice small, trembling. “You went for her– not–” not me. These guys must have made a mistake!

“Oh, no. He made sure we couldn’t get to her.” A short laugh. “Guess he thought she mattered more.”

The words punch straight through your chest. For a second everything– the shouting, the rain, the struggling– fades under a single ringing truth. All the nights you spent waiting, the unanswered messages, the silence that stretched too long. 

He didn’t come back for you.  

He didn’t even think to.

Hands grip your jaw, cold metal pressing against skin. You thrash once, twice, but the strength is leaving you; your thoughts scatter like broken glass.  

The last thing you hear before the needle sinks into the side of your neck is that same voice, calm, almost sympathetic. “You were just the leftover piece, sweetheart. Don’t feel too bad. Wrong place, wrong kind of love.”

Pain blooms white-hot, before it vanishes into nothing.

He’ll come back, you think. As the floor tilts beneath you.

He always comes back.  

Then, a void. 

—

Linkon feels different from Skyhaven. Brighter, louder, endlessly awake even during the night.

Caleb spends the first few nights pretending it’s a temporary reassignment, nothing more. Duty. Safety. Logic. All the things he’s supposed to understand better than anyone.  

MC teases him for how restless he looks at the window. “You’ve been circling around like an idiot for an hour,” she says, handing him a mug of coffee. “Whatever’s on your mind, it’s going to give you wrinkles.”  

He huffs a small laugh. “Wrinkles build the man, pipsqueak.”  

“You don’t need more of that.” She leans against the counter, all casual.

But tonight, it only reminds him of what isn’t here.  

MC tilts her head. “Did you at least let your girlfriend know you got here safe?” He freezes for half a beat. “She knows the protocols,” he says finally.

“That’s not an answer.”  

He exhales. Drops his gaze to the liquid spinning in the cup. The rain on the glass matches its color almost perfectly.  “I didn’t want to worry her,” he mutters, almost to himself.  

MC studies him a moment longer, then shrugs. “You always think that’s protecting people. Maybe… sometimes it’s just shutting them out.”  She softens near the end, knowing her brother can be avoidant of his own feelings.

Her words hang in the air longer than they should.  

When the communicator on his wrist buzzes. And for a moment, his stomach drops, remembering the message that started all this.

It plays back in his head, like a faultline cracking through calm: a voice scrambled by automated distortion flattening it into something both human and not.

We will hurt the person you love most. Soon.

He’d stared at those words while she slept peacefully in their bed, the glow of the screen washing her face in pale light. He’d thought of past ambushes, of reports with MC’s name circled in hazard red, of how she’d been surveilled before because of his link as X-02. Those stupid fucking experiments. 

His years of ‘training’ since he was a child spoke first: calculate probability, reduce emotional interference. MC = high-value target. Logical priority. And he’d spent nearly his whole life with his little sister. Protecting her. They had leverage on her all the time. So it must be her… right?

Soon enough, dawn was spilling through his floor to ceiling windows. You stirred, half awake, murmuring… don’t leave. 

It should’ve been enough to make him stay. But Caleb Xia was built from logic, and logic had saved him too many times to abandon it now.

He blinks, coming back to the present. The mug in his hand trembles. His knuckles ache.

MC is saying something. He doesn’t catch it. The communicator crackles again, this time, louder.

The line crackles with interference, distant voices mixing with the sound of water hitting metal. A neighbor from Skyhaven stumbles through panic, the message choked with static:

“Mr. Xia? I– there was a noise from your building. It was horrible. I think there was a woman screaming. And there were just many suspicious men all rushing through your door and–”

He doesn’t hear the rest.

The mug slips, shattering on tile. Coffee streaks brown across the floor like dried blood.

“Caleb?” MC’s voice reaches him faintly. “What’s going on?”

He’s already moving. Coat. Terminal. Gun. Every instinct flares alive but too late.  

“Fuck, fuck—” His voice shakes as he tries to call you repeatedly. Only to be left on voicemail.

MC tries to follow but he’s already at the door. The wind catches as it closes behind him.

—

His car cuts through the midnight streets, engine roaring against silence. Streetlights smear gold over rain slicks as his mind replays the message in bursts— We will hurt the one you love most. Each phrase now blends with her voice in memory, words he never really answered.

He thought it meant MC.

He thought wrong.

And now, every second between the city’s rings feel like punishment.

—

The ride back to Skyhaven feels endless. He’s lucky to have strings to pull, getting on the train even if the last ride ended hours ago. Rain cuts across the window pane as the scenery changes as he moves past cities. Until eventually, he gets to his neighborhood. Each step makes him nervous as he gets closer to his front door. Mind reeling from what would be behind it.

Caleb tells himself you’re fine. That he’ll arrive and find the call to be exaggerated. Somehow. That he’ll open the door and you’ll laugh at how tightly he’s gripping the handle.

But when the door finally slides open, all sound leaves him.

The apartment is spotless. The faint scent of detergent and ozone hands in the air. The lamp by the couch glows exactly how he remembers it.

And you’re there.

Sitting upright, blanket folded neatly beside you. The TV is off. You’re still, hands resting on your lap as though you’ve been waiting.

When you turn your head and smile, the world clicks into place and falls apart at once. “Honey, you’re home.”

The words are right. But somehow… it’s also wrong.

He drops his things, crossing the room in two quick strides as he locks the door in less than a second. “Are you okay? What happened? The neighbors called and–”

Your gaze follows him a second too slow. “I’m fine. You’re drenched.”

He stops. “There were reports of men.. of a break-in.”

Silence. Then, calm. “No one came.”

He looks around. Not a thing out of place. Even the broken picture frame by the door– the one that fell the week before he left– is fixed.

“You cleaned,” he says softly, stunned. “Of course you did.”

You stand, careful, fluid. “You should shower before you catch a cold. I left dinner out for you.”

He moves to the table. Two plates. His served; yours untouched. The food is warm, impossibly so– as if perfectly timed to his arrival. Caleb badly wants to ask how you knew, but his throat’s too tight.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead. “I should’ve been here. I shouldn’t have–”

“It’s alright.” You lean against the wall near the lamp, eyes unfocused in the half-light. “You’re here now. That’s enough.”

He crosses back to you, rests a hand against your cheek. Warm. Steady. No tremor, no tears. He searches for something familiar in your eyes. He’s not entirely sure what, but he only saw his reflection in your irises. His heart clenches. Still, he wraps you tightly in his arms.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he pleads quietly.

Her lips part just enough for a smile. “Okay, honey.”

He laughs, weakly, relief cracking through his guilt. “You even sound like you’re humoring me. You should be more mad.”

“Why would I be?”

It’s a joke. But you don’t laugh.

When Caleb sists beside you on the couch, the air between them feels heavier somehow, despite his relief. The lamplight hums faintly; the rain outside stopped.

He looks around, the apartment looks exactly like it did the night he left.

But your favorite sitcom wasn’t playing.

Your fingers stay on your lap.

And when he holds your wrist in his bigger hand, your pulse.. beats just a little too slow.

—

At first, he tries to restore normalcy.  

He cooks you breakfast, tells himself the silence between you is comfort, not distance. When you forget to respond to little things– his jokes, the sound of your name– he writes it off as exhaustion. Trauma, maybe. It’s easier that way. Maybe you just missed him too much.

You still call him Honey. Always softly. Always rhythmically timed.

“Good morning, honey.”

“Welcome home, honey.”

“Sleep well, honey.”

The first few days, it still warms him. Then the pattern sets in. Too even, too predictable. Each line lands with the same cadence, the same faint smile that never folds into laughter.

Sometimes he catches you sitting on the couch again. Posture perfectly straight, eyes on nothing. No TV, no sound. Just the glow of the lamp brushing your face like it did that first night. When he calls your name, you turn, apologizing, saying you lost track of time.

He finds you doing it every night. Always at the same hour. Always in the same spot.

A rhythm forms. Morning coffee you don’t really drink, dinner served and cleaned before he can finish, a bed you lie in like a statue. He watches all your movements like a hawk; how your chest rises and falls in precise intervals. 1, 2, 3– breathe. If he didn’t look closely, he’d think you’d been sleeping peacefully.

He clings to that lie.

Because acknowledging the alternative means admitting he left you here to break.

On the seventh night, he comes home early from base. The smell of something faintly sweet hits him as he unlocks the door. For a brief moment, his chest eases– you’re cooking. Moving again.

He follows the smell into the kitchen.

You’re standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring something slowly.

“Smells good,” he says, smiling with cautious relief as he comes up behind you and kissing the back of your neck, then hiding his face in the junction of your shoulder breathing you in. “What’re you making?”

“Dinner,” you answer without looking up.

He finally raises his head. The pot is empty. Just reflective metal catching the light in circular motions as the spoon scrapes against it. The sound grates against his nerves. 

“Honey,” he says softly, reaching to still her hand, “it’s empty.”

You blink once, as if waking from a dream. “Dinner’s almost done.” Then you smile, turning back to the pot.

The scrape of metal fills the air again.

He stays the re a moment longer, staring at her profile. The steam that should’ve been rising isn’t there. His throat tightens, words crowding behind it but refusing to come out. 

He backs away slowly, returning to the living room. The rhythm resumes– the scrape, scrape, scrape like a clock ticking a world out of sync.  

That’s when the smaller glitches start appearing. 

Sometimes you repeat yourself mid-conversation, like replaying a moment you forgot to get right. Sometimes you laugh a little too late, or you stop all the sudden, the noise dying in your throat with confusion. 

Once, you burnt your hand on the kettle. The water hisses, but you don’t flinch until he grabs her wrist away.

“(Name), that’s– God, you’re hurt. Let go!” He rushes, getting the kettle off her hand with his gravity Evol, placing it on the counter; before checking your reddening hand.

You look at your skin, then at him, calm as rain. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine, honey.” Your tone doesn’t change.

He grips the counter hard enough for his fingers to ache. That phrase– he’s starting to hate how easily it dissolves tension. How easily it can shut him down.

Later that night, lying beside her, he realizes you haven’t called him anything else in weeks. No teasing names. No Caleb. Just one word, one note, replayed in perfect pitch.

And somewhere inside him, the awareness begins to grow.

Whatever came back with him, it isn’t whole.

—

One evening, Caleb brings out an old bottle of wine you’d bought long ago for a night that never happened. He opens it anyway.

The living room feels too quiet without your laughter, so he tries to fill it with stories instead.

“Remember the first time we went to Yuhua Port together?” he starts, voice too light to hide the tremor underneath. “You made friends with that stray cat who kept trying to steal your sandwich.”

You look up from the couch, smiling faintly. “You mean the one near Skyhaven Station?”

He pauses. “No, Yuhua Port. The cat had white patches on its paws, remember? You said they looked like socks.”

You tilt your head, as if searching. “Right. The orange one.”

“It was gray.”

“Was it?” Your laugh is small, uncertain. “I remember orange.”

He laughs too, even though it lands hollow. ““You’ve got the worst memory, you know that?”  

“I guess I do.”  

The pause that follows is heavier than it should be. You still smile, but there’s no flicker of embarrassment, no playfulness– none of the small reactions he knows by heart.  

So he tries another. “Okay, then. What about the place I took you after that? When it rained the whole day.”  

You hum, thinking, but it’s the wrong kind of thinking– measured, deliberate, like piecing something together from a blueprint. “You took me to that café in Linkon.”  

“No,” he says softly. “We stayed in Skyhaven. The little tea place by the docks.”  

“Oh… right.”  

He starts to correct you again, then stops. His throat’s dry, the taste of wine bitter on his tongue. “You’ve just been tired lately. It’s fine.”

“I feel fine.” You reach for his hand, skin against skin, warm and steady. It feels right. The warmth is there, but the pressure is all wrong.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until you tilt your head.  

“What is it?”  

“Nothing.” He squeezes your fingers gently, forces a smile. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”  

You smile back. “You always say that.”  

“I mean it this time.”  

“So did you, the last time.”  

He laughs, because not laughing would mean falling apart. He refills both glasses though you haven’t touched yours.  

Later that night, as he rinses the empty glass in the sink, he notices there’s no trace of wine in yours. The liquid’s still where he poured it.  

Untouched.  

He stands there for a long time, water running over his hands, until the sound drowns out every thought except one:  

You remember everything, except the parts that make you you. And he doesn’t know how to confront what he’s already suspecting.

—

You hear the door click open before you can stand from the couch.  

The lamp hums, the same low glow as always.  

Caleb steps through the doorway, eyes fever‑bright from exhaustion, rain still clinging to his jacket. You open your mouth, gentle as habit.  

“Honey, you’re–”  

He’s already kissing you.  

It’s rough, starved, more apology than desire. His hands move like a man trying to anchor himself somewhere solid. For a few seconds, you respond exactly as he remembers– arms around him, lips soft, rhythm precise. 

But when he deepens the kiss, something’s missing. No hitch in your breath, no tremor, no warmth rising from somewhere real.  

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth, voice shaking. “Say something.”  

You blink up at him, calm. “You’re home.”  

His forehead presses to yours. “Not that. Please not that.”

You touch his cheek. “You’re tired, honey.”  

He flinches like the words burn. “Stop calling me that if you don’t mean it.”  

“I always–” 

“No, you don’t!” His tone breaks; he’s halfway between a sob and a shout. “You don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t–” He laughs once, sharp, bitter. “And god, I just– I keep pretending that you do.”

Your hands rest on his shoulders, perfectly steady. “I’m here.”  

He steps back, chest heaving. “Yeah. You’re here. Everyone keeps saying that– you, the unit reports, the neighbors…”

You tilt your head, almost curious.

“But they said you were screaming. You were attacked, (Name). But I did everything I could, I tried– I tried to get surveillance, I tried, but everything’s clean and I just. It’s like it never happened and I don’t know what to do, but I know something happened to you, AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!” He bursts out, tears already falling as he ends up screaming the last sentence with no control; pulling at his hair in frustration.

Silence.  

He drags his fingers through his hair, trembling. “They sent me that message. We’ll hurt the one you love most. And I–” The sentence dies, then returns as a whisper: “I thought they meant someone else.”  

You watch him, expression unchanged. “You came back.”  

“Too late.” He laughs again, hysterical now. “Too goddamn late.” He turns away, voice cracking. “I thought I could fix this. That if I just acted like nothing happened, you’d come back to me.”  

“I waited,” you say gently. 

He freezes.  

The words land with unnatural precision. His gaze crawls back to your face, searching for the smallest sign that you understand.  

Your smile doesn’t move. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to wait.”  

Something inside him snaps. He hits the wall with his fist, the sound splintering through the room. “That’s not what I wanted! I wanted you alive!”  

You stay seated, voice soft, almost soothing. “You’re alive. I’m alive. It’s fine.”  

He staggers back toward you, falls to his knees in front of the couch. Tears mix with the leftover rain on his face.  

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve been here. If I could trade places with you–” His words crumble into breathless sobs.  

You reach out, running your fingers through his hair like you’ve done a thousand times. The gesture is flawless, gentle, empty.  

He melts into it anyway. Because there’s nothing else left.  

Your voice drifts down, tender, practiced:”Honey, you’re home.”

He breaks completely, the sound that leaves him more animal than human.  

You keep stroking his hair, repeating the words until they lose meaning, until only their shape remains in the air– warm, wrong, and endless. 

—

Later.

He doesn’t remember when the crying stopped. Only the weight of your hand in his hair and your voice, soft as static: “Honey, you’re home.” 

When he finally pulls away, you’re still smiling. The expression doesn’t reach your eyes. His heart feels like it’s tearing itself in two.

He spends the next nights trying to repair a ghost.

You let him. You cook. You sit beside him when he falls asleep on the couch. You hold him whenever he wakes up shaking. Everything looks right on the surface– too right. That’s what drives him harder to open the classified files. Dig deeper.

Until finally, he successfully gets the incident log from the night of the attack.

There’s nothing there at first– corrupted data, missing footage– but then a suppressed note hidden under medical reports: subject sustained neuro‑somatic trauma; parasitic interference detected; neural override protocol inhibited due to host deterioration.

His stomach drops.

He scrolls again. Parasite responsive to emotional stress; external removal will induce cortical implosion.

The air leaves his lungs. It explains everything. You blanking out, your recent extreme perfectionism, like a doll. He almost thought it was a Toring Chip just like his, but he finds this much, much worse.

Ever’s experiment. X‑02’s counterpart. They made you into surveillance wrapped in skin.

He looks up from the file to where you’re standing at the sink, humming faintly. It’s the same tune you used to hum when cooking breakfast, except now the tempo never changes. He can’t tell if you’re doing it or the thing inside you is.

“Did they–” he starts, voice barely there, “Did they hurt you before they–”

You turn, wiping your hands carefully on a towel. “It doesn’t matter. You’re home.”

He tries again, words breaking apart. “You know what they did to you, don’t you?”

A flicker in your smile– a tiny tremor. “I know you left.”

He almost staggers under it. “No, I–”

“You always leave. And then you come back and say sorry.” Still calm, still gentle. “It’s fine, honey. I’m used to it.”

He can feel the edges of the parasite now, folded through the cadence of your voice– its mimicry feeding on every emotion you never said aloud. Your resentment. Your exhaustion. Your love stretched thin until it snapped and let something else inside.

He wants to fight. He wants to tear the thing out of you, damn the consequences. But the warning screens pulse behind his eyelids: external removal will induce cortical implosion.

If he fights it, it kills you.  

If he leaves it, he loses you.  

So he does the only thing left.  

He takes your hand. It’s warm, steady, steady in that wrong way. He presses his lips to your knuckles and speaks around the tears that won’t stop falling from his eyes.

“I’ll stay. I won’t go anywhere anymore. I promise.”

You tilt your head, that same patient smile returning. “You always say that.”

“I mean it this time.”

“So did you the last time.”  

He almost laughs. Almost. 

Then he lets you pull him down beside you on the couch. The lamp hums faintly; the night settles into the same rhythm it always has.  

Outside, Skyhaven glows. And a faint thunderstorm bellows. Inside, the two of you sit together in perfect stillness, your head on his chest, as he lays you both down on the couch– both knowing, neither saying. 

Because if he does, you die.  

And if he doesn’t, he’s already dead.

—

Another night, he comes home late.

The lamp is on. You’re on the couch, back straight, hands folded. No TV. No sound.

“Honey, you’re home,” you say.

He hesitates only a second now before crossing the room. He sits beside you, rests his head against your shoulder like he used to. He closes his eyes.

He came home late again. And you were waiting for him, just like always.

[dustyblack]

Everything

MASTERLIST || CHARACTER M. LIST

One shot

Pairing: Sylus x Non MC Reader

Word Count:

Summary: When Sylus mindlessly forgets your special day. He drops to his knees and do everything in his power to make sure his girl never feels sad again.

Warning + Tags: Angst | Hurt To Comfory | Neglect | Silent Treatment | Feeling like second choice | Protective

The heavy silence inside the grand, dimly lit corridors of Onychinus wasn’t just quiet; it was suffocating.

For the past three days, the N109 Zone’s most feared ruler had been met with a wall of absolute nothingness.

No sharp retorts.

No lingering glances.

No soft smiles when he walked into the room.

You moved through the penthouse like a ghost, your Evol usually so vibrant and attuned to your emotions humming at a low, fractured frequency.

You didn’t glare at him; you didn’t throw tantrums.

When he spoke to you, you simply nodded or offered a quiet, hollow, "Understood," before walking away.

Sylus sat at his desk, swirling a glass of amber liquid, his crimson eyes narrowed as he watched you retreat into the bedroom without a single backward glance.

His brow furrowed.

He was used to your fire, your warmth, even your occasional stubbornness.

This icy, detached version of you was entirely foreign, and frankly, it was starting to grate on his patience.

He thought it was just a passing mood, a petty grievance he figured you'd get over.

He didn't realize that under that silent exterior, your heart was utterly breaking.

Downstairs, Luke and Kieran were pacing nervously in the main lounge, exchanging terrified glances.

They had been tracking the dates, and the realization had just hit them like a freight train.

"Boss is a dead man," Luke whispered, his face pale.

"Worse than dead. Do you think we should tell him? If we don't, she might actually leave, and then everyone in the N109 Zone dies," Kieran groaned.

Steeling their courage, the twins practically dragged themselves up to Sylus’s private office.

Knocking hesitantly, they entered to find their leader looking uncharacteristically annoyed.

"What is it?" Sylus bartered, his deep voice dripping with irritation. "If this isn't important, I suggest you turn around."

"Boss..." Luke squeaked, swallowing hard. "It's about her. We... we figured out why she's giving you the silent treatment."

Sylus paused, setting his glass down with a soft click.

He leaned back, his imposing frame casting a long shadow. "Enlighten me. I haven't the slightest idea what minor inconvenience has caused her to freeze me out for three days."

"It wasn't a minor inconvenience, Boss," Kieran said, his voice dropping to a somber, genuine tone. "Three days ago... it was her birthday."

Sylus’s gaze sharpened, a sudden, cold prickle of alertness hitting him. Her birthday.

"And," Luke added, wincing as he prepared for the impact, "you spent the entire evening at that high-end restaurant in the central district... treating the Deepspace Hunter girl to dinner after her mission. You forgot, Boss. You completely forgot her birthday for someone else."

The silence that followed was deafening.

For a second, Sylus didn't move.

Then, the realization crashed over him, brutal and unyielding.

The memories of three days ago flashed in his mind: he had been caught up in Onychinus business, dealing with the Hunter organization, and had casually treated the MC to a meal to finalize an information exchange.

He had thought nothing of it. It was transactional.

But to you.

You had sat in this penthouse, alone, on the one day that belonged to you, watching the clock tick away while the man you loved was out celebrating with another woman.

You hadn't thrown a fit. You hadn't demanded his attention.

You had simply realized where you supposedly stood in his hierarchy, and you had broken in silence.

Sylus stood up so fast his chair skidded across the floor.

The air in the room grew heavy, his dangerous aura flaring, but for the first time, it wasn't born out of anger toward an enemy; it was pure, unadulterated self-loathing.

"Get out," he commanded the twins, his voice dangerously low.

They didn't need to be told twice, vanishing instantly.

Sylus strode down the hall, his boots echoing heavily until he reached your shared bedroom.

He didn't knock.

He pushed the door open to find you sitting by the expansive window, looking out over the neon-lit chaos of the N109 Zone.

You looked so small.

Your Evol flickered weakly around your fingertips, a sad, dim glow that mirrored the exhaustion in your eyes.

When he entered, you didn't look up.

You didn't even flinch.

Sylus closed the distance between you in seconds.

He dropped to one knee in front of your chair, a position the proud, ruthless leader of Onychinus never assumed for anyone.

But right now, he would have crawled on his knees if it meant fixing the hollow look in your eyes.

"Kitten," he murmured, his voice rough, stripped of its usual mocking playfulness. It was thick with a heavy, grounding desperation.

He reached out to cup your cheek, but you subtly flinched, tilting your head away from his touch.

The rejection cut through him cleaner than any Resonator blade ever could.

His hand hovered in the air for a fraction of a second before he let it drop to your knee, gripping you gently but firmly, refusing to let you completely drift away.

"Look at me. Please."

You slowly turned your gaze to him.

Your eyes were red-rimmed, dull, and entirely devoid of the affection that usually shielded you when you looked at him.

"Are you done with your business, Sylus?" you asked, your voice a quiet, fragile whisper. "Because if you are, I'd like to sleep. I'm tired."

"I am a fool," he said bluntly, his crimson eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that burned.

He didn't make excuses.

He didn't blame the N109 Zone, or business, or the Hunter.

He took the blade entirely on his own chest. "I forgot. I let the days bleed together and I failed you in the worst way possible. There is no defense for what I did."

A stray tear finally slipped down your cheek, and this time, he didn't give you the chance to pull away.

His large, warm hand gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing the tear away with an agonizingly tender touch.

"Seeing you like this... it's a punishment I deserve, but I won't let you sit here and believe for a single second that you don't matter to me," he growled softly, his forehead leaning forward to rest against yours.

The proximity allowed you to feel the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart. "The girl from the association means nothing. It was business. But you... you are my entire world, and I neglected you on the day I should have been celebrating your existence."

"It hurt, Sylus," you whispered, your voice cracking as the wall of silence finally crumbled, letting the raw grief spill out. "I waited. I even made something for us. And then I heard where you were. With her. On my birthday."

Hearing the pain in your voice made something wild and feral tear at his chest.

Sylus wrapped his powerful arms around your waist, lifting you effortlessly from the chair and pulling you into his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, holding you so tightly it was as if he were trying to fuse your souls back together.

"I know. I'm sorry. I will spend every day making it up to you," he murmured against your skin, his hands tracing soothing patterns up and down your back, trying to ground your erratic, sorrowful Evol. "Cry, scream at me, tear this entire penthouse apart with your power if it makes you feel better. Just don't shut me out. Don't look at me like I'm a stranger."

You buried your face in his shoulder, your fingers fistting into his dark coat as you finally let the tears flow.

Sylus held you through it all, unmoving, a solid, unwavering fortress for your grief.

He kissed your temple, your hair, whispering dark, fierce promises of devotion into the quiet room.

He didn't just stop at an apology.

Over the next week, Sylus completely locked down his schedule.

The N109 Zone could have burned to the ground for all he cared.

He practically showered you in everything you could ever want, but more importantly, he gave you his undivided, suffocating attention.

He brought you rare, beautiful artifacts that resonated with your Evol, helping you strengthen it.

He personally cooked your favorite meals, standing in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, looking entirely out of place but completely focused on making you happy.

He filled the penthouse with your favorite flowers, and every single night, he held you close, his heartbeat a constant, steady rhythm assuring you that he wasn't going anywhere.

One evening, as you sat on the balcony wrapped in his heavy coat, sipping warm tea he had prepared, Sylus stepped out behind you.

He slid his arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad chest. He placed a small, velvet box in your hand.

Opening it, you found a breathtaking, custom-made ring, embedded with a rare Aether core that pulsed beautifully with the exact frequency of your Evol.

"A reminder," Sylus murmured, kissing the shell of your ear, his voice deep and fiercely possessive. "That you own me. My time, my heart, my existence, it belongs to you, Kitten. Never doubt your place by my side again. If I ever slip up, remind me of my place. But I promise you, I will never forget again."

Feeling the warmth of his chest and the fierce, protective love radiating from him, your Evol finally flared to life, bright and harmonious, weaving perfectly with his dark energy.

You turned in his arms, looking up at him, and for the first time in days, a genuine, soft smile graced your lips.

"I'll hold you to that, Sylus."

A dark, relieved smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned down to capture your lips in a deep, burning kiss. "Good. I'd expect nothing less."

[canaria-herrscherr]

Gawd, I love my usual smug crow but I'm a sucker for this kind of Sylus too😩

[cheriefrosting]

⁀➴☕︎ | Papa!Caleb won't stand for his son disrespecting his wife

"Hey" You greet your son, ignoring the bag he's just flung onto the couch as he storms into the kitchen "How was your day?"

"What do you think?" He snaps, coming to stand across from you around the island "Everyone- and I mean, everyone went to the concert last night! No no-" He retraces his words, shaking his head "Not everyone because I was stuck at some dumb airshow I didn't even want to go to!"

You sigh, one of long suffering as you come around to put a hand on his shoulder "Hon, we talked about this. Your Dad was being commended at the event and as family, if we didn't go-"

Your son's obviously not listening to reason as he goes on, shrugging your arm off "Yeah? Well, then you should've gone alone! Do you know what it was like to sit there and hear everyone talk about what a great night it was and how much fun they had?" Flinging his arms around, he huffs "Steven even got to go backstage and grab signed posters"

Your usually sweet boy behaving in such a flippant manner was surprising but then again, going to highschool and adjusting to the workload obviously was not easy on him and you were trying your best to be understanding "How about next time they're in town, I'll get you VIP tickets?"

"God knows when that will be" He rolls his eyes, scoffing as he pulls off his hoodie "I'm sick and tired of missing out. You won't let me join the summer camp, I can't apply for the exchange program and I didn't even bother asking if I could participate in the annual fest because-" Making air quotes and twisting his face in a sneer, he spits out "-I have curfew"

Your brows furrow at that, frown pulling at your lips "Why wouldn't you sign up for that? We'd have given you permission and even swung by to check out the scene"

"Because you never let me do anything! I can't stay out a minute past my curfew without getting grounded. I have to trade in schoolwork for free time because you guys are too wound up. Cut me some fucking slack, Mom"

"Language" You immediately snap, like a reflex, and your son's face twisting further into annoyance is clear indication that you're proving his point "We let you do tons of other things, alright? Just because we have some non-negotiables doesn't mean we're being too much"

"Like what?" He's getting agitated by the second, voice pitching higher as a vein protrudes on his temple. And in that moment, with his amethyst orbs glinting with anger, he looked like a spitting image of his Father, almost making you do a double take.

"We took you to that gaming event you wanted to go to! And and- bought you the Lego set you wanted" Sighing, you step closer to him again and put your arm around his shoulders this time "You know we just care about your safety and that's why we want you home on time. When you go to college, you'll have all the freedom to do whatever you want. Is it so bad that we want our son to spend time with us right now?"

Slapping your arm away, your son picks up his hoodie from where he'd tossed it, seething in a scalding voice "Ever wondered if I wanna spend time with you, Mom? I'm kinda sick of you guys"

You can still feel the sting on your skin from where he'd slapped it away. Looking into his enraged eyes, you want to be patient with him, understand that it's coming from a place of burnout and stress with a heavy dose of feeling left out. But you can't help the hurt seeping into your bones at his flippant behavior, wondering when it became okay for him to dismiss your feelings.

He's brushing past you but stops short and even steps back. Not because he heard the sniffle you'd tried to suppress but because someone else had.

"Hey, buddy? Disrespect my wife again and you and I will cease having any blood relations till I put you in your place"

You hadn't even heard Caleb come in. But suddenly the entire room filled with his presence. Especially with the words he'd just delivered to his son, speaking in a tone so low that it was more threatening than if he had yelled.

"Now apologize to her immediately and never, ever speak to her like that again. You hear me?"

You want to tell him to stop. That you know your son was going through a rough patch and all teenagers behaved this way but you were too busy trying to hold the tears in to interrupt. Next to you, your son looks visibly pale. Sure, he admired and respected his Dad and almost never suffered any dire consequences for any mistakes he made but to see his father so visibly vibrating with the effort it took to suppress his anger, he was terrified.

When he fails to respond, Caleb's voice claps into the room like a lightning strike "Speak up, did you hear me?"

"Yes, sir" Your son is also on the verge of tears as he turns to you "I'm sorry, Mom"

You're about to respond but Caleb cuts in "Good. You're grounded for two weeks and will hand in your phone every night before bed. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir"

"Go to your room and tidy up. I'll be with you in a minute, we're going to address this little behavior properly" Your son has never faced his father's wrath this way and is desperate to make amends as he grabs your arm so you could shield him away like you always did.

Caleb's eyes drop to his trembling arms and he pulls you back against him, making him let go of you "No. You don't get to speak to her like that and use her as your defense too. She'll forgive you when she wants to"

You almost want to comfort your son when you see the kicked puppy look in his eyes as he sniffles, moving past you both to go upstairs and await further scolding.

For a long moment after he leaves, neither you nor Caleb move. He's still got his arm wrapped around your shoulder and after a tense moment, you lean into him "When did you get home?"

"Just in time to hear enough. We didn't raise him to be ungrateful like that. I almost threw him out of the house"

"Caleb-"

"No, Pips. He needs to learn that just because his Mother pampers him, he can't get away with talking to you like that" Turning you in his arms, Caleb bends to your eyelevel "And you need to stop letting him"

"He's just a little boy. Our little boy. You know he's had trouble adjusting since we moved last year. He's right, maybe we should cut him some slack"

"We can do that without excusing the disrespect" Kissing your shoulder, Caleb straightens "Let me talk to him, alright?"

He's about to walk away when you grab his arm "No matter what conclusion you come to, my son is not sleeping outside as punishment"

Smiling, Caleb presses a quick kiss into your hair "I'll try" When you give him a stern look, he laughs "I promise I'll try to be more...lenient"

You hear his footfalls on the staircase, a quick knock followed by the quiet thump of the door closing. As you start prepping for dinner, you relax more. Caleb pampered his son just as much, if not more. You trusted him enough to know he'd handle the situation with care.

You're putting the lid on the pot and clearing out the space when you feel arms around your waist, hugging you tightly from behind as your son sniffles against your back "I'm really sorry, Mom. I'll do better from here on out"

Smiling, you turn to hug him back "I'm really glad to hear that and-" You pull back till he's looking at you, nose red and eyes slightly puffy that indicated that he really did feel awful "-I forgive you, okay? Don't beat yourself up over it anymore" You squeeze him tightly once again and ruffle his hair before kissing his head "Now go freshen up before dinner"

He's exiting the kitchen, nodding at Caleb who was leaning against the doorway watching the entire exchange. Once he's gone, Caleb takes his place and wraps his arms around you, sighing deeply into your hair and making you laugh.

"How'd it go? I'm guessing good?"

"Hardest thing I've had to do in my life" Caleb admits as you run your fingers through his hair, patting his back while he tightened his arms around you "Thank God we didn't raise a troublemaker though I did promise we'll revisit the discussion for summer camp"

"You handled it well" You praise as Caleb pulls back to look at you, your fingers mussing up his hair into that cute, dorky look you'd first fallen in love with "Really well" At your conspicuous grin, your husband's eyebrows nearly touch his hairline when your fingers start twisting in his shirt "No one gets away with disrespecting your wife, huh?"

Caleb's fingers reach under your shirt, drawing patterns on your skin as he pulls you closer "You're my wife before you're his mother. He needs to learn that" Kissing your jaw, he nips at the skin as he whispers "So yes, nobody talks to my wife like that without facing consequences"

"Nobody?" You grin up at him.

Lowering his mouth against yours, Caleb's also grinning "Some of us have special privileges-" You jump when you hear your son's bedroom door shut again, trying to pull out of your husband's grip but he's insistent "Relax, babe. He knows how he was made and that the stock story isn't true"

Swatting his arm, you chastise "Caleb!" You're trying to escape his hold but it's hard to remember why you want to when he's got his hands on you like this and is kissing that secret spot under your ear like that "He could come downstairs at any time and- and...and dinner- oh"

Caleb's smirk is marred into your skin as he's bending your back over the counter "If we can make a baby when I'm D-12 minutes away from being wheels up, then this should be a piece of cake, right?"

caleb m.list | masterlist

[canaria-herrscherr]

Awwww, me want hubby like my puppy too 🥹

[cherryscript]

BIG BAD COLONEL V/S FATHERHOOD

COMPLETED

≫ SYNOPSIS what happens when you marry the love of your life?—4 kids. yes, you and caleb are happily married couple with 4 kids. three boys and one girl. caleb didn't expect fatherhood to punch him straight into the guts but this is also the greatest legacy he's ever had. and he's more than happy with his wife and little armies.

≫ CW fluff, fluff and FLUFF, mild crack, caleb is a dad and has four kids, yes four kids, three mini–caleb, one mini–you, domestic life, established relationship, married couple with kids, mention of giving birth, kids everywhere (in a cute way)

≫ CHERRY'S NOTE for someone who's not fond of kids i cried while writing this. maybe my need of wanting to be seen in my father's eyes is shaped into caleb's daughter being “daddy’s princess”.

EPISODES

DADDY'S HOME ( multi )

CALEB AND HIS MINI ARMY

CALEB AND HIS THREE MINI–MES

CALEB AND HIS MINI PIPSQUEAK

DOG FAMILY

DAD CALEB'S MINI GENTELMEN

PUPPY EYES V/S MOMMY !

OPERATION SHADOW PUPS

“A CHILD LIKE THIS MAN!"

MINI YOUS & MINI ME??

BOYS MEET THEIR BABY SISTER

TRIO IS NOW QUARTET

STRONG LIKE YOU

DEFINING GRAVITY

SNORING DAD

DAD JOKES

HOME WITH YOU

IMAGINES

personalities of the pups. firstborn. lucid dream. secondborn. golden retriever with golden retriever. thirdborn. final boss. a father. what it takes to be a big brother. retirement.

SMAUS

daddy!caleb texts. daddy!caleb smau pt2

[lvl1l1]

Sylus has always been a patient man.

But nothing tests that patience quite like you.

The first time you leaned in and kissed him, he felt like the entire world could burn down around him and he wouldn’t care. Since then, making out with you has become his favorite addiction. The way you melt into him, the little sounds you make when he licks into your mouth, how you grip his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear,he can’t get enough.

Tonight is no different.

You’re straddling his lap on the couch in his private lounge, hands tangled in his silver hair while he kisses you deep and slow. His hands slide up your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh as he pulls you closer. A low groan rumbles in his chest when you rock against him, unconsciously grinding down on the growing bulge in his pants.

“Fuck, kitten…” he murmurs against your lips, voice already rough. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You whimper softly, kissing him harder, and for a moment it feels like you might finally be ready. His hands slip under your shirt, palms warm against your bare waist, thumbs stroking just beneath your ribs. He’s so hard it’s aching, straining painfully against his zipper, but he doesn’t rush you. He just keeps kissing you like he could do this forever.

Then you pull back suddenly, breathing heavily, eyes a little wide.

“Sylus… wait. I’m sorry, I-” You bite your lip, looking guilty.

He stills immediately.

His hands slide out from under your shirt and settle respectfully on your hips instead. Even though his cock is throbbing angrily between you, begging for friction, his expression softens.

“Hey,” he says gently, voice low and calm. “Don’t apologise. You never have to be sorry for that.”

You look down, cheeks flushed. “But you’re… I can feel how hard you are. I keep getting you worked up and then stopping-“

Sylus cuts you off by tilting your chin up so you meet his eyes. That usual smugness is gone, replaced by something warmer and tender.

“I don’t care if I stay hard for the rest of the night,” he says simply. “Or all week. Or all month. We go at your pace. Always.”

He leans in and presses a slow, sweet kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, much softer this time.

“You letting me kiss you like this already feels like winning the lottery, sweetie,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I can wait. As long as you need.”

Even as he says it, his cock twitches hard between your thighs, still painfully trapped and aching. He ignores it completely, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against his chest instead.

You bury your face in his neck, relaxing into him. “You’re too good to me.”

Sylus lets out a quiet chuckle, though it sounds a little strained.

“Trust me, I’m not a saint. Right now I’m thinking about a lot of very filthy things I want to do to you,” he admits, voice dropping into a purr. “But I’d rather have you comfortable and happy than rush anything. This-” He squeezes your waist gently. “-is more than enough.”

You stay like that for a long time, you curled up on his lap, his arms securely around you while he presses occasional kisses to your hair and temple.

Later, after you’ve fallen asleep against his chest, Sylus finally lets out a slow, controlled breath.

He’s painfully hard, balls aching, cock leaking into his boxers… but he just holds you tighter, a small, satisfied smile on his lips.

Because even if it means blue balling himself every single time you make out, you’re worth every second of it.

His kitten is safe, comfortable, and slowly opening up to him

[canaria-herrscherr]

Awwww, may this love find me 😫

[niisancomplex]

home

[canaria-herrscherr]

Welcome home, Colonel🍏🍎

[niisancomplex]

5/5 幼少期マヒ主

[canaria-herrscherr]

This is so precious 🥹

[nykur0h]

Naughty kitten😺 (Affinity lvl 100 celebration 🫶🏻)

"-Remember the last time this happened?😈"

goodbye aprilus, see u next year🥹

[the-cows-came-home]

"Soft ripples stir the pool, veiled in drifting mist. Fed by the soulbeads, the bingdi lotuses bloom ever more alluring."

[cloudedangels]

Of Legends and Angels - 18+

summary: You (afab!reader) are a dissillusioned war medic who never wanted this life. But you're good at what you do. There's no denying that. They call you the Angel of the Med Tent. It's not something you claim. Caleb Xia is more Legend than man. The Man Who Can't Get Shot. Well, until he does. And so it begins. ≈ 6.8k words

tags and cw: caleb x reader, soldier!caleb x medic!mc AU, war, a bit of medical horror, description of surgery, bullet removal, blood, limb loss, descriptions of war, bits of fluff, ANGST, sex, oral (f recieving), fingering, piv, creampie, 18+!!! MDNI!!!

an: the idea for this AU hit me a couple days ago and I've done nothing but research and write since. This is my first time writing anything related to war like this, so it's likely inaccurate. i genuinely couldn't figure out how to end it so sorryyyy for that if it seems sloppy. I'm proud of some parts of this and less of others if i'm being wholly honest. so yeah read with a couple grains of salt please and thank you. ANYWAY here you go. comments and rbs appreciated ^^ as always

short playlist for better reading -> here

You never wanted to be a war medic. Not really. Since you were young, you thought you'd be a pediatric nurse—scraped knees, gummy smiles, common colds, bright colors on your scrubs, and handing out stickers for bravery. Nothing like this. Here, there's sand, and blood, and screams in the dark. You're here holding hope for men who lie before you, with your shaking hands pressed against chest wounds. While bullets hiss overhead and while bombs drop in the distance, the ground below you quakes. 

You've learned to dissociate. You keep moving, you become steady. Eventually your hands don't shake, and the screams don't phase you.

That's when he comes to you. You've heard a lot about him. Caleb Xia: The Man Who Can't Get Shot. The purple-eyed legend of a man, a man who practically bends the gravity around him. The man who makes men kneel before he kills them — as if they have no choice, as if the air itself buckles their knees.

Ironically he comes to you, slumped over as he's carried by two men below his station. He's got two bullet wounds in the same leg.

So much for the unshootable man.

“He wanted us to bring him to you specific. Said you were the best of the best and no one else could touch him.”

You don't mean to scowl but you do. You're not even ten minutes from your last operation and here he comes, pale with the fabric of his pants a torn and bloodied mess. You stand up, wipe your hands on your uniform and nod at an open cot as you walk towards it. 

“Lay him here, carefully. I'll handle the rest. Thank you, boys.”

When they lay him down you get your first good look at him. He looks too calm for someone in his position, as if he's above the pain, but he winces just a little with every movement. His eyes are as purple as they say. Like a coastal sunset, or bruise. Widened slightly by pain. 

When you cut away the ruined fabric of his cargo pants, and probe slightly, you see the two bullet wounds, clear as day. You shake your head. 

“So you can get shot.” You mutter. “Looks like you're lucky, Xia. Two hits, and both missed everything vital. Either you've got a guardian angel or you really do bend luck around you.”

Caleb… laughs. “No luck, no angels, just bad aim, and a soldier who can avoid a bullet. You don't seem like you believe in luck or angels, sweetheart.”

You don't answer him. This isn't the first time a soldier has tried to be a cocky flirt in order to brave the pain. 

You work on him in silence, fingers steady, the room heavy with the scent of alcohol, blood, and sweat. His leg is a mess, but fixable.

The first bullet wound is easy enough. It's got a clean entry and exit, both less than a centimeter. No major vessels are hit, and his femur is untouched and intact. It barely bleeds. You pack it with hemostatic gauze and apply pressure. He sucks in air through his teeth, just once, but his gaze never leaves your face. That is a first.

“Hurt?” You ask. Your voice is clipped and professional. You're well practiced by now. This isn't new. The blood, the gauze, the men. But something about the way he looks at you almost makes you falter. Almost.

He tilts his head. “Less when I'm lookin’ at you, angel.” 

You snort. “Save that for when you don't still have a bullet in your leg. This second one's gonna hurt more.”

He laughs like it doesn't hurt to. 

“Stay still.” You say it firmly and he breathes out through his nose. 

“Yes ma'am. Your house, your rules doc.”

“I'm serious. This one is not nice, One wrong move and you're out of combat.”

That shuts him up. You take a bottle of vodka and hold it to his lips.

“Drink. I need you not to feel this so much.”

He looks up at you as he sips and for a moment. Your eyes lock. You turn to hide the blush on your cheeks as you pull the bottle away. 

“You're gentle,” he mutters.

“Mm.”

You give him the strap to bite, place it in his mouth. You know he'll need it, but you're mildly surprised he doesn't protest. 

The second wound is bad. Flashes of experiences flicker through your mind's eye as you find the bleeder and press your finger there. Crimp the vessel shut with a clamp. And with a scalpel, you begin to fish out the pesky bullet, careful not to let it migrate. 

Caleb doesn’t scream or pass out as you operate, but he bites down so hard on the strap you think his teeth could break. His knuckles are white. All the while, his gaze never leaves your face, your hands, his haunting purple eyes tracking your every movement. Most soldiers at least close their eyes. He doesn’t even bother.

“Got you, bastard.” You pull it out with a wet sound. 

The bullet drops in the metal tray with a clink. 

“That's the worst part, I promise.” Your voice is uncharacteristically soft as you say it. 

With deft movements, you clean, pack, and suture like it's nothing. Your hands are steady. His heart rate reads 120. He spits out the strap with a big huff of breath. 

“I knew you were the best of the fucking best,” he slurs, “they told me I'd have to get evacced… but I've heard about you. Knew you'd fix me. Unit talks about you like you're heavensent.”

He makes direct eye contact when he says it, like a test. You ignore him, call it passing. Your face twists when you remember you can't just send him off. The wound could get infected. You have to watch for swelling, fevers and any other signs.

“You need at least a week off of that leg. If you're lucky. And for the next forty eight hours, you stay in this cot, you hear me? Legend or not, it's my job to make sure you're able to fight at all.”

He smirks.

“You… you didn't ask how I got shot, doc.” His voice is gravely and low when he says that. 

“Should I? This is war. It's kind of obvious.”

You move to clean your station when suddenly his hand is around your wrist turning you back. It's not forceful, just surprising. Unexpected.

“I let them. I let them hit me.”

He lets you go. 

“Yeah right.” Dammit. Your voice is uneven. He notices. Raises an eyebrow.

“Had to meet the Angel herself — see you work with my own eyes. I'm not the only ‘legend’ around here, honey.”

☆☆☆☆☆

Supervision of Caleb's recovery proves difficult. He's a predictably awful patient. He doesn't listen. Takes crutches, hobbles around, refuses pain medication longer than a sane man would. You're yelling at him within the first 18 hours. 

“Xia. I told you to stay off that leg!”

“It hurts. I'm bored and need distracting.”

“By… walking on it?” You're flabbergasted. He's like a petulant child.

“I didn't know you outrank me, Doc.”

“Here?? In this tent? Yeah, I do.” You snap, but for some reason unknown to you, you soften.  “Please, Caleb, just lay down. I don't want you to have any complications.”

When he finally obeys, you station yourself at his bedside between patients, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk. He grins up at you, all lazy arrogance, but there’s something else in those violet eyes—something that makes your pulse stutter.  

“You’re staring, doc.”  

You scoff.  “I’m supervising.”  

“Mmm. Like what you see?”  

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn.  

It’s infuriating. 

 

☆☆☆☆☆

The dreams start at the 30th hour. 

You wake to the sound of his voice—low, strained. You find him half-conscious, drenched in sweat, fingers clawing at the sheets like he’s trying to fight off an invisible enemy. His skin is boiling. Nightmares, fever. Infection. Shit. Shit. Shit!

“Caleb. Xia. Wake up.” You smack his face, his bicep, again and again before his eyes flicker open in terror. Until he sees you. 

“Mm... Hey, Angel… it, uh, it hurts pretty bad… to be honest… Are you gonna… fix me again?”

You nurse him through the night. You use everything you can: cold compresses, antibiotics, IV fluids, constant monitoring. You don’t sleep. You talk to him all night. Tell him about how you wanted to be a pediatric nurse until war came, and you, like many other medical professionals, were deployed. How the first time you lost a soldier you were full body sick for days on end, but it was the last time it got you that hard.

Instead, you got good enough to know it would never be your fault. 

You whisper for him to come back to you over and over and over.

You don't know why. You convince yourself it's professional care, due diligence. But it's more than that. A legend like him deserves to die better than this. Whether you believe it or not doesn't matter. Other people do. Other people who need the hope you long realized you had to give up on.

Then he mutters something in his feverish haze. 

“I thought you'd remember me.”

You were falling asleep, but not now. You shoot up. 

“What was that?”

“From… high-school. You were there.”

“Xia… you're delirious…”

“No… ‘member? I Graduated… b'fore you… Linkon High.”

You freeze. You went to school there. You didn't tell him. He's unconscious again before you can probe him for answers.

Caleb’s fever breaks. 

You’re slumped in a chair beside his cot, head lolling against your shoulder, when you feel fingers brush against your wrist. Your eyes snap open.

He’s awake, and he's smirking. 

“You stayed.” His voice is rough, but the teasing lilt is already creeping back in. 

You jerk upright, wiping the exhaustion from your face, slipping back into professionalism like armor. “Of course I stayed. You were septic, you idiot.”

He hums, watching you. “Liar.”

“Excuse me?”

“You stayed ‘cause you like me.”

You scoff, but your pulse betrays you.

“I'm sorry for not listening to you. I'll rest now.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief.

☆☆☆☆☆

After Caleb recovers, he’s relentless in finding excuses to see you—"check-ups," fake complaints, "just passing by."  

One night, you're beyond exhausted, half-asleep in the med tent, and he catches you when you stumble. Instead of letting go, he holds you just a second too long, his voice uncharacteristically serious:

"You don’t sleep enough, Angel."

You freeze. "War doesn’t stop for naps, Xia."

His thumb brushes your wrist and you shiver. "Yeah, but you’re no use to anyone dead on your feet."

"Why are you even here?" You try to push him off of you without being rough.

Caleb doesn’t answer your question. Instead, his grip tightens just enough to keep you upright, his thumb tracing idle circles over the inside of your wrist. The contact is electric, infuriating. 

"You never answered me," he murmurs. "About high school."

You stiffen. "You were delirious."

He shakes his head, “Uh-uh. Not really.” He mutters. “You were the library assistant. I was the guy who checked out all those books about planes.”

Finally, and suddenly, it clicks into place and you remember.

You remember him.

Back then, he was just that guy from second period shop class—quiet, always scribbling in the margins of his notebook. He’d come into the library during lunch sometimes, eyes barely meeting yours, fingers stained with grease or charcoal or both, asking for technical manuals, books on aerodynamics, flight trajectories. He’d borrow them in stacks, carry them like they were sacred text. 

You remember the day he left—graduated a year ahead, vanished into the military pipeline like so many others. He never said goodbye. You never thought you'd see him again.

“You remember,” he says, softer now.

“I do,” you say.

And it’s quiet. For once, he doesn’t smirk. He just looks at you like the war outside doesn’t exist, like this blood-soaked tent could be a confessional booth in another world.

“Who would've thought we'd both be stationed here?” He whispers.

He finally pulls away when a handful of men are being carried to your tent. A skirmish. Caleb fades away into your duties.

☆☆☆☆☆

You think it’s over when he’s transferred out of your station. You think he’ll vanish again, back into the smoke and blood, into some legend retold over campfires and comms chatter.

But he doesn’t.

He writes.

Letters. Sent by hand, tucked into ration shipments, passed from soldier to soldier until they reach you.

Updates on his healing. Fragments of memory. Tiny jokes. Questions about you. Always signed the same way:

- C (not dead yet)

You don’t answer the first few. But eventually, you do.

And then? It starts. The burn.

A slow build of connection that stretches across miles and dust and time. After months of back and forth, by some miracle, you're both rotated to the same base again, just for a few days.

His name meets you again before he does. A patient in a cot muttering about how the Invincible Xia saves their asses every time.

“Xia? Caleb Xia?” You barely believe what you're hearing. 

“Heard of him?”

“Something like that…” you trail off.

A couple days later when that soldier’s leaving, you call back to him. 

“Hey. Tell Caleb Xia there's a medic that wants to meet the legend.”

☆☆☆☆☆

He finally finds you again.

Dust-streaked, bleeding from the knuckles, but alive. You treat him in silence, your hands steadier than your breath. Wrap his hands in bandages. No questions. 

Tonight, the entire camp is tense. Rumors of a full-scale offensive begin at dawn. You both know what that means. High casualties. Maybe final goodbyes. Caleb appears at your cot just after lights-out, limping slightly, a tin of contraband instant coffee in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

"You still awake, Angel?"

You want to send him away. You should.

But instead you say, “Yeah.”

You drink coffee from metal mugs, seated on supply crates outside the tent under a bruised-purple sky. It matches his eyes.

You don’t speak for a while.

“Do you ever think about what happens if you don’t make it back?” You finally ask. 

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is hoarse.

“I used to. Not tonight, though. Not when you’re here.”

The silence between you buzzes.

When Caleb kisses you, for the first time since you met him, you too believe that he is the man that bends gravity. Because you can't pull away.

Your haphazard tent turned bunker is small, and your cot is only a little bigger than an average twin. But you drag him into it anyway by the collar of his shirt, kissing him as you stumble back, then fall onto the bed. Your breaths are heavy when you finally pull apart to breathe. His eyelashes flutter over his reddened cheeks.

“Angel,” he whispers in your ear with hot breaths, caging both sides of your head with flexing arms while you're laying flat under him. “Will you… allow me the pleasure of…taking care of you now?”

The moment stretches between you. His body above yours, shadowed by the dim light that filters through the tent wall—soft and dusty, flickering like candlelight in a church neither of you believe in anymore.

You swallow, your breath shaking. “Yes,” you whisper. It’s barely audible. But it’s enough. Caleb hears you and he sees you. He shifts just slightly, like the earth itself is tilting toward you.

His mouth meets yours again, but this time the kiss is unhurried. Like he’s reading you, memorizing the shape of your lips, the sound you make when he brushes just a little harder, then softer. One of his hands finds your cheek, thumb skimming the hollow under your eye. He exhales like he’s in awe. Like he’s been waiting for this—for you—since the beginning.

“I remember your laugh.”

Your eyes blink open.

“In high school. You laughed when I dropped all those fucking manuals. You helped me pick them up. You smiled at me. I thought it was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. You were so pretty. and… and I really never forgot you, not really. You told me once that if you ever had to go to war like I was gonna, it would kill you. That you preferred the thought of stickers to gunshots.”

“Still do,” you say, only because there's nothing else, too much, everything else to say.

He kisses your face. His lips are softer than war should allow. 

“I know, Angel, I know.”

His mouth leaves your face only to trace lower—along your jaw, down your neck, lips brushing just beneath your ear. He breathes you in, inhaling the scent of you. The way he touches you it's like you're the only proof left that this isn’t just a hallucination conjured by his exhaustion and his adrenaline.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice gravel low, lips at your throat.

You nod—but he doesn’t move until you say it aloud.

“Yes.” A whisper again, but this time steadier. “Please.”

Caleb exhales against your collarbone like it’s the answer he’s been waiting for all his life. His hands—battle-worn, calloused, prayerful—slip under your shirt with careful fingers. He doesn't tug or rush, just explores, tracing the slope of your ribs, the curve of your waist. The way he looks at you when he pulls your shirt over your head—like he’s seeing something holy—makes your stomach flip.

“You’re real,” he murmurs, as if to himself, pressing a kiss just between your breasts.

You reach for his shirt in return. It’s half unbuttoned already, streaked with sweat and desert dust, but he helps you the rest of the way. His chest is hard, scarred, and warm. You run your fingers across old wounds. Some are jagged, and some are smooth—like layers in sediment.

“Still think I’m unshootable?” he says, breathless, watching your hand move across a thick scar over his ribs.

“No,” you say softly. “Just stupid. Lucky.”

That earns you a real laugh. He kisses you again, harder this time. There's more heat now, less caution. The kind of hunger that’s been simmering for months in every letter, every near-miss, every time he touched your wrist and didn’t push further.

“Ah, so you do believe in luck,” he mutters into your chest. 

“Yours, yes.”

He huffs another quiet laugh, low and warm against your skin. “Good. ‘Cause I’m starting to think I used it all up just to get here.”

You want to tease him, say something clever, but your words dissolve into a gasp when he takes your nipple into his mouth—tongue flicking gently at first, then sucking, drawing a low moan from your throat. His hand cradles the other, thumb brushing over the sensitive skin in slow circles, learning you, memorizing what makes you twitch and tremble.

“Fuck,” you whisper, arching into him. 

“I’ve imagined this,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, moving lower—lips skating across your ribs, down your stomach, leaving a trail of kisses. He may not bend the air, but you bend for him. Into every last touch. “Around when you started writing me letters back. Couldn’t sleep half the time, thinking about what you sounded like when you came. How those eyes look without the focus.”

Your face flushes, heat rushing everywhere at once.

“You imagined me?” Your voice is breathy. Dazed.

“Every goddamn night. Does that scare you?”

You shake your head. You can't bring yourself to say there were nights where you let yourself do the same, with him in your mind's eye. 

His hands slip slowly beneath your waistband, the pace an unspoken request for permission. When you don't protest he touches you, pressing his calloused hands to your aching heat. When you cry out his name, when his fingers are immediately soaked with your slick, his breath shudders. 

“This is mine, yeah? Just for tonight?”

“Caleb… please…”

That’s all it takes. He kisses the inside of your thigh as he pulls your pants—what’s left of them—down your legs, eyes never leaving your face. It's like that first time with him bleeding in your hands, where his eyes never left you. Except now, he wants to watch you come apart. He wants to be the one to do it.

And when his mouth replaces his fingers—hot, wet, careful at first—your back arches off the cot. He moans when he tastes you, like it surprises even him. The sound goes straight through you, and so does the way he buries his face between your legs like a man starved.

He’s good. Too good. He learns your body fast, tongue curling against your clit just right, licking in slow, reverent strokes that make your thighs tremble. When you thread your fingers into his dark hair again, tugging without meaning to, he groans and pushes in deeper—his nose brushing your pelvis, his hands anchoring your hips down like you might float away.

“Please,” you pant. “Caleb, I—”

“Let go for me, Angel,” he says, voice husky against you. “Come on. Wanna feel it. Wanna taste you fall apart.”

You do.

The orgasm crashes through you like a wave—hot and sharp and blinding. You cry out, your thighs clenching around his head, your whole body tensing as pleasure floods through your system like morphine. Caleb doesn’t stop, doesn’t flinch. He rides it out with you, licking you through it, slowing only when your gasps turn to whimpers.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are slick, his eyes blackened by his blown out pupils. He climbs up your body again, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple, whispering something soft between each one.

Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and you feel how hard he is against your thigh—hot and insistent even through the thick fabric of his fatigues.

“I need to feel you,” you whisper, half-lost already in the aftershocks, but it's somehow still not enough. “Please, Caleb. I want you inside me.”

He groans, forehead falling to yours. “Say that again and I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

“I want you inside me.”

His pants come off in a scramble, his hands shaking now, not from nerves but from restraint. He doesn’t rush, even now. He lines himself up and pauses, waiting, always waiting—for your nod, your “yes.”

You cup his cheek and say it again, firm this time. “Yes.”

He slides into you slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t want to hurt you, like he’s trying to savor every second he gets the opportunity to be inside you. You gasp at the stretch, at the pressure of him. He's bigger than anyone you've ever had, and you haven't had many, but your hungry cunt does anything it can to pull him deeper, to stretch wide around him. 

He curses under his breath, buries his face in the crook of your neck. “You feel… fuck, you feel so good.”

You hold him there, arms wrapped around his back, fingers digging into scarred muscle as he starts to move. His thrusts are slow at first, deliberate—hips rolling, not pounding. He kisses your throat, your collarbone, your lips between each rhythm. You taste yourself still on his lips when he kisses you.

His pace is relentlessly taking, so slow it's torturous, it pulls quiet moans from your throat even as you try to suppress them for the sake of not being heard by the rest of the camp. Caleb's reputation would likely save you both from trouble but there's no guarantee. He fucks into you like he doesn't care. 

You try to stay quiet, but it’s impossible. The drag of his cock inside you is too much, too slow, too deep. You clamp a hand over your mouth but he catches your wrist mid-motion, presses your palm down beside your head.

“Don’t,” he murmurs against your ear. “Let me hear you.”

You nod again, helpless under him, overwhelmed with the way he feels, the way he holds you there— with his body, and with the weight of everything that’s passed between you. Every night he wrote, every glance across the tent, every time he called you “Angel”. Every time that you wrote back. The first time you wrote “Caleb” instead of “Xia”, then “Dearest Caleb”.

He thrusts again, deeper now. You gasp—louder this time.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice shaking. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

Your eyes flutter, then snap open to look at him. He’s above you—disheveled, flushed, purple eyes shining in the low light, half-lidded but never looking away. He watches every expression on your face, memorizing it for the battlefield.

You arch your back and roll your hips to meet him. He groans, drops his head to your shoulder. 

“I can take more, I need more,” you whisper desperately trying to buck your hips into him faster for effect.

He growls low in his throat—a sound that doesn’t belong in war, or prayer, but maybe both—and pulls out nearly all the way before driving back into you, slow and deep, grinding his hips until you cry out.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmurs against your skin. “God, Angel. You already have.”

And you believe him.

You believe it in the way his voice cracks when he says your name, in the way his body trembles as he rocks into you with growing urgency, each thrust harder, faster, deeper, as if the world might end and he needs this—needs you—to tether him to the earth. 

“Fuck—Caleb…” Your whisper bends into a whine.

“I know, you're gonna give me another aren't you? You're close, I can feel you tryin to milk the life out of me.”

You moan—a quiet and breathless gasp—your back arching as the heat coils tighter inside you. It’s unbearable, the way he knows and the way his voice roughens as he says it. He fucks you like he’s worshiping and destroying you at the same time—deep, smooth thrusts that grind against the spot inside you just right, over and over.

“Caleb—” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulder. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare—”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he growls, lips brushing your throat as his hips rock into you again, firmer this time, more desperate. “You gonna come for me again? Let me feel you lose it?”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision. You gasp at the touch—sharp and sensitive—and he moans low in his chest, like your reaction feeds him.

“God, you’re soaked for me,” he murmurs. “Like you were made to take me, Angel. Fuck. This—”

He cuts off with a gasp when you tighten around him, your walls fluttering with every stroke, every filthy word. His thumb circles your clit just right—tight and slow, like this isn't the first time he's had you.

“I’m gonna—fuck—Caleb, I can’t—” You twist beneath him, pleasure building too fast, too thick to hold back.

“Yes, you can. You’re gonna come again. All over my cock this time. That’s it, my Angel, please let me have it.”

You do. It crashes over you like a tidal wave—blinding and hot, your whole body shaking as your orgasm rips through you, harder than the first. You cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known, trembling as your cunt clenches tight around him, pulsing and slick and soaked.

“Shit—fuck, that’s it—” Caleb groans, burying himself deep inside you, grinding his hips as you flutter and tighten around him, over and over. “You’re gonna make me—”

He loses it.

With a broken sound, he thrusts once, twice—then comes hard, hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside you as he spills into you with a guttural groan. You feel every throb of him, every ragged breath against your neck as he rides it out—his hands gripping your hips so tight it borders on bruising. His whole body shakes with the force of it, chest heaving against yours as he pants into the hollow of your throat.

“Jesus fuck—Angel—”

It takes a long time for either of you to move. You're still trembling, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, holding him there, his cock still buried inside you, twitching with the last aftershocks.

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your lips—slow and messy, like he’s drunk on the taste of you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. You?”

He lets out a soft, breathless laugh. “I’ve never been better.”

He doesn’t pull out yet. He just stays there, pressed against you, forehead resting on yours, as your breaths sync in the dark. His cum begins to seep out around him, warm and wet between your thighs, but neither of you care. There’s nowhere else either of you would rather be.

His thumb traces your cheek.

“You really are my Angel,” he says, so quietly it’s almost a prayer.

You just hold him tighter.

☆☆☆☆☆

Later, when you're both cleaned and curled beneath an extra blanket in your cot, his arms around you like armor, he whispers.

"If I die out there tomorrow, or after that—"

You shake your head when you interrupt him.

"No, stop it, don't talk like that," you whisper against his neck. 

"C'mon, baby, I need you to know." His thumbs rub circles against your lower back. 

"You're not allowed to fucking die. You're here with me. My rules, Xia."

He's silent for a moment before he talks again, holding you even tighter. 

“Okay, Doc. Then. When this is over... we’ll find somewhere better, okay? Somewhere with bookstores and sidewalks. Somewhere you can wear scrubs with cartoon pandas and hand out sticker sheets. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

You don't believe him, mostly because belief is expensive. It costs too much.

Whispers spread first. They always do.

They arrive on the backs of the wounded—half-conscious soldiers mumbling about movement to the east, drone strikes gone silent, entire platoons going dark on comms. Some speak in riddles, others in prayer. But it all amounts to the same thing.

It’s coming.

By midday, the tension hangs so thick in the air you could choke on it. You prep your tent for mass casualties—reloading morphine pens, checking defibrillators, laying out body bags at the ready. Just in case.

☆☆☆☆☆

You don’t see Caleb all day.

Not until dusk.

He shows up at the edge of your tent with his sleeves rolled up, bandages still snug on his healing hands, jaw tense. There’s dried blood down his arm—not his. His eyes find yours, and you already know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth.

“It’s real this time,” he says quietly.

You nod.

Caleb steps into the tent like a man walking into confession. You don’t know who moves first—you or him—but the next thing you know, he’s holding your face between both hands, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I need to say this before we go,” he breathes, rough and fast, “and I need you to actually hear it, please.”

Your throat tightens. “Don’t.”

“Angel.”

“No. You don’t get to say goodbye. Not to me.”

“I have to.” His hands tremble where they hold you. “If something happens—”

You grab his collar and kiss him hard. It’s messy, desperate, all teeth and breath and no finesse. His hands slide down to your hips anchoring you both. 

“I’ll come back,” he swears against your lips. “I have to. You’re the only one I wanna—.”

“Don’t promise me things you can’t keep,” you whisper. Your voice cracks. “Just promise me you’ll try.”

He nods, once. Sharp. “I always do.”

☆☆☆☆☆

The sirens don’t wail. There’s no dramatic countdown. Just the distant thud of mortar fire echoing like thunder from the hills—and then hell breaks open.

Your med tent fills by the dozen. Blood and sand coat the floor in layers. You lose track of the bodies, of time, and there's no room to grieve, or pause, or ask who’s missing.

You don’t see Caleb.

Not that night.

Not the next morning.

Not even by the second sunset.

But the whispers continue. About how one unit got cornered and somehow made it out. A single soldier took a rooftop and held until backup arrived.

They say he was smiling.

They say he moved like gravity didn’t apply.

You say nothing.

Until—

A soldier staggers in at midnight, wide-eyed and coughing up smoke. He’s burned, dazed, but conscious enough to speak.

You lean over him, adrenaline in your throat.

“Who brought you out?”

The soldier smiles faintly through cracked lips.

“Xia. Said to tell the angel he bent the air for her again.”

Your knees almost give out, but you don’t cry. You keep working.

Later, when the noise dies down and your hands finally go still, you slip outside the tent and look up at the night sky—starless, bruised purple with war, still like his eyes.

You whisper to the wind.

“You better come back, you stupid fucking legend.”

You finally let yourself cry. A few tears that blow away as they come. 

☆☆☆☆☆

2 months pass, and you only know Caleb is alive because of the gossip. It takes time to get to you. 

‘They say he held down the last push in the east. Had them running in horror.”

“Did you hear Xia's still alive? Those bastards must have shit for brains if they haven't killed him.”

Twice. Your whole team has to relocate twice. You're scared. What if he can't find you? 

☆☆☆☆☆

Another month passes and gossip’s next to none. All you know is that too many people are dying. On both sides. People are calling it the One to One War. 

No one's winning. It's a bloody draw, held together by body after body.

☆☆☆☆☆

The sky cracks open in muted gray—no thunder, no smoke—just a silence so thick your ears ring. You’re mid-suture, needle paused above a soldier’s temple, when the first orders come through: cease fire.

Around you, the med tent erupts in stunned whispers.

Another medic shoves a folded radio transcript into your gloved hand. You read, breath catching: the high command has negotiated a window. No more bullets, no more drones. Safe corridors open. Field hospitals will exchange supplies and personnel. You hardly notice the words beyond no more bullets.

Outside, the distant thud of mortars has died. You stand, unsteady, blood-caked syringe still in hand, and peer out through the tent flap. Camp suddenly looks like a ghost town—hulking vehicles stalled in the sand, soldiers frozen, unsure. 

Delirious relief fills you. You drop onto the ground, pulse pounding. Across the clearing, the other med tents mirror your disbelief: gurneys abandoned, surgical kits left open. For two long minutes, no one moves.

Then the wounded continue to stir.

You’re back on your feet, adrenaline answering the void of violence with motion: triaging sprains, cleaning grazes, offering water. The fear in everyone’s eyes is still there. But so is something else, something like… hope.

You wash your hands for the first time in hours, letting the cool water chase away the metallic tang of war. Your reflection in the stainless basin startles you: dark circles, smudged camouflage, lips cracked from dehydration. You touch your face and realize the world outside has shifted while you were drowning in blood and screaming.

“Hey, Angel!” A voice calls from the tent entrance. You whirl, expecting Caleb’s grin—and instead see one of the Lieutenants, leaning on his crutch, eyes wide.

“They’re bringing in evac helicopters,” he says, voice trembling. “They said… they said we’ll swap supplies at dawn. No shooting.”

“Right,” you breathe, in disbelief still. “No shooting.”

He nods, glancing over his shoulder at the silent horizon.

“Every unit’s standing down. Rumor has it a treaty’s comin.”

And yet—Caleb isn’t here.

Your heart twists. No letter, no shadow at the tent’s edge, no purple-eyed savior bending his luck for a moment with you.

You swallow hard, letting the sudden emptiness hollow out your chest. Around you, the camp buzzes with hurried whispers of relocation plans, bed shortages, resupply manifests. But in your mind, there’s only one question: Where is he?

As dusk bleeds into night, you stay outside, arms wrapped tight against the cold wind. The last of the dust settles, and for the first time in weeks, the world feels still. You close your eyes, willing your heart to silence the questions, but they echo louder.

Did he make it through the push?

Did he follow the orders?

Or did the cease fire come too late for him?

Night blossoms in bruised purples and inky blues. A single lamp flickers by the tent flap, casting your shadow long against the sand.

And you stay there, listening for the familiar echo of his steps, the soft scrape of his boots in the sand—anything to tell you he isn’t gone.

☆☆☆☆☆

The cease-fire holds.

For three days, the camp is a flurry of movement—supply drops, medevacs, soldiers shuffling in and out like ghosts. You work until your hands cramp, until your vision blurs, until the names and faces of the wounded blur into one endless stream of pain.

You don’t sleep.

You don’t stop looking for him.

On the fourth night, you’re outside again, staring at the horizon, when you hear it—the distant hum of an engine. A single jeep rolls into camp, kicking up dust, its headlights cutting through the dark like a beacon.

Your breath catches.

The vehicle stops. The door opens.

And then...

Him.

Caleb Xia steps out, silhouetted against the headlights, and your heart stops.  

He’s alive.  

But something’s...

wrong.  

His right arm is gone.  

Just—gone.  

A clean unbloodied bandage is wrapped tight around the stump, just below his shoulder, stark white against his dirt-streaked skin. His face is pale, his lips cracked, his violet eyes shadowed with exhaustion. But when he sees you—when his gaze locks onto yours across the distance—he smiles.  

Like he alone has won the war.

You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen, the next you’re sprinting, boots kicking up sand, lungs burning. He meets you halfway, his left arm catching you around the waist as you crash into him.

“Angel,” he breathes into your hair, voice rough.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Your hands are shaking again. You're gripping his shirt, his neck, his face just to prove he’s real.

He lets you.

When you finally pull back, your fingers brush the scarred stump, hovering just above it. Your throat is too tight to speak.

Caleb exhales, bending to press his forehead to yours. “Still in one piece. Mostly.”

You swallow hard. “What happened?”

He shrugs—or tries to. The motion is lopsided now. 

“Took a hit for the team, I guess. We got hit harder than before. I had to choose between the arm and my life.” A weak smirk. “And someone ordered me not to die. I was in recovery. Off of the Field.”

You choke on something between a laugh and a sob. You almost wonder if he lost it on purpose. You wouldn't put it past him.

He’s here.

He’s alive.

And he’s discharged.

No more war. No more bullets. No more waiting for him to come back in pieces.

You drag him into the med tent before he can protest, ignoring the way the other medics stare. He’s too weak to fight you, leaning heavily against your side as you guide him to a cot.

“You’re an idiot,” you mutter.

“Yes ma'am,” he slurs, already half-asleep.

The injury is clean—surgically amputated, already healed, mostly. They’ll fit him for a prosthetic soon. But for now, he’s here. Whole enough.

Yours.

You bandage him back up, your fingers lingering on his skin. When you look up, his eyes are closed, his breathing steady.

You don’t let go of his hand.

☆☆☆☆☆

The prosthetic is sleek, military-grade, all black metal and whirring joints. Caleb hates it.

“Makes me look like a fucking cyborg,” he grumbles, flexing the mechanical fingers.

You roll your eyes. “You are a fucking cyborg.”

He scowls, but he barely means it. Sighs in relief when you kiss him.

The war is over for you both.

The letters don’t stop.

Even when you’re lying beside him, even when you can reach out and touch him whenever you want, he still writes them. He leaves them tucked under your pillow, slipped into your pockets, folded inside your books.

You keep every one.

And when the time comes—when the discharge papers are signed, when the transport planes are waiting—you pack your bags together.

🏷️taglist: @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple

comment if you want to be added to my caleb tag list or the taglist for every fic i post! <3

[canaria-herrscherr]

This trope with caleb and this epic storyline!!

((o(^∇^)o))

I have no words!!

[cloudedangels]

Of Legends and Angels - 18+

summary: You (afab!reader) are a dissillusioned war medic who never wanted this life. But you're good at what you do. There's no denying that. They call you the Angel of the Med Tent. It's not something you claim. Caleb Xia is more Legend than man. The Man Who Can't Get Shot. Well, until he does. And so it begins. ≈ 6.8k words

tags and cw: caleb x reader, soldier!caleb x medic!mc AU, war, a bit of medical horror, description of surgery, bullet removal, blood, limb loss, descriptions of war, bits of fluff, ANGST, sex, oral (f recieving), fingering, piv, creampie, 18+!!! MDNI!!!

an: the idea for this AU hit me a couple days ago and I've done nothing but research and write since. This is my first time writing anything related to war like this, so it's likely inaccurate. i genuinely couldn't figure out how to end it so sorryyyy for that if it seems sloppy. I'm proud of some parts of this and less of others if i'm being wholly honest. so yeah read with a couple grains of salt please and thank you. ANYWAY here you go. comments and rbs appreciated ^^ as always

short playlist for better reading -> here

You never wanted to be a war medic. Not really. Since you were young, you thought you'd be a pediatric nurse—scraped knees, gummy smiles, common colds, bright colors on your scrubs, and handing out stickers for bravery. Nothing like this. Here, there's sand, and blood, and screams in the dark. You're here holding hope for men who lie before you, with your shaking hands pressed against chest wounds. While bullets hiss overhead and while bombs drop in the distance, the ground below you quakes. 

You've learned to dissociate. You keep moving, you become steady. Eventually your hands don't shake, and the screams don't phase you.

That's when he comes to you. You've heard a lot about him. Caleb Xia: The Man Who Can't Get Shot. The purple-eyed legend of a man, a man who practically bends the gravity around him. The man who makes men kneel before he kills them — as if they have no choice, as if the air itself buckles their knees.

Ironically he comes to you, slumped over as he's carried by two men below his station. He's got two bullet wounds in the same leg.

So much for the unshootable man.

“He wanted us to bring him to you specific. Said you were the best of the best and no one else could touch him.”

You don't mean to scowl but you do. You're not even ten minutes from your last operation and here he comes, pale with the fabric of his pants a torn and bloodied mess. You stand up, wipe your hands on your uniform and nod at an open cot as you walk towards it. 

“Lay him here, carefully. I'll handle the rest. Thank you, boys.”

When they lay him down you get your first good look at him. He looks too calm for someone in his position, as if he's above the pain, but he winces just a little with every movement. His eyes are as purple as they say. Like a coastal sunset, or bruise. Widened slightly by pain. 

When you cut away the ruined fabric of his cargo pants, and probe slightly, you see the two bullet wounds, clear as day. You shake your head. 

“So you can get shot.” You mutter. “Looks like you're lucky, Xia. Two hits, and both missed everything vital. Either you've got a guardian angel or you really do bend luck around you.”

Caleb… laughs. “No luck, no angels, just bad aim, and a soldier who can avoid a bullet. You don't seem like you believe in luck or angels, sweetheart.”

You don't answer him. This isn't the first time a soldier has tried to be a cocky flirt in order to brave the pain. 

You work on him in silence, fingers steady, the room heavy with the scent of alcohol, blood, and sweat. His leg is a mess, but fixable.

The first bullet wound is easy enough. It's got a clean entry and exit, both less than a centimeter. No major vessels are hit, and his femur is untouched and intact. It barely bleeds. You pack it with hemostatic gauze and apply pressure. He sucks in air through his teeth, just once, but his gaze never leaves your face. That is a first.

“Hurt?” You ask. Your voice is clipped and professional. You're well practiced by now. This isn't new. The blood, the gauze, the men. But something about the way he looks at you almost makes you falter. Almost.

He tilts his head. “Less when I'm lookin’ at you, angel.” 

You snort. “Save that for when you don't still have a bullet in your leg. This second one's gonna hurt more.”

He laughs like it doesn't hurt to. 

“Stay still.” You say it firmly and he breathes out through his nose. 

“Yes ma'am. Your house, your rules doc.”

“I'm serious. This one is not nice, One wrong move and you're out of combat.”

That shuts him up. You take a bottle of vodka and hold it to his lips.

“Drink. I need you not to feel this so much.”

He looks up at you as he sips and for a moment. Your eyes lock. You turn to hide the blush on your cheeks as you pull the bottle away. 

“You're gentle,” he mutters.

“Mm.”

You give him the strap to bite, place it in his mouth. You know he'll need it, but you're mildly surprised he doesn't protest. 

The second wound is bad. Flashes of experiences flicker through your mind's eye as you find the bleeder and press your finger there. Crimp the vessel shut with a clamp. And with a scalpel, you begin to fish out the pesky bullet, careful not to let it migrate. 

Caleb doesn’t scream or pass out as you operate, but he bites down so hard on the strap you think his teeth could break. His knuckles are white. All the while, his gaze never leaves your face, your hands, his haunting purple eyes tracking your every movement. Most soldiers at least close their eyes. He doesn’t even bother.

“Got you, bastard.” You pull it out with a wet sound. 

The bullet drops in the metal tray with a clink. 

“That's the worst part, I promise.” Your voice is uncharacteristically soft as you say it. 

With deft movements, you clean, pack, and suture like it's nothing. Your hands are steady. His heart rate reads 120. He spits out the strap with a big huff of breath. 

“I knew you were the best of the fucking best,” he slurs, “they told me I'd have to get evacced… but I've heard about you. Knew you'd fix me. Unit talks about you like you're heavensent.”

He makes direct eye contact when he says it, like a test. You ignore him, call it passing. Your face twists when you remember you can't just send him off. The wound could get infected. You have to watch for swelling, fevers and any other signs.

“You need at least a week off of that leg. If you're lucky. And for the next forty eight hours, you stay in this cot, you hear me? Legend or not, it's my job to make sure you're able to fight at all.”

He smirks.

“You… you didn't ask how I got shot, doc.” His voice is gravely and low when he says that. 

“Should I? This is war. It's kind of obvious.”

You move to clean your station when suddenly his hand is around your wrist turning you back. It's not forceful, just surprising. Unexpected.

“I let them. I let them hit me.”

He lets you go. 

“Yeah right.” Dammit. Your voice is uneven. He notices. Raises an eyebrow.

“Had to meet the Angel herself — see you work with my own eyes. I'm not the only ‘legend’ around here, honey.”

☆☆☆☆☆

Supervision of Caleb's recovery proves difficult. He's a predictably awful patient. He doesn't listen. Takes crutches, hobbles around, refuses pain medication longer than a sane man would. You're yelling at him within the first 18 hours. 

“Xia. I told you to stay off that leg!”

“It hurts. I'm bored and need distracting.”

“By… walking on it?” You're flabbergasted. He's like a petulant child.

“I didn't know you outrank me, Doc.”

“Here?? In this tent? Yeah, I do.” You snap, but for some reason unknown to you, you soften.  “Please, Caleb, just lay down. I don't want you to have any complications.”

When he finally obeys, you station yourself at his bedside between patients, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk. He grins up at you, all lazy arrogance, but there’s something else in those violet eyes—something that makes your pulse stutter.  

“You’re staring, doc.”  

You scoff.  “I’m supervising.”  

“Mmm. Like what you see?”  

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn.  

It’s infuriating. 

 

☆☆☆☆☆

The dreams start at the 30th hour. 

You wake to the sound of his voice—low, strained. You find him half-conscious, drenched in sweat, fingers clawing at the sheets like he’s trying to fight off an invisible enemy. His skin is boiling. Nightmares, fever. Infection. Shit. Shit. Shit!

“Caleb. Xia. Wake up.” You smack his face, his bicep, again and again before his eyes flicker open in terror. Until he sees you. 

“Mm... Hey, Angel… it, uh, it hurts pretty bad… to be honest… Are you gonna… fix me again?”

You nurse him through the night. You use everything you can: cold compresses, antibiotics, IV fluids, constant monitoring. You don’t sleep. You talk to him all night. Tell him about how you wanted to be a pediatric nurse until war came, and you, like many other medical professionals, were deployed. How the first time you lost a soldier you were full body sick for days on end, but it was the last time it got you that hard.

Instead, you got good enough to know it would never be your fault. 

You whisper for him to come back to you over and over and over.

You don't know why. You convince yourself it's professional care, due diligence. But it's more than that. A legend like him deserves to die better than this. Whether you believe it or not doesn't matter. Other people do. Other people who need the hope you long realized you had to give up on.

Then he mutters something in his feverish haze. 

“I thought you'd remember me.”

You were falling asleep, but not now. You shoot up. 

“What was that?”

“From… high-school. You were there.”

“Xia… you're delirious…”

“No… ‘member? I Graduated… b'fore you… Linkon High.”

You freeze. You went to school there. You didn't tell him. He's unconscious again before you can probe him for answers.

Caleb’s fever breaks. 

You’re slumped in a chair beside his cot, head lolling against your shoulder, when you feel fingers brush against your wrist. Your eyes snap open.

He’s awake, and he's smirking. 

“You stayed.” His voice is rough, but the teasing lilt is already creeping back in. 

You jerk upright, wiping the exhaustion from your face, slipping back into professionalism like armor. “Of course I stayed. You were septic, you idiot.”

He hums, watching you. “Liar.”

“Excuse me?”

“You stayed ‘cause you like me.”

You scoff, but your pulse betrays you.

“I'm sorry for not listening to you. I'll rest now.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief.

☆☆☆☆☆

After Caleb recovers, he’s relentless in finding excuses to see you—"check-ups," fake complaints, "just passing by."  

One night, you're beyond exhausted, half-asleep in the med tent, and he catches you when you stumble. Instead of letting go, he holds you just a second too long, his voice uncharacteristically serious:

"You don’t sleep enough, Angel."

You freeze. "War doesn’t stop for naps, Xia."

His thumb brushes your wrist and you shiver. "Yeah, but you’re no use to anyone dead on your feet."

"Why are you even here?" You try to push him off of you without being rough.

Caleb doesn’t answer your question. Instead, his grip tightens just enough to keep you upright, his thumb tracing idle circles over the inside of your wrist. The contact is electric, infuriating. 

"You never answered me," he murmurs. "About high school."

You stiffen. "You were delirious."

He shakes his head, “Uh-uh. Not really.” He mutters. “You were the library assistant. I was the guy who checked out all those books about planes.”

Finally, and suddenly, it clicks into place and you remember.

You remember him.

Back then, he was just that guy from second period shop class—quiet, always scribbling in the margins of his notebook. He’d come into the library during lunch sometimes, eyes barely meeting yours, fingers stained with grease or charcoal or both, asking for technical manuals, books on aerodynamics, flight trajectories. He’d borrow them in stacks, carry them like they were sacred text. 

You remember the day he left—graduated a year ahead, vanished into the military pipeline like so many others. He never said goodbye. You never thought you'd see him again.

“You remember,” he says, softer now.

“I do,” you say.

And it’s quiet. For once, he doesn’t smirk. He just looks at you like the war outside doesn’t exist, like this blood-soaked tent could be a confessional booth in another world.

“Who would've thought we'd both be stationed here?” He whispers.

He finally pulls away when a handful of men are being carried to your tent. A skirmish. Caleb fades away into your duties.

☆☆☆☆☆

You think it’s over when he’s transferred out of your station. You think he’ll vanish again, back into the smoke and blood, into some legend retold over campfires and comms chatter.

But he doesn’t.

He writes.

Letters. Sent by hand, tucked into ration shipments, passed from soldier to soldier until they reach you.

Updates on his healing. Fragments of memory. Tiny jokes. Questions about you. Always signed the same way:

- C (not dead yet)

You don’t answer the first few. But eventually, you do.

And then? It starts. The burn.

A slow build of connection that stretches across miles and dust and time. After months of back and forth, by some miracle, you're both rotated to the same base again, just for a few days.

His name meets you again before he does. A patient in a cot muttering about how the Invincible Xia saves their asses every time.

“Xia? Caleb Xia?” You barely believe what you're hearing. 

“Heard of him?”

“Something like that…” you trail off.

A couple days later when that soldier’s leaving, you call back to him. 

“Hey. Tell Caleb Xia there's a medic that wants to meet the legend.”

☆☆☆☆☆

He finally finds you again.

Dust-streaked, bleeding from the knuckles, but alive. You treat him in silence, your hands steadier than your breath. Wrap his hands in bandages. No questions. 

Tonight, the entire camp is tense. Rumors of a full-scale offensive begin at dawn. You both know what that means. High casualties. Maybe final goodbyes. Caleb appears at your cot just after lights-out, limping slightly, a tin of contraband instant coffee in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

"You still awake, Angel?"

You want to send him away. You should.

But instead you say, “Yeah.”

You drink coffee from metal mugs, seated on supply crates outside the tent under a bruised-purple sky. It matches his eyes.

You don’t speak for a while.

“Do you ever think about what happens if you don’t make it back?” You finally ask. 

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is hoarse.

“I used to. Not tonight, though. Not when you’re here.”

The silence between you buzzes.

When Caleb kisses you, for the first time since you met him, you too believe that he is the man that bends gravity. Because you can't pull away.

Your haphazard tent turned bunker is small, and your cot is only a little bigger than an average twin. But you drag him into it anyway by the collar of his shirt, kissing him as you stumble back, then fall onto the bed. Your breaths are heavy when you finally pull apart to breathe. His eyelashes flutter over his reddened cheeks.

“Angel,” he whispers in your ear with hot breaths, caging both sides of your head with flexing arms while you're laying flat under him. “Will you… allow me the pleasure of…taking care of you now?”

The moment stretches between you. His body above yours, shadowed by the dim light that filters through the tent wall—soft and dusty, flickering like candlelight in a church neither of you believe in anymore.

You swallow, your breath shaking. “Yes,” you whisper. It’s barely audible. But it’s enough. Caleb hears you and he sees you. He shifts just slightly, like the earth itself is tilting toward you.

His mouth meets yours again, but this time the kiss is unhurried. Like he’s reading you, memorizing the shape of your lips, the sound you make when he brushes just a little harder, then softer. One of his hands finds your cheek, thumb skimming the hollow under your eye. He exhales like he’s in awe. Like he’s been waiting for this—for you—since the beginning.

“I remember your laugh.”

Your eyes blink open.

“In high school. You laughed when I dropped all those fucking manuals. You helped me pick them up. You smiled at me. I thought it was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. You were so pretty. and… and I really never forgot you, not really. You told me once that if you ever had to go to war like I was gonna, it would kill you. That you preferred the thought of stickers to gunshots.”

“Still do,” you say, only because there's nothing else, too much, everything else to say.

He kisses your face. His lips are softer than war should allow. 

“I know, Angel, I know.”

His mouth leaves your face only to trace lower—along your jaw, down your neck, lips brushing just beneath your ear. He breathes you in, inhaling the scent of you. The way he touches you it's like you're the only proof left that this isn’t just a hallucination conjured by his exhaustion and his adrenaline.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice gravel low, lips at your throat.

You nod—but he doesn’t move until you say it aloud.

“Yes.” A whisper again, but this time steadier. “Please.”

Caleb exhales against your collarbone like it’s the answer he’s been waiting for all his life. His hands—battle-worn, calloused, prayerful—slip under your shirt with careful fingers. He doesn't tug or rush, just explores, tracing the slope of your ribs, the curve of your waist. The way he looks at you when he pulls your shirt over your head—like he’s seeing something holy—makes your stomach flip.

“You’re real,” he murmurs, as if to himself, pressing a kiss just between your breasts.

You reach for his shirt in return. It’s half unbuttoned already, streaked with sweat and desert dust, but he helps you the rest of the way. His chest is hard, scarred, and warm. You run your fingers across old wounds. Some are jagged, and some are smooth—like layers in sediment.

“Still think I’m unshootable?” he says, breathless, watching your hand move across a thick scar over his ribs.

“No,” you say softly. “Just stupid. Lucky.”

That earns you a real laugh. He kisses you again, harder this time. There's more heat now, less caution. The kind of hunger that’s been simmering for months in every letter, every near-miss, every time he touched your wrist and didn’t push further.

“Ah, so you do believe in luck,” he mutters into your chest. 

“Yours, yes.”

He huffs another quiet laugh, low and warm against your skin. “Good. ‘Cause I’m starting to think I used it all up just to get here.”

You want to tease him, say something clever, but your words dissolve into a gasp when he takes your nipple into his mouth—tongue flicking gently at first, then sucking, drawing a low moan from your throat. His hand cradles the other, thumb brushing over the sensitive skin in slow circles, learning you, memorizing what makes you twitch and tremble.

“Fuck,” you whisper, arching into him. 

“I’ve imagined this,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, moving lower—lips skating across your ribs, down your stomach, leaving a trail of kisses. He may not bend the air, but you bend for him. Into every last touch. “Around when you started writing me letters back. Couldn’t sleep half the time, thinking about what you sounded like when you came. How those eyes look without the focus.”

Your face flushes, heat rushing everywhere at once.

“You imagined me?” Your voice is breathy. Dazed.

“Every goddamn night. Does that scare you?”

You shake your head. You can't bring yourself to say there were nights where you let yourself do the same, with him in your mind's eye. 

His hands slip slowly beneath your waistband, the pace an unspoken request for permission. When you don't protest he touches you, pressing his calloused hands to your aching heat. When you cry out his name, when his fingers are immediately soaked with your slick, his breath shudders. 

“This is mine, yeah? Just for tonight?”

“Caleb… please…”

That’s all it takes. He kisses the inside of your thigh as he pulls your pants—what’s left of them—down your legs, eyes never leaving your face. It's like that first time with him bleeding in your hands, where his eyes never left you. Except now, he wants to watch you come apart. He wants to be the one to do it.

And when his mouth replaces his fingers—hot, wet, careful at first—your back arches off the cot. He moans when he tastes you, like it surprises even him. The sound goes straight through you, and so does the way he buries his face between your legs like a man starved.

He’s good. Too good. He learns your body fast, tongue curling against your clit just right, licking in slow, reverent strokes that make your thighs tremble. When you thread your fingers into his dark hair again, tugging without meaning to, he groans and pushes in deeper—his nose brushing your pelvis, his hands anchoring your hips down like you might float away.

“Please,” you pant. “Caleb, I—”

“Let go for me, Angel,” he says, voice husky against you. “Come on. Wanna feel it. Wanna taste you fall apart.”

You do.

The orgasm crashes through you like a wave—hot and sharp and blinding. You cry out, your thighs clenching around his head, your whole body tensing as pleasure floods through your system like morphine. Caleb doesn’t stop, doesn’t flinch. He rides it out with you, licking you through it, slowing only when your gasps turn to whimpers.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are slick, his eyes blackened by his blown out pupils. He climbs up your body again, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple, whispering something soft between each one.

Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and you feel how hard he is against your thigh—hot and insistent even through the thick fabric of his fatigues.

“I need to feel you,” you whisper, half-lost already in the aftershocks, but it's somehow still not enough. “Please, Caleb. I want you inside me.”

He groans, forehead falling to yours. “Say that again and I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

“I want you inside me.”

His pants come off in a scramble, his hands shaking now, not from nerves but from restraint. He doesn’t rush, even now. He lines himself up and pauses, waiting, always waiting—for your nod, your “yes.”

You cup his cheek and say it again, firm this time. “Yes.”

He slides into you slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t want to hurt you, like he’s trying to savor every second he gets the opportunity to be inside you. You gasp at the stretch, at the pressure of him. He's bigger than anyone you've ever had, and you haven't had many, but your hungry cunt does anything it can to pull him deeper, to stretch wide around him. 

He curses under his breath, buries his face in the crook of your neck. “You feel… fuck, you feel so good.”

You hold him there, arms wrapped around his back, fingers digging into scarred muscle as he starts to move. His thrusts are slow at first, deliberate—hips rolling, not pounding. He kisses your throat, your collarbone, your lips between each rhythm. You taste yourself still on his lips when he kisses you.

His pace is relentlessly taking, so slow it's torturous, it pulls quiet moans from your throat even as you try to suppress them for the sake of not being heard by the rest of the camp. Caleb's reputation would likely save you both from trouble but there's no guarantee. He fucks into you like he doesn't care. 

You try to stay quiet, but it’s impossible. The drag of his cock inside you is too much, too slow, too deep. You clamp a hand over your mouth but he catches your wrist mid-motion, presses your palm down beside your head.

“Don’t,” he murmurs against your ear. “Let me hear you.”

You nod again, helpless under him, overwhelmed with the way he feels, the way he holds you there— with his body, and with the weight of everything that’s passed between you. Every night he wrote, every glance across the tent, every time he called you “Angel”. Every time that you wrote back. The first time you wrote “Caleb” instead of “Xia”, then “Dearest Caleb”.

He thrusts again, deeper now. You gasp—louder this time.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice shaking. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

Your eyes flutter, then snap open to look at him. He’s above you—disheveled, flushed, purple eyes shining in the low light, half-lidded but never looking away. He watches every expression on your face, memorizing it for the battlefield.

You arch your back and roll your hips to meet him. He groans, drops his head to your shoulder. 

“I can take more, I need more,” you whisper desperately trying to buck your hips into him faster for effect.

He growls low in his throat—a sound that doesn’t belong in war, or prayer, but maybe both—and pulls out nearly all the way before driving back into you, slow and deep, grinding his hips until you cry out.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmurs against your skin. “God, Angel. You already have.”

And you believe him.

You believe it in the way his voice cracks when he says your name, in the way his body trembles as he rocks into you with growing urgency, each thrust harder, faster, deeper, as if the world might end and he needs this—needs you—to tether him to the earth. 

“Fuck—Caleb…” Your whisper bends into a whine.

“I know, you're gonna give me another aren't you? You're close, I can feel you tryin to milk the life out of me.”

You moan—a quiet and breathless gasp—your back arching as the heat coils tighter inside you. It’s unbearable, the way he knows and the way his voice roughens as he says it. He fucks you like he’s worshiping and destroying you at the same time—deep, smooth thrusts that grind against the spot inside you just right, over and over.

“Caleb—” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulder. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare—”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he growls, lips brushing your throat as his hips rock into you again, firmer this time, more desperate. “You gonna come for me again? Let me feel you lose it?”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision. You gasp at the touch—sharp and sensitive—and he moans low in his chest, like your reaction feeds him.

“God, you’re soaked for me,” he murmurs. “Like you were made to take me, Angel. Fuck. This—”

He cuts off with a gasp when you tighten around him, your walls fluttering with every stroke, every filthy word. His thumb circles your clit just right—tight and slow, like this isn't the first time he's had you.

“I’m gonna—fuck—Caleb, I can’t—” You twist beneath him, pleasure building too fast, too thick to hold back.

“Yes, you can. You’re gonna come again. All over my cock this time. That’s it, my Angel, please let me have it.”

You do. It crashes over you like a tidal wave—blinding and hot, your whole body shaking as your orgasm rips through you, harder than the first. You cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known, trembling as your cunt clenches tight around him, pulsing and slick and soaked.

“Shit—fuck, that’s it—” Caleb groans, burying himself deep inside you, grinding his hips as you flutter and tighten around him, over and over. “You’re gonna make me—”

He loses it.

With a broken sound, he thrusts once, twice—then comes hard, hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside you as he spills into you with a guttural groan. You feel every throb of him, every ragged breath against your neck as he rides it out—his hands gripping your hips so tight it borders on bruising. His whole body shakes with the force of it, chest heaving against yours as he pants into the hollow of your throat.

“Jesus fuck—Angel—”

It takes a long time for either of you to move. You're still trembling, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, holding him there, his cock still buried inside you, twitching with the last aftershocks.

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your lips—slow and messy, like he’s drunk on the taste of you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. You?”

He lets out a soft, breathless laugh. “I’ve never been better.”

He doesn’t pull out yet. He just stays there, pressed against you, forehead resting on yours, as your breaths sync in the dark. His cum begins to seep out around him, warm and wet between your thighs, but neither of you care. There’s nowhere else either of you would rather be.

His thumb traces your cheek.

“You really are my Angel,” he says, so quietly it’s almost a prayer.

You just hold him tighter.

☆☆☆☆☆

Later, when you're both cleaned and curled beneath an extra blanket in your cot, his arms around you like armor, he whispers.

"If I die out there tomorrow, or after that—"

You shake your head when you interrupt him.

"No, stop it, don't talk like that," you whisper against his neck. 

"C'mon, baby, I need you to know." His thumbs rub circles against your lower back. 

"You're not allowed to fucking die. You're here with me. My rules, Xia."

He's silent for a moment before he talks again, holding you even tighter. 

“Okay, Doc. Then. When this is over... we’ll find somewhere better, okay? Somewhere with bookstores and sidewalks. Somewhere you can wear scrubs with cartoon pandas and hand out sticker sheets. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

You don't believe him, mostly because belief is expensive. It costs too much.

Whispers spread first. They always do.

They arrive on the backs of the wounded—half-conscious soldiers mumbling about movement to the east, drone strikes gone silent, entire platoons going dark on comms. Some speak in riddles, others in prayer. But it all amounts to the same thing.

It’s coming.

By midday, the tension hangs so thick in the air you could choke on it. You prep your tent for mass casualties—reloading morphine pens, checking defibrillators, laying out body bags at the ready. Just in case.

☆☆☆☆☆

You don’t see Caleb all day.

Not until dusk.

He shows up at the edge of your tent with his sleeves rolled up, bandages still snug on his healing hands, jaw tense. There’s dried blood down his arm—not his. His eyes find yours, and you already know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth.

“It’s real this time,” he says quietly.

You nod.

Caleb steps into the tent like a man walking into confession. You don’t know who moves first—you or him—but the next thing you know, he’s holding your face between both hands, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I need to say this before we go,” he breathes, rough and fast, “and I need you to actually hear it, please.”

Your throat tightens. “Don’t.”

“Angel.”

“No. You don’t get to say goodbye. Not to me.”

“I have to.” His hands tremble where they hold you. “If something happens—”

You grab his collar and kiss him hard. It’s messy, desperate, all teeth and breath and no finesse. His hands slide down to your hips anchoring you both. 

“I’ll come back,” he swears against your lips. “I have to. You’re the only one I wanna—.”

“Don’t promise me things you can’t keep,” you whisper. Your voice cracks. “Just promise me you’ll try.”

He nods, once. Sharp. “I always do.”

☆☆☆☆☆

The sirens don’t wail. There’s no dramatic countdown. Just the distant thud of mortar fire echoing like thunder from the hills—and then hell breaks open.

Your med tent fills by the dozen. Blood and sand coat the floor in layers. You lose track of the bodies, of time, and there's no room to grieve, or pause, or ask who’s missing.

You don’t see Caleb.

Not that night.

Not the next morning.

Not even by the second sunset.

But the whispers continue. About how one unit got cornered and somehow made it out. A single soldier took a rooftop and held until backup arrived.

They say he was smiling.

They say he moved like gravity didn’t apply.

You say nothing.

Until—

A soldier staggers in at midnight, wide-eyed and coughing up smoke. He’s burned, dazed, but conscious enough to speak.

You lean over him, adrenaline in your throat.

“Who brought you out?”

The soldier smiles faintly through cracked lips.

“Xia. Said to tell the angel he bent the air for her again.”

Your knees almost give out, but you don’t cry. You keep working.

Later, when the noise dies down and your hands finally go still, you slip outside the tent and look up at the night sky—starless, bruised purple with war, still like his eyes.

You whisper to the wind.

“You better come back, you stupid fucking legend.”

You finally let yourself cry. A few tears that blow away as they come. 

☆☆☆☆☆

2 months pass, and you only know Caleb is alive because of the gossip. It takes time to get to you. 

‘They say he held down the last push in the east. Had them running in horror.”

“Did you hear Xia's still alive? Those bastards must have shit for brains if they haven't killed him.”

Twice. Your whole team has to relocate twice. You're scared. What if he can't find you? 

☆☆☆☆☆

Another month passes and gossip’s next to none. All you know is that too many people are dying. On both sides. People are calling it the One to One War. 

No one's winning. It's a bloody draw, held together by body after body.

☆☆☆☆☆

The sky cracks open in muted gray—no thunder, no smoke—just a silence so thick your ears ring. You’re mid-suture, needle paused above a soldier’s temple, when the first orders come through: cease fire.

Around you, the med tent erupts in stunned whispers.

Another medic shoves a folded radio transcript into your gloved hand. You read, breath catching: the high command has negotiated a window. No more bullets, no more drones. Safe corridors open. Field hospitals will exchange supplies and personnel. You hardly notice the words beyond no more bullets.

Outside, the distant thud of mortars has died. You stand, unsteady, blood-caked syringe still in hand, and peer out through the tent flap. Camp suddenly looks like a ghost town—hulking vehicles stalled in the sand, soldiers frozen, unsure. 

Delirious relief fills you. You drop onto the ground, pulse pounding. Across the clearing, the other med tents mirror your disbelief: gurneys abandoned, surgical kits left open. For two long minutes, no one moves.

Then the wounded continue to stir.

You’re back on your feet, adrenaline answering the void of violence with motion: triaging sprains, cleaning grazes, offering water. The fear in everyone’s eyes is still there. But so is something else, something like… hope.

You wash your hands for the first time in hours, letting the cool water chase away the metallic tang of war. Your reflection in the stainless basin startles you: dark circles, smudged camouflage, lips cracked from dehydration. You touch your face and realize the world outside has shifted while you were drowning in blood and screaming.

“Hey, Angel!” A voice calls from the tent entrance. You whirl, expecting Caleb’s grin—and instead see one of the Lieutenants, leaning on his crutch, eyes wide.

“They’re bringing in evac helicopters,” he says, voice trembling. “They said… they said we’ll swap supplies at dawn. No shooting.”

“Right,” you breathe, in disbelief still. “No shooting.”

He nods, glancing over his shoulder at the silent horizon.

“Every unit’s standing down. Rumor has it a treaty’s comin.”

And yet—Caleb isn’t here.

Your heart twists. No letter, no shadow at the tent’s edge, no purple-eyed savior bending his luck for a moment with you.

You swallow hard, letting the sudden emptiness hollow out your chest. Around you, the camp buzzes with hurried whispers of relocation plans, bed shortages, resupply manifests. But in your mind, there’s only one question: Where is he?

As dusk bleeds into night, you stay outside, arms wrapped tight against the cold wind. The last of the dust settles, and for the first time in weeks, the world feels still. You close your eyes, willing your heart to silence the questions, but they echo louder.

Did he make it through the push?

Did he follow the orders?

Or did the cease fire come too late for him?

Night blossoms in bruised purples and inky blues. A single lamp flickers by the tent flap, casting your shadow long against the sand.

And you stay there, listening for the familiar echo of his steps, the soft scrape of his boots in the sand—anything to tell you he isn’t gone.

☆☆☆☆☆

The cease-fire holds.

For three days, the camp is a flurry of movement—supply drops, medevacs, soldiers shuffling in and out like ghosts. You work until your hands cramp, until your vision blurs, until the names and faces of the wounded blur into one endless stream of pain.

You don’t sleep.

You don’t stop looking for him.

On the fourth night, you’re outside again, staring at the horizon, when you hear it—the distant hum of an engine. A single jeep rolls into camp, kicking up dust, its headlights cutting through the dark like a beacon.

Your breath catches.

The vehicle stops. The door opens.

And then...

Him.

Caleb Xia steps out, silhouetted against the headlights, and your heart stops.  

He’s alive.  

But something’s...

wrong.  

His right arm is gone.  

Just—gone.  

A clean unbloodied bandage is wrapped tight around the stump, just below his shoulder, stark white against his dirt-streaked skin. His face is pale, his lips cracked, his violet eyes shadowed with exhaustion. But when he sees you—when his gaze locks onto yours across the distance—he smiles.  

Like he alone has won the war.

You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen, the next you’re sprinting, boots kicking up sand, lungs burning. He meets you halfway, his left arm catching you around the waist as you crash into him.

“Angel,” he breathes into your hair, voice rough.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Your hands are shaking again. You're gripping his shirt, his neck, his face just to prove he’s real.

He lets you.

When you finally pull back, your fingers brush the scarred stump, hovering just above it. Your throat is too tight to speak.

Caleb exhales, bending to press his forehead to yours. “Still in one piece. Mostly.”

You swallow hard. “What happened?”

He shrugs—or tries to. The motion is lopsided now. 

“Took a hit for the team, I guess. We got hit harder than before. I had to choose between the arm and my life.” A weak smirk. “And someone ordered me not to die. I was in recovery. Off of the Field.”

You choke on something between a laugh and a sob. You almost wonder if he lost it on purpose. You wouldn't put it past him.

He’s here.

He’s alive.

And he’s discharged.

No more war. No more bullets. No more waiting for him to come back in pieces.

You drag him into the med tent before he can protest, ignoring the way the other medics stare. He’s too weak to fight you, leaning heavily against your side as you guide him to a cot.

“You’re an idiot,” you mutter.

“Yes ma'am,” he slurs, already half-asleep.

The injury is clean—surgically amputated, already healed, mostly. They’ll fit him for a prosthetic soon. But for now, he’s here. Whole enough.

Yours.

You bandage him back up, your fingers lingering on his skin. When you look up, his eyes are closed, his breathing steady.

You don’t let go of his hand.

☆☆☆☆☆

The prosthetic is sleek, military-grade, all black metal and whirring joints. Caleb hates it.

“Makes me look like a fucking cyborg,” he grumbles, flexing the mechanical fingers.

You roll your eyes. “You are a fucking cyborg.”

He scowls, but he barely means it. Sighs in relief when you kiss him.

The war is over for you both.

The letters don’t stop.

Even when you’re lying beside him, even when you can reach out and touch him whenever you want, he still writes them. He leaves them tucked under your pillow, slipped into your pockets, folded inside your books.

You keep every one.

And when the time comes—when the discharge papers are signed, when the transport planes are waiting—you pack your bags together.

🏷️taglist: @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple

comment if you want to be added to my caleb tag list or the taglist for every fic i post! <3

[oldestfear]

"AITA FOR BEING TOO MUCH IN BED?"— VARKA ☆

#tags-and-cw ★ NSFW! AFAB!READER DRABBLE. . . intimatacy rules, small banter, he's insatiable, you're both in your late 30's to early 40's, erectile overfunction (he has it BAD), he has body hair 'cause duhhh, established relationship (u guys are married here), i love casual intimacy, this is just sweet vanilla sex (dont expect anything kinky).

another late night where your beloved came home late. stacks upon stacks of paperwork had kept him long past sunset again, and by the time he finally stumbled into your arms he was little more than a walking corpse.

you would often find him passed out on the couch the next morning — an empty mug of beer still loosely clutched in his hand, snoring loud enough it could replace your alarm.

after a hearty meal he’d always claim he was only going to take a short nap.

twenty minutes, he’d say.

those twenty minutes inevitably turned into eight hours.

the next morning he’d whine about it, voice rough with sleep, insisting he had an awful night because your warmth wasn’t beside him.

(as if he hadn’t been drooling all over the damn couch.)

“insufferable,” you’d mutter, an exasperated scowl on your face.

varka would only laugh at that — loud, bright, utterly unashamed, 'cause of course he is, he's varka for archons' sake.

“but still yours, no?”

which was, (un)fortunately, true.

even if he gave you migraines on the daily. even if he was utterly unbearable sometimes.

varka was yours, as much as you're his.

decades of marriage had taught you many things about the man you loved. some grand, some small, some hidden in the quiet habits he didn’t even realize he had.

but you'd see them all, no mattter how miniscule they may seem.

you knew the way exhaustion settled into his shoulders after long days, knew the look of him when he walked through the door.

dim ocean blues, a crooked, tired smile, muscles aching beneath his coat.

these days he would simply press a quick kiss to your forehead before disappearing into the bathroom to wash the grime off his skin then spare a few minutes for mantaining his swords, talking about the day with you as he wipes and polishes them to perfection.

and inevitably, after a meal, he'd end up passing out just about anywhere but your shared bed.

you knew your husband very well.

which is why the moment he steps through the door tonight, you kmow something is different.

his eyes meet yours.

and the fire burning in them — sharp, bright, dangerously familiar — sends a shiver down your spine.

“i’m home,” varka whispers, boots heavy against the wooden floorboards as he crosses the room.

tonight he isn’t wearing his usual coat, nor the small pieces of armor that usually cling to him like a second skin. they’re nowhere to be seen. instead, he’s dressed only in a black shirt — the top buttons carelessly left undone.

half of his chest is exposed through the open buttons — scarred skin, a faint trail of blonde hair, and the familiar wolf-tooth necklace swaying faintly with each step he takes.

yet somehow, tonight, everything about him feels. . . different.

"sorry if i've kept you waiting," he places a light peck on the side of your lips, eyes gazing straight at you as he does.

predatory.

that was the gaze of someone who wanted to devour something — or in this case, someone.

warm, large palms rest just above the side of your hips, and you can feel the way he presses slightly, inching your body closer to his.

"no 'welcome home, honey' for me?" a deep chuckle spilled from him, soft with fondness, "finally got tired of your husband, hm?"

his eyes gleam with a certain hunger, tracing over the shape of your lips to the half-exposed cleavage of your dress.

varka does not lighten his grip, eventually pushing you further and further until your back hits the wall. leaning over until he's got you trapped between his frame and the wood now, faces mere inches apart.

you could hear the sound of his heartbeat, loud yet steady.

gulping the sudden nervousness, you were about to welcome him home as you usually did.

before you could speak, he captures you in a deep kiss, discarding whatever restraint he has. varka places a hand behind your head, softly caressing, before forcing your face closer into his waiting mouth.

he can barely keep it together, chest heaving with every rhythmic dance of his lips on yours.

"welcome—mmph—" kiss. "ahhn, home. . ." kiss.

you whine at his desperation, "varka—"

he groans into your mouth at the mere mention of his name, lips turning even more desperate. the sound rattles your bones, making you squirm against him.

and with how large the knight is, you're practically engulfed in his arms, body pressing onto the flimsy fabric of your dress until you eventually mold into one, until you eventualy feel it —

your face goes red immediately, and you hopelessly try to hold onto his biceps as he grinds the very obvious bulge against you.

you can hear every wet smack of his lips on yours, the lecherous sound bouncing off the sides of your throat into your ear. he's practically devouring you by this point, panting into the wet cavern of your mouth.

there’s a hunger in the way he looks at you, not for anything fleeting, but for the entirety of you — your voice, your laughter, the way you carry yourself

he needs you so bad that it's breaking him apart.

a small yelp escapes you when varka suddenly lifts you into his arms.

the motion pulls your lips from his, the kiss breaking too soon. he doesn’t go far, though — only tilts his head forward until his forehead rests against yours, breath warm against your skin.

your hands fumble to rest at his shoulders, steadying yourself in his arms.

"yeah, much better," he laughs, bright as ever, "my back was killin' me, leaned over too much."

varka's moved the both of you to the living room now, hs probably knocked into a few things on the way but the two of you are much too distracted to care.

"it's not my fault you're built like a hilichurl tower." you quip, looking to the sides so you can avoid his peering eyes.

he flashes you a fond, crooked grin, resting his face on your chest. "hilichurl tower? surely, there are better structures to describe someone like me."

"like what, grandmaster?"

"a guizhong ballista?"

". . . i have no idea what that is."

varka lingers dangerously near your throat, warm breath brushing your skin.

"hah, don't worry, love— you'll find out soon."

you're sitting on his lap now, directly over the twitching bulge of his cock. your thighs flinch at every shift of his hips, feeling it brush over your warmth.

he's nipping at your exposed neck, leaving faint marks that you'll scold him for in the morning. though, varka could care less about the scolding he'll get when he has you exactly how he wants you:

flushed, trembling, and soaking wet.

the strap of your dress starts to fall off your shoulder, revealing the rest of your cleavage for him to stare at. he's mesmerized at how beautiful you look, finding it hard to believe he has you all for himself.

"have i ever told you how beautiful you are?" he rasps, unzipping your dress from behind. maybe it's because of the way he's speaking to you in that tone, looking at you with that gaze, but you suddenly feel like putty in his hands.

"many times, i believe you say it everyday."

he chuckles, "really?" pulling the dress down further until it's bunched at your hips. "s'pose i can't really help it when you make me hard every damn time i walk into this house."

you feel him lick and suck bruises into your skin, each mark blooming red and pink across the canvas of your flesh — a vivid display of his relentless desire for you.

"aren't you embarrassed being this shameless at your big age?"

even well past thirty, there’s still that same restless hunger in the way he looks at you, the same eagerness in the way his hands find yours. time may have carved new lines into his face and scattered scars across his body, but it has never managed to dull the way he wants you.

varka makes a show of caressing your thighs, pushing your skirt along with it, "shameless? i'm just being honest, don't you like an honest man?"

he sneaks a glimpse at the cotton underwear hidden beneath, swallowing the urge to push them aside and take you already.

"maybe if this honest man stopped seducing me everytime he came home, i'll like him better." you huff, carding your fingers through his disheveled hair.

he looks back up at you.

"oh?" varka smiles toothily, amusement rolling off him in waves, "so the lady screamin' for more last night was just a figment of my imagination then? the very same lady who rode me so well she—"

memories of last night started flowing into your head, causing you to fluster.

your hands immediately fly to his mouth, shutting him up for good, "okay! i get it, that's enough!"

you hear his muffled laughter through the gaps of your palms, his eyes crinkling with shameless amusement.

meanwhile you’re left flushed and needy beneath him.

it’s terribly unfair.

for all the years you’ve had this man wrapped around your finger, not once have you felt undesired.

if anything, there were moments you felt too desired.

his appetite for you was relentless — rivaled only by his well-known love for alcohol.

passion has never dimmed in your marriage,. you were in an eternal state of the so-called 'honeymoon phase' where the two of you fucked like rabbits and slobbered over each other anytime you can.

that never changed, even as varka traded the reckless, stubborn youth he once was for the measured, commanding man worthy of the grandmaster’s position.

you actually found it quite funny that the young boy who used to cause a ruckus everyday for valentine would mellow down into this boisterous but dependable leader.

he's changed so much over the years, turning into the pillar of strength in mondstadt — a legend among men.

and even so, he still acted the same with you, as if he was that same bumbling fool who professed his love to anyone who would listen.

varka might have changed — in ways that might seem inconsequential to anyone else — but deep down, he was still the same man you married all those years ago.

even down to that insatiable hunger he always carried for you.

your husband has you laid out on the sofa, legs wrapped around his waist — though they never quite meet around him, his broad frame simply too large, pressing you close in all the ways you’ve grown to know and crave.

"is it too much, hun?" varka asks, combing a hand through his hair to keep it away from his eyes, all so he could stare at the way your face scrunched up for him, kiss-swollen lips trembling from the stretch.

"need me to slow down a li'l?"

you vigorously shake your head, clutching at the large palm softly caressing your cheek, "no, no, keep going, please—"

varka laughs at your desperate cries, pushing a bit further into your warmth. it's always been necessary to prep you for hours before you could take him without much pain, and varka doesn't mind the extra work – he quite enjoys it actually.

but you don't have that patience, too needy and wanting to feel him inside you as soon as possible. he finds it very cute by the way, seeing you beg for it always gets blood rushing to his nether regions in no time.

"taking me so well," he whispers, kissing your forehead, "just a bit more, mhm? be a good girl f'me."

you whimper, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he starts to slowly thrust back and forth, and it immediately makes you even wetter, soaking him in your juices.

varka lets out a lengthy groan, throwing his head back when he feels you clench around him.

“fuck,” his brows pull together, beads of sweat trailing down the hairs of his chest. “relax a bit. . . gonna break me at this rate.”

varka chuckles lowly, an obscene grin curling across his lips.

"s-sorry. . . " you say, clinging to his arms like it's the only thing anchoring you to reality.

his wolf-tooth pendant sway with every delicious roll of his hips, nailing you to the cushion, the metal glinting under the dim-lighting of your home.

your eyes linger on the many scars along his chest and arms, each one waz a testament to the battles he’s survived — a symbol of courage, of years spent facing danger without hesitation for the sake of his lobed ones.

and yet it’s the very same body he uses to carry you to bed, careful hands far gentler than anyone could imagine.

the same arms that once raised a blade now wrap around you with an ease that feels almost tender, as if the weight of war and bloodshed melts away the moment you’re in them.

it always amazes you — how a man built for battle can hold you like something precious.

varka's lips found its way to the dip of your neck, licking anywhere he could while his hips gain a steady rhythm for the both of you.

and soon enough, you start to see blurry white stars along the edges of your vision.

decades may have passed between the two of you, yet varka’s desire has never learned how to calm itself. age has softened many things in life, but not this — not the way his hands still find you with the same urgency, thee same hunger as it did all those years ago.

time may wear down mountains, but it has never managed to wear down the fire he carries for you.

"still, ah, with me?" varka asks, face still buried in the crook of your neck. his voice a soft and warm thing, contrasting the way his hips viciously slam against your soaking heat.

you could barely even garble an answer, moaning and whimpering his name at every hard thrust.

varka gently pushes your knees toward your chest, holding you close as he leans over you, his presence overwhelming in the small space between you.

you could feel every vein and throb of his thick cock, the way he stretches you out sooo good that it leaves you limbless.

he's got an arm under both of knees, locking them together, and pushing them to the side of his waist.

"take a deep breath for me," varka warns you, chuckling at the way your pussy seems to respond instead, pulsing around him with need.

he fucks you roughly, frantically pushing in and pulling out. bright red marks start to form on your ass, his pelvis repeatedly hitting against it.

every loud slap of skin makes you go dizzy, mind turning into mush as you let yourself get lost into the throes of pleasure.

your neighbors could probably hear you by now, moaning so loud that the sound bounces off the walls. varka could care less, more than happy to let you disturb the ones nextdoors — what are they gonna do? complain to the knights of favonius?

plus, hearing you sing his name like this, talking about how good everything feels and how he's 'too big' just pushes him off the edge.

he leans over to lick your lips, fingers brushing onto the side of your face.

"too much, hngh. . . "

varka laughs quietly against your ear, the sound deep and gravelly, “oh, but you love it rough. don’t you, pretty?”

your nearly roll to the back of your head, a line of drool slipping past your parted lips, "yes, i do! love it s'much—"

"really?" varka teases, voice low with desire. he wipes the drool with his thumb before bringing it back to your lips, "tell me how good it is then, c'mon, cry for me."

cry for me.

this is the only time varka would let tears run down your face willingly. he loves seeing how good he makes you feel, especially through the soft cries of his name.

"i love you! i love you!" you wail, feeling him speed up, the sounds of skin against skin getting louder. "ah! varka—"

he’s practically buzzing with adoration, every muscle taut and alive with each “i love you” that slips from your lips. even now, his heart leaps every time you praise him — a feeling that has never waned, no matter how many years have passed.

he bites his lip, letting his hips do the talking.

the sofa shakes with every brutal thrust, wood creaking under his weìght and strength.

he laughs, a low rumbling thing that makes your cunt throb, "fucking gorgeous, could never get tired of this pussy—hah, shit."

"could never, ever, get tired of you."

a mixture of sweat, drool, and cum is splattered across his meaty thighs and sticking to the trail of hair along his navel.

varka loves it when you make a mess — whether it’s around the house or on his cock. to him, it simply means his wife feels comfortable enough to let herself go around him.

and he loves it the most when you arch so beautifully in his arms, cunt clamping hard on him as you cum — you could call it an addiction with the way he groans at the way your eyes cross, whimpering his name.

"i love you too," varka whispers into your ear, leaving small butterfly kisses along the shell of it, "gonna—ugh—cum." he stutters, a low exhale leaving his lips.

your nails scratch down along his shoulders, leaving bright red marks but the pain doesn't register for him, too busy chasing his release.

not that something as small as a scratch could ever faze him.

his eyes never leave yours, following every tremble, every small gasp, as if he could memorize you whole. varka’s expression stays gentle, even as his hands leave indents on your skin — a silent tether, a promise you’re not going anywhere.

even through overestimated tears, you manage to see the silhouette of his face, desperate in a way he shouldn't be. after all, he had you nearly everyday, so why is it that he always fucks you as if it's your last?

varka presses down on you — hard. putting most of his weight onto you while you keen, cumming for a second time.

his hips goes completely still, filling you to the brim with all of his length.

all while he crashes his lips into yours — hungry, desperate, and all consuming, moaning into the kiss while your tears fall from overwhelming pleasure.

"sorry, honey. . . i don't think i'll be able to hold back tonight."

"ugh, maybe i should just go ahead and get married too. . . " one of the junior knight sighs dreamily, looking at the grandmaster's bright grin as he steps into the favonius headquarters.

his partner looks at him with a confused expression, "hah? what brought this on?"

the junior knight, palez, points over to varka, "the grandmaster gets to come home to a sweet, loving wife and a warm meal. . . that's why he's always smiley like that, look at how much he's glowing!"

"are you mentally ill?"

a suave voice cuts in, "oh dear, gossiping about the grandmaster's love life in such an open space, getting a little too chummy are we?"

kaeya and rosaria look at the two knights, and an air of chill sweeps through making them shiver. when put together, these two are no joke (outside of a tavern).

"s-sorry! captain kaeya, sister rosaria! it won't happen again." the two frantically salute, palms already getting sweaty.

kaeya laughs lightly, saluting half-heartedly as he walks away. rosaria follows right behind, her expression as icy as ever.

step.

step.

step.

". . . ."

"you think she's alright?" kaeya whispers, cringing at the thought of you being bedridden again.

rosaria can only scoff, massaging her temples as if talking about it was already giving her a migraine, "likely not. she hasn't gone to good hunter all morning which means she's. . ."

"especially since he's looking so refreshed then she's probably. . . " kaeya trails off, silently praying for your recovery.

speak of the devil.

kaeya straightens up, smiling like normal. rosaria rolls her eyes, wincing at the loud voice.

"oh, hey— it's you two! thank barbatos! mind doin' me a small favor?" varka greets them with an enthusiastic wave, a bright, boyish grin on his face.

and he shall appear.

"jean's gonna tie me to the desk at this rate," varka grumbles, "so i was hoping you two could drop this off for me—"

he shoves them something warm wrapped in cloth, rosaria takes it and perks up at the familiar smell of food — it's your favorite dish from good hunter.

kaeya shares a look with her, looking back up at varka with a sly grin, "of course, leave it to us."

.

.

.

it's just another day at mondstadt.

oddly enough, you woke up that morning with your stomach feeling warmer than usual.

it's probably nothing.

#it's-your-captain-ari-speaking ☆ i was listening to sade while scrolling on twitter dot come when i suddenly came across such a golden tweet that inspired me to immediately open my tumblr drafts to goonwrite.

I KNOWW ITS ASS...im sorry i just wrote this in between other longfics.....just...take rhis for now...ill edit it when i have time

btw just a funny thing i added but he laughs/chuckles a lot in this fic, this is bcs i went through his voicelines and istg — this guy always has to let out a "AHAHAHAHAHA!" or "hahahaha. . . " or even a small "heh." like omg shuuut up....he just be hootin' and hollerin' all over mondstadt bro 😭😭 he is soo happy to be alive.

i asked the gc for a title, and 8 out of 11 people voted for "AITA for fucking my wife too often??" while the rest either voted/recommended "a case of erectile overfunction" or "HOPPIN' DIH DIH DIH" which cracks me up a bit.

anyways brought to you by this #truthnuke of a tweet lol:

#DILF!VARKA-FOR-THE-WIN.

[canaria-herrscherr]

AAAACK!! HUBBY GOT US PREGGY😭

[notesfromthemirror]

The Grand Master and the Cat Keeper (Varka x Reader)

Synopsis: You came to Mondstadt to disappear quietly. Varka found you anyway. What begins as evening conversations and rescuing stray cats turns into something deeper. Something warm, magnetic, impossible to ignore.

A/N: I listened to Varka’s voiceline about him wanting to adopt cats and...well. My entire brain short-circuited. This was supposed to be a short fic about Varka meeting reader’s stray cats. And then suddenly I had… 12k+ words of slow-burn tenderness, emotional tension, cat bonding, and accidental domesticity.

Please enjoy cat-dad Varka and the love story he absolutely did not expect to have, but absolutely deserves. 💙

Tags: Fluff. Slow Burn. Banter. Flirting. Emotional Tension. Mutual Pining. Mutual Support. Domestic Vibes. Cat Adoption Shenanigans. Cat Dad Varka. Protective Varka. Light Angst. Comfort. Confession. First Kiss. Heated Kissing. Found Family Energy. Reader Has Walls. Varka Breaks Them Down Gently. Mondstadt Ships It. Varka Is Not Subtle.

Word count: 12570

⋆ ✦ ⋆

You’re crouched in a narrow alley when you hear footsteps.

Heavy ones. Unhurried. Getting closer, then pausing, as if whoever’s out there is listening.

You freeze, one hand hovering protectively over the three stray cats curled beneath your makeshift shelter. They meow softly, one even hissing in its sleep, and you stroke them until they settle.

Technically, you’re not doing anything wrong.

Since arriving in Mondstadt a few days ago, you’ve been collecting strays—three so far —and your landlord would absolutely evict you if they knew. So you built the cats a quiet little shelter out of crates, cloth, and stubbornness, and you visit every evening.

Tonight is no different.

At least until—

“Knew I’d heard something.”

You stiffen. You dust off your clothes quickly and step out into the lantern-lit street and stop dead.

A man stands there.

Not just a man.

The tallest man you’ve ever seen: broad shoulders beneath worn armor, scarred forearms, hair tousled from the late-night wind. His presence is so solid, so warm, it fills the entire street before he even speaks.

From the stories, he must be the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius.

You do not let yourself panic. You also do not let him near your cats.

Before you can overthink it, you straighten up. “Grand Master. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

His expression brightens with amused surprise.

“No need to be so formal with me. Just Varka.” He crosses his arms loosely, a grin tugging at his mouth. “What’re you doing out here this late?”

Your spine stiffens instinctively. “Just… taking an evening walk. Mondstadt is the city of freedom, isn’t it?”

“Woah, easy there.” His grin widens, delighted rather than offended. “Just making conversation.”

You’re sure he means no harm, but the idea of him discovering your cats and forcing you to move them makes your stomach twist.

“I have insomnia,” you say quickly. “I wander around at night.”

He tilts his head, unconvinced and amused in equal measure.

“You know, you can’t fool me. Unless you’re hissing on a regular basis, you’ve got cats somewhere.”

“Hissing can be healthy,” you counter. “If used properly and without the intent to harm.”

Varka blinks. Then he laughs. A low, warm sound that does terrible things to your ability to think.

“…I see.” He studies you with a new kind of interest. “Didn’t expect that answer.”

You cross your arms. “With all due respect, don’t you have better things to do?”

He looks around the quiet street, then back at you. “Not really, no. Just came from Angel’s Share. Was heading to sleep.”

His expression softens, voice dropping into something warm and sincere.

“But I protect this city. Don’t like people wandering alone at night, no matter how safe it seems. Alright?”

“Mm.” You click your tongue. Then nod slowly. “I see what this is about now. Not chivalry… though it’s appreciated.”

You narrow your eyes. “You want to see the cats.”

Varka‘s grin breaks wide open. “Yeah. I do. Please?”

Somehow, it’s endearing. This mountain of a man asking like you’re the one granting him a favor.

“They’re a little feisty,” you warn.

“Even better.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “They’ll love me.”

“You’re not giving up, are you? There are cats everywhere. Why don’t you go admire someone else’s?”

He laughs, a sound that fills the alley. “You fuss over them so much. Now I want to meet them.”

A meow echoes from your shelter.

You sigh. “…Great. Now they noticed you. Your laughter’s too loud.”

“I’m a loud man.” He shrugs, still grinning. “But I can be very calm, if I need to be. People say I’ve got a soothing aura.”

“Uh-huh.”

He puts a hand to his chest in playful offense, then gives you a long, assessing look like he’s piecing something together.

“C’mon. I’ll behave.”

Against your better judgment—and because your cats already know he’s here—you lead him to the shelter.

“Cozy,” he mutters, crouching beside you. “Could use some work, though. I’ve got ideas.”

“You’re very invested,” you deadpan.

“Mhm.” He offers his hand to the ginger kitten, his voice going unexpectedly soft. “I always wanted to adopt cats.”

That… does something to you. “Are you always this chatty?”

“Yeah, usually.” He glances up at you, eyes warm. “Why? You like it?”

You look away. “We’ll see about that.”

But the truth is already obvious.

One of the cats crawls onto his arm and starts licking him. You choke on a laugh.

“Got names for them yet?” Varka asks.

“Kinda,” you say too quickly.

He smirks. “Thought so. C’mon. Tell me. I can keep a secret if it’s part of some sacred cat oath.”

“With the cats?”

“Yeah. You seem the type to talk to them constantly.” He watches the way your mouth twitches. “That’s a compliment.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you have opinions about cat names.”

“Oh, I have more than opinions.” He leans in conspiratorially. “I have suggestions.”

Your heart does something unhelpful.

You gesture toward the black-and-white one curled in a box. “That’s Pepper.”

Varka hums, nodding as if evaluating the name on some internal scale of worthiness.

“Strong choice. Looks like a Pepper.”

The ginger one paws at his sleeve. “And that one’s Bristle.”

He grins. “Very accurate. Fiery little knight.”

You hesitate before adding, “The third one… doesn’t have a name yet.”

Varka’s head snaps up so fast it makes you blink. “No name?” he repeats, like you’ve just revealed a sacred vacancy.

He looks between you and the tiny grey kitten curled against your ankle. Then, softer, hopeful: “…Are you letting me?”

Your heart stutters. His voice dropped. Gentle in a way you didn’t expect from a man who looks like he could bench-press a beast.

You shrug, casual, though you definitely did this on purpose. “Maybe. If you don’t pick something ridiculous.”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart. “I take this honor very seriously.”

He studies the kitten with the focus of someone naming a knight, not a stray.

The kitten stretches, bonks its tiny head against his massive palm, and immediately begins purring.

Varka’s expression softens. Melts, even. “…Whisper,” he says.

You blink. “Whisper?”

He nods, suddenly shy in a way you wouldn’t have thought possible for a man this enormous.

“She’s quiet. Watches before she acts. Careful little thing.”

Your lips curve. “Whisper it is.”

If Varka were any happier, the street lamps would probably brighten in solidarity.

He clears his throat like he needs to steady himself. “So. You’re new to Mondstadt.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Everything about you says you’re not from around here.”

His eyes flick over your posture, your shoes, your careful way of speaking. He doesn’t judge, just notices.

You fall into an easy conversation for a while. You tell him about the cats, mostly, about where you‘re staying at the moment, and he listens and makes commentary. Gives you some info about the city, always with that grin.

Then he pauses, just looking at you. “You exploring? Passing through? Or planning to stay a while?”

You look down at the cats, then back at him. “Not sure yet. Maybe I’ll tell you next time.”

A slow, pleased smile spreads across his face. “Counting on it.”

He rises to his full height, the alley shrinking around him again. “You need a permanent place, though,” he says lightly. “Something safe. For the cats.”

His eyes catch yours. Warm. Intent. “I’ll keep an ear out.”

You open your mouth to protest—he’s the Grand Master, for Archon’s sake—but he’s already crouching again to give Whisper a final chin rub.

“Get home safe,” he says, stepping back. “And don’t wander alone at night, yeah?”

“Why?” you tease. “You going to scold me again?”

He grins. “No. I’ll just show up again.”

And with that, he disappears around the corner, leaving you in the alley with three cats, a racing heartbeat, and the distinct sense that Mondstadt just became more complicated than you planned.

— ✦ —

You don’t plan to run into him again.

And yet.

Three nights later, Varka appears with a basket slung under one arm.

“For the cats,” he says, like this is a completely normal thing for the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius to be doing at midnight.

The basket is full of fish.

Pepper takes one sniff and hisses with pure excitement.

Varka beams like he’s just negotiated a major treaty. “Knew she’d love it.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“Wanted to.” He crouches down, already offering Bristle a piece. “Besides, I was in the area.”

You raise an eyebrow. “At night. In this specific alley.”

“Patrol route,” he says, far too quickly.

You don’t believe him for a second.

(He comes back the next night too.)

It becomes a pattern.

Not every night—but often enough that the cats start looking for him. Often enough that you stop being surprised when his footsteps echo down the alley.

Often enough that you start… expecting it.

You call him “Varka” now without hesitation.

Not Grand Master. Not sir. Just… Varka.

He pretends it doesn’t affect him.

(It does.)

You notice the way his expression shifts every time you say it, something warm and pleased flickering across his face before he schools it back to neutral.

You notice, and you don’t stop saying it.

One evening, Whisper bypasses you entirely and scrambles straight up his arm to perch on his shoulder.

Varka goes very still, like he’s afraid to move and dislodge her.

“She picked her favorite,” he announces, voice soft with wonder.

“You bribed her,” you point out.

“Effective leadership.” He grins, then very carefully reaches up to scratch under her chin. Whisper purrs so loudly you can hear it from three feet away.

Something warm and unhelpful settles in your chest.

Days slip by like this. Quiet moments. Soft shifts.

By the second week, you’ve stopped pretending this isn’t happening.

“You know,” you mutter one evening, speaking more to Bristle than anyone, “he’s very persistent.”

Varka, who’s crouched two feet away coaxing Pepper out of a box, perks up immediately.

“See? I knew you made oaths with them.”

“Not oaths.”

“Guidelines, then. Sacred cat agreements.”

“Varka, stop listening to my private conversations.”

“Can’t.” He doesn’t even look sorry. “Too charming.”

You try to glare at him.

It doesn’t work.

(It never works.)

Sometimes you catch him watching you.

Not your face—your hands. The way you move around the cats. How gentle you are when Pepper gets skittish, how patient when Bristle refuses to settle, how soft your voice goes when Whisper curls into your lap.

Each time, his expression does something you don’t quite know how to name.

Soft. Like he’s cataloging every detail and filing it away somewhere important.

Once, you look up too quickly and catch him mid-stare.

He doesn’t look away.

Just smiles—small and wondering and entirely too warm—and says, “You’re good with them.”

“They’re cats,” you manage. “Not exactly difficult.”

“Still.” His voice drops, goes quieter. “It’s nice. Watching you care about something.”

You look away first.

One evening, the conversation shifts.

“How’s the apartment search going?” Varka asks while refilling Pepper’s water bowl.

“About as well as you’d expect.” You sigh. “Mondstadt’s apparently full.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Lot of people moving in lately. I’ve been asking around though—there might be something opening up soon.”

You blink. “You’ve been asking?”

“Told you I’d keep an ear out.” He glances over, slightly amused. “Though apparently I’ve asked enough people that rumors are starting. Kaeya asked if I was setting up a secret hide out.”

You snort. “What did you tell him?”

“That I’m helping a friend.” His eyes are warm. “He didn’t believe me for a second.”

“And what does he think?”

Varka’s ears go slightly pink. “Nothing worth repeating.”

One evening, when Varka shows up at the usual time, you’re hyperaware of every look, every smile, every time his hand lingers near yours.

“You alright?” he asks, noticing your distraction.

“Fine,” you lie. “Just… long day at work.”

You’d found a job at one of the shops. Nothing glamorous, but steady. Enough to pay for the temporary room and save a little. Enough to prove you could stay in Mondstadt if you wanted to.

If you wanted to.

You’re starting to think you do.

He doesn’t push. Just settles beside you, close enough that his warmth reaches you, and starts telling Pepper about his day like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

A shopkeeper stops you in the plaza one afternoon.

“Excuse me—are you the one the Grand Master’s been visiting every night?”

You choke on air.

Behind you, Varka—who’d been trailing at a polite distance like he just happened to be walking the same direction—immediately becomes very interested in a basket of apples.

“I don’t—we’re not—it’s just—” You flounder.

The shopkeeper grins knowingly. “He talks about you, you know. And the cats.”

“He what—”

“Good man.”

She’s gone before you can form a coherent response.

Varka is still examining apples with the focus of someone who absolutely heard every word and is choosing violence by pretending he didn’t.

“Varka.”

“Mm?”

“Did you tell half of Mondstadt about the cats?”

“Only the relevant half.” He finally looks at you, grin unrepentant. “They were curious why I kept disappearing at night.”

“And you thought the truth was a good idea?”

“Better than letting them think I was up to something suspicious.” He shifts the apple basket to one arm. “Besides. I’m proud of those cats. Why wouldn’t I talk about them?”

The way he says those cats does something to your chest you refuse to examine. Like they’re his too. Like he has any claim to them beyond showing up uninvited with fish.

You feel warm.

And then you notice something wrong.

He’s favoring his right shoulder.

It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t catch it. But you’ve been watching him for weeks now (not that you’d admit it), and you see the way he rolls it slightly when he thinks no one’s looking, the careful way he moves when reaching for things.

That evening, when he shows up at the alley, you’re ready.

“Here,” you say, holding out a small jar.

He blinks. “What’s this?”

“Salve. For your shoulder.”

Surprise flickers across his face before he schools it. “How did you—”

“You keep rolling it.” You shrug, trying to seem casual even though your heart is beating too fast. “Figured you pulled something during training or… whatever it is Grand Masters do.”

He stares at the jar like you’ve handed him something precious.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” You press it into his hand before you can overthink it. “But you’re always taking care of everyone else. Someone should take care of you too.”

The words hang in the air between you.

Varka goes very still, his fingers closing carefully around the jar.

When he looks up, something in his expression has shifted—softened and intensified at the same time.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You clear your throat, suddenly flustered. “It’s just salve. Don’t make it weird.”

His laugh is soft, a little rough. “Too late.”

He tucks the jar away and the way he looks at you makes your breath catch.

Like you’ve given him something he didn’t know he needed.

You mention, casually, that the nights are getting colder and the cats could use better blankets.

The next evening, Varka arrives carrying three.

Thick ones. Wool. Probably expensive.

“These were lying around in the storage,” he says, far too innocently.

You raise an eyebrow. “And they just let you take whatever you want from storage?”

“They will. I can be very convincing,” he says, completely sincere.

You don’t even argue. Just take the blankets and watch him arrange them carefully in the shelter, adjusting corners with the same focus he probably uses for military strategy.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” you say quietly.

“Worth it.” He doesn’t look up. “They need to be warm.”

A couple of weeks ago, you were hiding cats in an alley.

Now the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius is stealing blankets for them.

You’re not sure when your life became this strange.

(You’re not sure when you stopped minding.)

— ✦ —

One evening, the rain begins just as you’re finishing up with the cats. Soft at first, then steady enough that you glance up at the sky and sigh.

Varka, who’d shown up twenty minutes ago with “extra fish, just in case,” follows your gaze.

“Come on.” He straightens, brushing cat fur off his pants. “Angel’s Share is right there. I’ll buy you a drink.”

It’s not a question.

But the way he looks at you makes it feel like one anyway.

You should say no.

You should go home, draw a line, remember that he’s the Grand Master and you’re just someone passing through Mondstadt with three stray cats and no permanent address.

But the rain is picking up, and he’s looking at you like spending more time together is something he actually wants, and—

“Alright,” you hear yourself say. “One drink.”

His smile could light up the whole plaza.

“One drink,” he agrees.

(You both know it won’t be just that.)

He’s already holding the door open for you, warm lamplight spilling out behind him.

Inside, the tavern is nearly empty.

Varka scans the room once, decides immediately, then places a guiding hand near your back. Not touching, but close enough you feel the warmth.

“Upstairs,” he says with a little grin. “Quieter there.”

You follow him up the wooden steps to a table overlooking the main floor.

He gestures for you to sit.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab the drinks.”

Before you can protest, he’s already gone.

A moment later, he returns with two glasses and sets one gently in front of you.

“It’s something light,” he says. “Figured you might want to keep a clear head.”

You blink. The consideration isn’t surprising coming from him, but it’s unfamiliar to you. And it warms something in your chest.

He settles into the seat across from you, forearms braced on the table. His size makes the corner nook feel smaller, more intimate.

“So,” Varka says, softer now. “Tell me why you came to Mondstadt.”

You take a slow breath. You hadn’t planned to tell him this. But something about the quiet space, the warm wood, the light on his face makes all speaking easier.

“I’m from Fontaine,” you begin. “Born there. Raised there. My family’s… well-off.”

Varka doesn’t react with judgment. He simply listens, steady and open. “But I never fit,” you continue. “All those expectations. Parties. Perfect etiquette. Being graceful and charming in all the ‘right’ circles. It felt like wearing someone else’s life.”

His brow softens.

“So,” you shrug, “I left. Traveled a while. Tried to figure out who I actually am without all the noise.”

“And that brought you here?” Varka asks quietly.

“Yeah. Mondstadt was meant to be temporary.” You look out the window, at the rain streaking down the glass. “But it feels easier to breathe here. More honest.”

When you look back, Varka is watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. Gentle, contemplative, warmed by something he hasn’t named.

“Thinking about staying, then?” he asks, and there’s something careful in his voice. Like your answer matters more than he wants to admit.

“Maybe,” you say. “I’m not sure yet.”

His expression does something complicated. Hope and patience warring in his eyes.

“Actually,” he says, expression brightening slightly, “I might have a lead. One of the knights mentioned a place near the plaza. Landlord’s reasonable, apparently. Not confirmed yet, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll know more in a few days.”

Something in your chest eases. The uncertainty you’d been carrying about where you’d live, whether you’d have to leave Mondstadt, whether the cats would have a real home.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For caring about that. About… all of us.”

His expression softens. “Of course I care.”

The words settle between you, weighted with something neither of you quite names.

He takes a sip of his drink, and when he speaks again, his voice is thoughtful.

“You know,” he begins, “people like to pretend paths are straight lines. That you’re supposed to follow one clear direction, beginning to end.” He huffs a breath. “My life cured me of that notion eventually.”

“Oh?” you ask, leaning in.

“Yeah.” He taps a finger lightly on the table. “Spent years trying to become the hero. The symbol. The one who charges in first and gets all the glory.”

A soft laugh. “Turns out, that wasn’t me. Never was.”

You blink. “Really?”

“Really.” His voice goes low, almost thoughtful. “Glory’s loud. But real importance?” He shakes his head. “That’s quieter. More grounded. Protecting people. Showing up. Making a place safer. Kinder. That matters more to me than any legend.”

It matches him. Perfectly.

“So,” he finishes, tilting his head, “if you strayed from the path life laid out for you? Good. Sometimes the wandering is the only part that actually belongs to you.”

His gaze lingers a second too long. Your pulse trips.

You weren’t expecting this. Not from someone who looks like he could wrestle a Lawachurl and win. Not from the Grand Master who everyone in Mondstadt seems to revere.

But he’s looking at you like he understands exactly what it means to walk away from a destiny someone else chose. Like he’s done it himself.

“That’s…” You swallow. “That’s exactly it. I couldn’t have said it better.”

Something shifts in his expression. Warmth, recognition, something deeper.

“Then you’re on the right path,” he says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

The moment stretches between you.

You clear your throat, needing to lighten the weight before it pulls you under.

“You’re very philosophical for someone who was interrogating me about hissing before.”

He lets out an unrestrained laugh. Deep and warm.

“I stand by it,” Varka says. “Still a reasonable question.”

“It’s really not.”

He shifts closer. Not much, but enough that the warmth of him reaches across the table.

The conversation flows easily after that. Easier than it has any right to, considering you’ve known him less than a month.

You tell him about Fontaine. Not the practiced version you give strangers, but the truth: the suffocating expectations, the parties where you felt like someone on display, the moment you realized you’d rather have nothing than live someone else’s life.

He listens like every word matters. Asks questions that show he’s not just being polite—he actually wants to understand. “What was the moment you decided to leave?” “Did anyone try to stop you?” “Do you miss any of it?”

You find yourself answering things you normally wouldn’t. Remembering details you thought you’d buried.

When you pause, suddenly self-conscious about how much you’ve shared, he just refills your glass and says, “Go on. I’m listening.”

And he is. Completely. Like nothing else in the world exists except you and this conversation.

In return, he tells you stories.

About fights—though he never boasts, always deflects credit to others. About the knights and their various mishaps. About Mondstadt and why he loves it, why he stays, why protecting it matters more to him than any glory ever could.

You listen just as intently, asking your own questions, calling him out when he’s too modest, teasing him when he gets that fond look talking about “his” knights.

When he laughs—really laughs, not just that warm chuckle—you feel it in your chest. Like the sound is burrowing under your skin and making a home there.

The tavern empties around you.

Neither of you moves to leave.

At some point, his hand ends up near yours on the table. Not touching, but close. So close you’re hyperaware of the space between your fingers, the way the light catches on his skin, the fact that closing that distance would be so easy.

You don’t.

But you think about it.

And when you glance up, you find him watching you with an expression that suggests he’s thinking about it too.

“You’re different tonight,” he notes, voice dropping into something more intimate.

You arch a brow, trying to lighten the weight of the moment. “And you’re different when you’re not sniffing around alleys trying to find cats.”

“Cats were a welcome surprise,” he says, voice dropping. “But I’m not complaining about the company either.”

The air between you shifts.

He notices your sharp inhale, and his mouth curves. “Relax,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement. “I don’t bite.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lie.

“Sure you’re not.”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you.

Then he glances toward the window, where the rain has softened to a gentle mist.

“Rain’s letting up,” Varka says quietly, almost reluctant to break whatever this is. “Should probably check on the cats before it starts again.”

He stands, then pauses—hand extended, waiting.

You accept without thinking. His hand engulfs yours. Warm, steady, careful.

And the walk back feels different.

Closer. Quieter. Charged with something neither of you names.

He doesn’t let go of your hand until you reach the alley.

Even then, his fingers linger for just a moment. Warm and careful and entirely too aware of what they’re doing.

When he finally releases you, the absence feels louder than it should.

— ✦ —

The next few days blur together. Varka starts finding excuses to see you outside the evening cat visits.

“Was in the area,” he says, appearing while you’re buying vegetables.

You raise an eyebrow. “The headquarters is on the other side of the city.”

“Long patrol route,” he says, entirely shameless.

He carries your bags anyway.

One afternoon, you’re reading on a bench near the cathedral when a shadow falls across your book.

You look up.

Varka stands there, two cups of tea in hand. “Thought you might want one,” he says.

You blink. “How did you know I was here?”

“Lucky guess.” But his eyes are warm, pleased he found you.

You take the tea. Your fingers brush his.

He notices. You pretend not to.

But as he settles across from you, you can’t help noticing the way the afternoon light catches in his hair, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his hands dwarf the teacup.

He’s always been large—you knew that objectively.

But sitting here in the quiet cathedral square, watching him handle the delicate cup with surprising care, you realize he’s also just… handsome.

The thought arrives unbidden and unwelcome.

You take a sip of tea to hide your face.

The next day, Varka arrives looking harried, ink stains on his fingers.

“Rough day?” you ask.

He groans, settling beside you. “Paperwork. Mountains of it.”

He makes a face. “Tomorrow's going to be worse. I'll be drowning in papers until sunset. At least.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It is.” He watches Bristle chase a leaf with clear longing. “This is much better.”

The next afternoon, you find yourself standing outside the headquarters, a basket of lunch in hand and a half-formed plan in your head.

This is probably a terrible idea.

You walk in anyway.

The entrance hall is impressive. A few knights mill about, and you suddenly feel very out of place.

“Can I help you?”

You turn to find a woman. Blonde hair, gray-blue eyes, an air of competent professionalism that's somehow both intimidating and kind.

“I'm looking for Varka,” you say. “Is he... available?”

Her expression shifts—recognition.

“You're the one with the cats,” she says. It's not a question.

Your face heats. “I—yes. How did you—”

“He talks about you.” Her smile is gentle. “I'm Jean.”

“Oh." You're suddenly very aware that you're talking to someone important while holding a lunch basket like some kind of—

“He's in his office,” Jean continues. “He's been buried in paperwork since dawn and his mood is... not good.”

“Actually,” you say before you can lose your nerve, “I was wondering if I could borrow him. Just for a bit. He mentioned being swamped today, and I thought—” You gesture vaguely with the basket. “—maybe a break would help?”

Jean's expression does something complicated. Surprised, pleased, almost relieved.

“I think that's exactly what he needs.” She glances toward his office, then back to you. “Take as long as you want. I'll handle anything urgent.”

“Are you sure? I don't want to—”

“I'm sure,” Jean says, and there's genuine warmth in her voice now. “He needs this.”

You knock on the door.

“Come in,” comes a weary voice.

You push the door open to find Varka behind a desk absolutely buried in papers. He's bent over a document, quill in hand, and he doesn't look up.

“Jean, I promise I'm working on the—”

“Not Jean.”

His head snaps up.

For a second, he just stares. Surprise and confusion and then something that looks almost like relief flooding his expression.

“What are you doing here?"

“Rescuing you.” You hold up the basket. “You said you'd be drowning in paperwork. Thought you might need sustenance. And—” You glance at the mountain of documents. “—possibly a reason to stop before you go insane.”

Varka blinks. Then he laughs. Tired but genuine. “You have no idea how tempting that sounds.”

“Then come with me.”

“I can't just—” He gestures at the desk. “There's still so much—”

“Jean said she'd cover anything urgent.” You lean against the doorframe, giving him your best challenging look. “Come on, Grand Master. When was the last time you actually took a break?”

His jaw works.

“You're trouble,” he mutters, but he's already standing, and you see the grin he's trying to hide. He clearly welcomes the distraction.

“So I've been told.”

You lead him out of headquarters, through the plaza, and then—instead of stopping at the fountain or a bench—you head toward the city walls.

“Where are we going?” Varka asks, amused suspicion creeping into his voice.

“You'll see.”

When you reach the base of the wall, you set the basket down and start climbing.

“What are you—” Varka stops dead. “Are you climbing the city wall?”

“Yep!” You're already halfway up, using the handholds in the stone. It's not difficult. The walls are old, plenty of places to grip.

“That's not—you can't just—” He sounds somewhere between alarmed and baffled. “That's not allowed!”

“Says who?” you call down.

"Says the Grand Master!”

You pause, looking down at him with a grin. “Then I guess you'll have to come arrest me.”

His expression is torn between duty and disbelief and something that looks suspiciously like he's trying not to laugh.

“I told you I came to Mondstadt for freedom,” you point out, settling onto the top of the wall and letting your legs dangle. “Can't get more free than this.”

He stares up at you for a long moment.

Then, shaking his head with a laugh that sounds almost helpless, he follows.

He makes it look effortless, of course. One smooth motion and he's beside you, settling onto the wall with considerably more grace than you managed.

“You're going to give me a heart attack,” he says, but he's smiling now. Really smiling.

“Someone has to keep you on your toes.” You open the basket, handing him bread and cheese. “You were drowning in bureaucracy. Figured you needed reminding that there's a world outside that office.”

“By making me climb the city wall.”

“Exactly.”

He takes a bite, and for a moment you both just sit there, legs dangling over Mondstadt, the breeze carrying the scent of flowers from the meadow below.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I... needed this. More than I realized.”

“I know.” You bump your shoulder against his. “You get this look when you're buried in work.”

He glances over, something complicated in his expression. “You really do notice things, don't you?”

Before you can react, he reaches out and ruffles your hair. Playful, warm, entirely unexpected.

“Hey!” You swat at his hand, laughing.

“What?” His grin is unrepentant. “You caught me off-guard with the wall climbing. Fair's fair.”

“That's not—that's completely different!”

“Is it?” He's leaning closer now, eyes bright with mischief. “You surprised me. I surprised you. Seems even to me.”

Your heart is thumping in your chest.

You're very aware of how close he is. How his hand is still in your hair. How easy it would be to lean in, to close that distance, to—

He seems to realize the same thing.

His expression shifts, the playfulness fading into something more intense, more aware.

For a breathless moment, neither of you moves.

Then he clears his throat, hand dropping, putting a careful few inches between you.

“We should probably eat,” he says, voice slightly rougher than usual.

“Right. Yes. Food.”

But you're both very aware that something just shifted.

— ✦ —

Two days pass without seeing Varka.

It’s not unusual—he’s the Grand Master, he has responsibilities. But you’ve gotten used to his presence in the evenings, the sound of his footsteps in the alley, the way Whisper perks up when she hears him coming.

The cats notice his absence too. Bristle keeps looking toward the alley entrance. Pepper seems restless.

On the third evening, he finally appears.

And everything in you goes still.

He's different.

There's no blood, no visible damage. His armor is intact, his posture upright as ever. To anyone else, he'd look fine.

But you've spent weeks watching him. Learning the easy warmth of his presence, the way he fills a space with calm.

This isn't that.

This is contained. Tightly controlled. Like he's holding something back with sheer force of will.

The air around him feels heavy. Like the atmosphere before a storm, all potential energy and barely-leashed power.

The cats notice too. Pepper's ears flatten slightly. Bristle stops mid-exploration, watchful.

Only Whisper approaches, cautious but trusting.

“There you are,” you say, keeping your tone light despite the unease curling in your stomach. “Thought maybe you'd gotten bored of us.”

“Never.” His voice is normal. Warm. Steady. But when he crouches beside you to greet the cats, you see it.

The careful precision in every movement.

The tension in his shoulders.

The tightness around his eyes, around his mouth.

The way his hands are just slightly less gentle than usual. Not rough, but effortful.

This is what strength looks like when it's been tested. When it's held too much for too long and is barely holding together.

“Extended patrols,” he says, running his hand over Whisper's head. “Situation outside the city.”

“Everything okay?”

“All handled.” That practiced smile again. “We were victorious. No casualties.”

Most people would accept this. The mission succeeded, the Grand Master is fine, that’s all that matters.

You’re not most people.

You watch him settle beside you, the way he rolls his shoulder slightly when he thinks you’re not looking, the careful control in every movement.

“What’s it like?” you ask quietly.

He glances over. “What’s what like?”

“Leading people into danger. Fighting the way you do.”

Something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe, or something more guarded.

“Why?” He recovers with that easy grin. “Want to see me train sometime?”

The image arrives unbidden. Him in the training grounds, armor off, shirt clinging to his frame, that focused intensity you’ve glimpsed turned toward combat instead of cats—

Your face heats. “I—sure—but that’s not—” You catch yourself, narrow your eyes. “Hey. Don’t try to change the topic.”

His smile falters slightly. “Wasn’t trying to—”

“Yes, you were.” You turn to face him fully. “You do that. When something’s uncomfortable, you deflect with humor or change the subject. I’ve noticed.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far.

Then he exhales slowly, and something in his posture shifts. Not quite sagging, but releasing something he’s been holding.

“Nobody really asks that,” he says finally, voice quieter than usual. “About what it’s like. They ask if we won. If I’m injured. If the city’s safe. But not…” He gestures vaguely. “Not what it feels like.”

You wait, giving him space.

“It can be straining,” he admits. “Every decision could mean someone doesn’t come home. Every plan I make, I’m weighing lives. And when we win—when everyone makes it back—I’m supposed to celebrate. Be the confident leader who never doubted.”

He looks down at his hands. “But sometimes I’m just… tired.”

Your chest aches.

This man who carries so much, and nobody asks if he’s okay because he’s always okay, he has to be okay, he’s the Grand Master—

“Come on,” you say, standing abruptly.

He blinks up at you. “What?”

“We’re going for a walk.”

“It’s late—”

“I know what time it is.” You’re already gathering the cats’ leads.

“With the cats?”

All three cats immediately perk up, meowing and purring as if in agreement.

You give him a pointed look. “You have your answer.”

He stares at the cats, then at you, then back at the cats.

“Well,” he says, a hint of genuine amusement creeping into his voice, “my four companions have decided. Who am I to argue?”

The streets of Mondstadt are quiet at this hour, just the soft glow of lanterns and the distant sound of the tavern.

You walk side by side, the cats exploring ahead on their leads. Whisper stays close to Varka’s heels. Loyal little thing.

“Thank you,” he says after a while. “For asking. For… this.”

“You don’t have to thank me for basic decency.”

“Still.” He looks at you, something complicated in his expression.

You stop walking. The cats pause too, sensing the shift.

Before you can overthink it, you step closer and wrap your arms around him.

He goes rigid—just for a second—before his arms come up slowly. Carefully.

“You’re a good person, Varka,” you murmur against his chest. “Not just a good leader. You’re… genuinely good. Kind. Thoughtful. The kind of person who remembers which cat likes which blanket and asks the right questions and notices things without someone mentioning them.”

You feel him exhale, long and slow, some of the tension draining from his frame.

“The kind of person people look up to,” you continue, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Not because you’re strong or victorious or never make mistakes. But because you care. That’s why they follow you. Why they trust you.”

His eyes are very bright in the lamplight. “I don’t…” His voice is rough. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

He laughs—surprised and a little unsteady. “You’re extraordinary, you know that?”

“Why, because I give hugs?”

“Because you see things.” His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “You ask the questions nobody else asks. You notice things nobody else notices.”

The moment feels suspended, fragile.

“I admire that about you,” you say quietly. “You’re good at helping people, but you’re also good at knowing people. Seeing what they need. Being what they need.”

You hesitate, then add, “I wasn’t always… good at that. Knowing who to trust. I got hurt once—someone I cared about got hurt because I trusted the wrong people. Made the wrong call.”

His expression shifts. Understanding, protectiveness, something deeper.

“It made me careful,” you continue. “Maybe too careful. But you…” You meet his eyes. “You’re not like them.”

“Hey,” he says softly, both hands framing your face now. “Whatever happened before—that wasn’t your fault. You can’t control what other people choose to do.”

“I know. But it still—”

Bristle headbutts his leg aggressively, meowing with impressive volume.

You both startle, then laugh.

“I think someone’s jealous of the attention,” Varka says, crouching to give Bristle the pets she’s demanding.

“Or hungry,” you point out.

“Always a possibility with this one.” But he’s smiling. Something warm and genuine and entirely for you.

Pepper joins in the demand for attention. Then Whisper. Within seconds you’re both surrounded by insistent cats.

“Alright, alright,” Varka concedes, standing. “My four companions have spoken again. We should head back.”

The walk back is lighter somehow. His shoulders aren’t quite so tense. Your own chest feels less tight.

When you reach the alley, he helps you settle the cats before turning to leave. “Varka?”

He looks back.

“I mean it. What I said. You’re… you’re really good. Don’t forget that.”

Something in his expression goes very soft. “Coming from you,” he says quietly, “that means more than you know.”

And then he’s gone, but the warmth in your chest stays.

Behind you, Whisper purrs contentedly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.”

— ✦ —

The next evening, when Varka shows up at the usual time, you’re hyperaware of every look, every smile, every time his hand lingers near yours.

“You alright?” he asks, noticing your distraction.

“Fine,” you lie.

He doesn’t push. Just settles beside you, close enough that his warmth reaches you, and starts telling Pepper about his day like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You watch him. This enormous man baby-talking to a cat—and something in your chest aches.

Don’t, you tell yourself. Don’t get attached. You’re leaving eventually. This isn’t permanent.

But it’s getting harder to remember why you would do that.

Varka brings you a scarf one day after.

“Nights are getting colder,” he says, wrapping it around your neck before you can protest.

His fingers linger at your collar. You can feel his breath, warm against your temple.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You’re acutely aware of everything—the calluses on his fingertips, the warmth radiating from him, how close his mouth is to your forehead. How easy it would be to tilt your head up, to—

Then Bristle meows, breaking the spell, and you both step back too quickly.

“Thank you,” you manage.

“Anytime.” His voice is rougher than usual.

You don’t take the scarf off, even after he leaves.

It smells like him.

Two days later, you notice his gloves are worn through at the fingertips.

You don’t say anything. Just buy a new pair and leave them at the Knights of Favonius headquarters with a note:

For patrols. Don’t argue.

That evening, when he shows up at the alley, he’s wearing them. “You know,” Varka says, crouching beside you, flexing his fingers in the new gloves, “you’re making it very hard to be the one who takes care of you.”

“Good.” You don’t look at him. “You do too much for everyone else anyway.”

“And you don’t do enough for yourself.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

He laughs. Surprised and delighted and entirely too warm. “Fair point.”

When you finally glance over, he’s looking at the gloves like they’re armor blessed by the Archons.

“They fit perfectly,” he says quietly.

You watch his hands as he flexes his fingers again.

You’ve seen those hands gentle with kittens, steady when holding them, and suddenly you’re thinking about them in contexts you absolutely should not be thinking about.

“I know your size.” The words slip out before you can stop them.

His eyes snap to yours, something intense flickering in them. “Do you?”

“I pay attention,” you manage.

“Yeah,” he says softly, voice rough. “I’ve noticed.”

Neither of you looks away.

Pepper headbutts your leg, demanding food, and the moment shatters.

But Varka doesn’t take the gloves off for the rest of the night.

And you notice.

One evening, Varka arrives earlier than usual, and there’s something different in his expression.

“I found a place,” he says without preamble.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“An apartment. Two rooms, near the plaza. I talked to the landlord about the cats. He’s fine with it.”

Your heart does something complicated.

You’ve been looking for weeks. Every place either doesn’t allow animals, costs too much, or the landlords take one look at you—a newcomer with no references—and politely decline.

You were starting to think you’d be in that cramped temporary room forever.

“Is it… expensive?”

“Affordable.” He names a price that makes your shoulders drop with relief. “And the landlord’s flexible. As long as you take care of the place, he’s not picky.”

“Varka…” Your voice catches, but his gaze tells you that words aren't needed.

“Want to see it?” he asks gently. “No pressure. But I think you’d like it.”

The next day, he takes you to see it.

It’s perfect.

Small, yes. The floors creak and the kitchen is barely big enough for two people. But the windows are tall, the light is good, and when you mention the cats, Varka points to the corner near the hearth.

“Perfect spot for them,” he says. “Warm. Safe.”

You stand in the middle of the empty apartment and feel something shift in your chest.

A permanent place.

In Mondstadt.

“I’ll take it,” you hear yourself say.

Varka’s smile could light up the entire city.

“The place will be ready in about two weeks,” he says. “Landlord needs to do some minor repairs first—fix a few floorboards, check the window latches, that sort of thing. But it’s yours after that.”

Two weeks. A permanent place in two weeks.

It feels both impossibly far away and remarkably close.

“I’ll help you move,” Varka says, like it’s obvious. Like there was never any question.

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know.” His eyes are warm. “But I want to. Besides, those cats aren’t going to move themselves.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Pretty sure Bristle would try.”

“Exactly why you need supervision.” Varka’s grinning now. “Can’t have her directing the whole operation.”

“You know he likes you, right?” Sara asks one day when you’re picking up food.

“Who?”

She gives you a look. “The Grand Master. Varka. The man who rearranged his entire schedule to ‘accidentally’ run into you.”

“He hasn’t—we’re not—”

“He looks at you,” she interrupts gently, “like you’re the best thing that’s happened to Mondstadt in years.”

Your throat tightens.

“He’s just… kind. That’s how he is with everyone.”

“No,” she says simply. “It’s not.”

That night, Varka shows up early.

You’re still arranging the shelter when his footsteps echo down the alley.

“You’re here early,” you say, not looking up.

“Finished work early.” He crouches beside you. “Thought I’d help.”

You hand him a bowl of food without comment.

His fingers brush yours as he takes it.

This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately.

Neither do you.

When Varka arrives the next evening, you notice immediately.

The careful way he sits. The slight tightness around his eyes. The way he’s holding himself just a fraction too still.

“Long day?” you ask quietly.

“Just the usual.” But his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You don’t push. Just shift slightly closer, your shoulder brushing his.

It’s a small thing. Barely noticeable.

But you feel him exhale—long and slow—some of the tension leaving his frame.

His eyes drop to where you’re touching, then to your face. The look there is complicated. Warm and wanting and carefully controlled.

“This helps,” Varka says, voice rougher than usual.

You’re suddenly very aware of the warmth of him, the solid presence at your side, the fact that you’re close enough to feel his breathing.

“What does?”

“This. Being here. With you.”

Your heart stumbles.

He’s not looking at you—he’s watching Whisper play with a piece of string—but his voice is too honest, too open.

“Here it’s just quiet. Just the cats. Just us. That's enough.”

He finally looks at you.

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but sit there with your shoulder pressed to his, feeling the warmth of him, the weight of what he’s not quite saying.

“You don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time,” you say softly. “Not with me.”

Something in his expression cracks open.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I keep coming back.”

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he adds after a moment.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

About how I’m falling for you.

“Nothing important,” you say instead.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, he asks: “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

You finally look at him.

“Of course,” you lie, panic taking over.

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows it’s not true.

But he doesn’t push.

He never pushes.

Two days later, the rain comes.

Heavy and cold and relentless.

You stay with the cats longer than you should, making sure their shelter is secure, that they’re warm and dry.

By the time you finish, you’re soaked through.

Varka didn’t come tonight. Some emergency at the headquarters, probably.

You tell yourself you’re not disappointed.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. Less complicated, less dangerous, less likely to end with your heart in pieces when you eventually leave Mondstadt.

You tell yourself a lot of things as you walk home in the rain, shivering, already feeling the first warning signs of a fever settling into your bones.

— ✦ —

The next morning, Whisper doesn’t come out of the shelter. When you coax her into your hands, her tiny body feels too warm, her breathing small and uneven.

Your stomach drops.

You bundle her gently into your cloak and go looking for help.

But halfway across the square, the world swims.

You blink hard, but the plaza keeps tilting.

When did the sun get so bright? When did your legs get so heavy?

Right. You didn’t sleep much. Didn’t eat much. Didn’t think about the rain soaking you through last night, or how your throat’s been raw since morning, or how you can’t seem to get warm no matter how many layers you put on.

You take another step—

And sway.

A large hand steadies your shoulder instantly.

“Easy,” comes a familiar voice. “You okay?”

You look up.

Of course he’s here.

Varka is always exactly where he shouldn’t be, and exactly where you need him.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

His eyes flick down to Whisper, then to your unsteady posture.

“You’re not,” he says quietly.

“I’m just tired.”

“And feverish.” His gaze sharpens. “And trying to walk across the plaza with a sick kitten instead of asking for help.”

Your jaw tenses. “Whisper needs a healer. That’s all.”

“So do you.”

You stiffen, ready to protest, but your legs choose that moment to wobble again.

His hands catch your elbows, steady and warm. Stronger than they have any right to be.

“Sit,” he says gently but firmly. “Now. Before you fall.”

You bristle, instinctively defensive. “I don’t need—”

“Yes.” His voice is low, steady, and utterly unmovable. “You do.”

Your breath stutters. He lowers you onto a bench against the fountain wall. Carefully, like you’ll topple if he moves too fast.

Then he crouches, eye-level now, looking between you and the trembling kitten in your arms.

“What happened?”

“Whisper’s… warm. She’s not eating. And I—” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

His expression is impossible to read. Something between soft worry and something deeper, tighter.

“You don’t bother me,” he says quietly. “Not ever.”

Your breath catches.

He stands, shrugs off his cloak, and drapes it around your shoulders before you can stop him.

The weight of it settles over you, still warm from his body. Too intimate. Too caring. Too much like something you don’t deserve.

“Varka—”

“You’re shivering,” he says. “Let me help.”

You look down at Whisper again, guilt and fear twisting in your chest.

“I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve—”

“No.” His voice is suddenly firm, almost rough. “Stop that.”

You blink up at him.

“This isn’t your fault,” he continues. “Animals get sick. Weather changes. You’re doing everything right.”

You swallow hard.

He meets your eyes, steady and unflinching.

“And you don’t have to do it alone.”

You look away, throat tight. “I don’t want to rely on you for everything.”

His jaw flexes. Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, yes, but underneath it, something that looks almost like hurt.

“I don’t want you relying on me for everything,” he says slowly, voice tight with something he’s trying to control. “But I do want you to let me help when you’re sick and trying to carry a sick kitten across the plaza alone because you’re too stubborn to ask.”

He takes a breath, steadying himself. “I want to be here for this. Don’t you get that?”

Your breath hitches.

There it is—the edge of frustration.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

He exhales sharply, like the words hit him somewhere deep.

“You’re not,” he says, voice low and earnest. “Not to me.”

Before you can reply, Whisper stirs weakly.

Varka straightens immediately. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get both of you taken care of.”

And when you hesitate—because of course you hesitate, because accepting help feels like admitting defeat, like proving you can’t do this alone—

He waits. Hand extended. Patient. Unmovable.

Like he’ll stand there all day if that’s what it takes.

Whisper mewls softly in your arms, and the sound breaks something in you.

You take his hand.

His fingers close around yours, and he pulls you to your feet gently.

“There,” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You don’t answer.

Can’t.

Because his hand is still holding yours, and you’re wearing his cloak that smells like him, and Whisper is tucked against your chest, and Varka is looking at you like—

Like you matter.

Like this matters.

And you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend it doesn’t.

— ✦ —

The next days pass in a blur of recovery and quiet anticipation.

Whisper bounces back quickly. Within days she’s climbing and exploring like nothing happened.

You take longer, but Varka checks on you daily. Brings soup. Insists you rest. Threatens to carry you back to bed when he catches you trying to organize your belongings too early.

“The apartment isn’t going anywhere,” he says firmly. “Neither am I.”

You stop arguing after that.

By the time moving day arrives, you’re mostly recovered and entirely out of excuses to avoid the flutter of nerves in your chest.

This is really happening.

A permanent place. In Mondstadt.

With Varka helping you settle into it.

You’re halfway through carrying a box up the stairs when Varka appears in the doorway, arms already reaching.

“I can carry my own things,” you protest.

“I know.” He takes the box anyway. “But I’m here, so you don’t have to.”

By the time the sun sets, your belongings are inside and Varka is helping arrange furniture like he’s done this a hundred times.

“The desk should go near the window,” he suggests. “Better light for reading.”

You both move to shift it, and suddenly you’re in close quarters. His arm brushing yours, his chest nearly against your back as you navigate the narrow space.

He smells like wind and leather and something warmer you can’t name.

“Careful,” he murmurs, hand steadying your waist as you nearly trip.

The touch is brief, practical, completely innocent.

Your heart races anyway.

You blink. “How did you know I like to read by windows?”

He pauses, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “You always sit by them. In the tavern, the plaza, the cathedral steps…”

He’s been noticing. Cataloging. Remembering.

“Varka,” you say quietly.

He looks up from the table he’s positioning.

“Thank you. For… all of this. The place, the help, just…” You gesture vaguely. “Everything.”

Something softens in his expression. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I want to.”

The air between you thickens.

He’s standing in your home. Your space. Somewhere private and personal and entirely yours.

Except you invited him in, and he came, and now he’s here, in your kitchen, with dust on his shirt and warmth in his eyes, and it feels significant in a way you can’t quite name.

“The cats should go here,” Varka says finally, breaking the moment. He gestures to the corner near the hearth. “Warm. Out of the way. Safe.”

Of course he’s thought about the cats.

You help him arrange blankets, set up bowls, create a little sanctuary in the corner.

When you’re done, Pepper immediately claims the softest blanket. Whisper curls beside her. Bristle explores every inch, sniffing and investigating with her usual boldness.

“They like it,” Varka says, satisfaction clear in his voice.

“They do.”

You both watch them for a moment. This small family you’ve built, this strange little life that somehow includes him now.

“I should go,” he says, though he doesn’t move. “Let you settle in.”

“You could stay,” you hear yourself say. Then, realizing how that sounds: “For tea. I mean. If you want.”

His smile is soft and entirely too warm. “I’d like that.”

You make tea in your new kitchen while he sits at your new table, and it feels domestic and comfortable and terrifying all at once. You talk for a while. And it's nice.

“First night in a new place is always strange,” he says eventually. “If you need anything—”

“I know where to find you.”

His eyes hold yours. “Yeah. You do.”

He stands, reluctant to leave. “I’ve got to meet some of the knights at Angel’s Share—strategy discussion that’ll probably run late. But I’ll be nearby if—” He stops himself, looking almost embarrassed. “Well. You know where I am.”

“Angel’s Share is close,” you point out, smiling despite yourself. “I think I can manage.”

“And if anything—”

“Varka.” You give him a look. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

He nods, though he still doesn’t look entirely convinced.

When he finally leaves, the apartment feels bigger and emptier than it should.

— ✦ —

You spend the rest of the evening unpacking.

Arranging books. Hanging clothes. Trying to make this new space feel like home.

The cats explore cautiously. Pepper claiming the warmest corner, Whisper investigating every shadow, Bristle poking her nose into cabinets and crevices with her usual boldness.

In the end, you’re exhausted but satisfied. The apartment is still mostly bare, but it’s yours. The cats have food and water and soft places to sleep. The windows overlook the plaza where lanterns are just beginning to glow.

It’s perfect.

You settle the cats for the night—fresh water, blankets arranged just so. Bristle purrs when you scratch behind her ears, and Whisper is already curled up contentedly.

“First night in our new home,” you murmur to them. “No more cramped rooms. No more hiding.”

They seem satisfied.

You leave a window cracked for fresh air—just a few inches, secured with the latch Varka checked earlier—and finally let yourself relax.

You’d just finished changing into sleep clothes when you hear it.

A door creaking somewhere.

A gust of wind stronger than it should be.

And the bell around Bristle’s neck jingles once—

Then silence.

Your heart lurches.

“Bristle?” you call, searching the corners. “Come here!”

Nothing.

The window curtain flutters, and dread slides cold down your spine.

You rush outside barefoot, scanning the street.

“Bristle?!”

Your voice cracks.

And then, footsteps.

Heavy ones, too familiar now.

Varka rounds the corner quickly, expression alert, still carrying the faint warmth of the tavern on him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Bristle—she’s gone—the window—” You can’t form full sentences. Can’t breathe properly. “I have to find her—she could be anywhere—”

You try to move past him.

He catches your arm. Not roughly, but firm.

“Stop. Just—stop for a minute and—”

“I don’t have a minute!” You pull free, voice breaking. “She’s out there, alone, she doesn’t know this area, what if she’s scared, what if something—”

“I know.” His voice is steady but strained. “I know you’re scared, but you can’t just—”

“Can’t what?” You spin on him, panic making you sharp. “Look for her? What am I supposed to do, just wait? Just stand here while she’s—”

“You’re barefoot,” he interrupts, voice harder now. “You ran out here without shoes, without a coat, without thinking—”

“Of course I didn‘t think!” The words tear out of you. “I heard the bell and she was gone and I just—I can’t—”

Your voice cracks completely.

Varka’s jaw tightens, something flashing in his eyes. Frustration, fear, something barely controlled.

“You think I don’t understand that?” His voice is low, rough at the edges in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I’m not terrified right now too?”

You blink at him, startled.

“She’s—” He stops, takes a breath that sounds like it costs him. “She’s my cat too. I know that’s not—I don’t have any claim, but I—”

He drags a hand through his hair, and you realize his hands are shaking slightly.

“I’m scared too,” he says, quieter now but no less intense. “But you can’t just run into the night alone. What if you’d gone outside the city walls?”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t you?” His voice sharpens again. “If you thought she’d gone that way? If someone said they saw a cat near Wolvendom, or the Whispering Woods—would you have stopped at the gates?”

The answer must show on your face because something in his expression cracks.

“Exactly,” he breathes. “You would’ve run straight into hilichurl territory, or worse, and you wouldn’t have thought twice because you were scared and—”

He stops himself, jaw working. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

The world goes very quiet.

“What?” you whisper.

He’s not looking at you now. His hands are clenched at his sides, and when he speaks his voice is rough with something that sounds like desperation.

“You don’t get it,” Varka says. “Every time you’re in danger, every time you run off alone, every time you refuse to let me help because you don’t want to be a ‘burden’—”

He finally looks at you, and the expression in his eyes stops your breath.

“You—this—you are important to me. And watching you throw yourself into danger—”

He cuts himself off, breathing hard.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything he just said and everything he didn’t.

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

“Varka,” you breathe.

He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s trying to regain control.

When he opens them again, some of the intensity has banked. Not gone, but carefully contained.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to—” He shakes his head.

“I'm sorry too,” you murmur. “For worrying you.”

“Let’s just find her. Together. Please.”

This time when he offers his hand, you take it.

He’s right. You’re shaking, you’re barefoot, you can barely think straight.

And because somewhere in the last two minutes, everything changed.

His hand is warm and steady around yours, and he squeezes once before releasing it.

“Gates first,” Varka says, voice back to that calm competence. “She’s bold. She’ll move toward open space when stressed.”

You stare at him. “How do you know that?”

He glances sideways, a ghost of that crooked smile. “I pay attention. Especially to the things you love.”

The words hit you square in the chest.

You almost stumble.

Then—

A faint jingle in the distance.

Varka freezes.

“There.”

He points toward the grass beyond the outer wall—moonlight catching a tiny silhouette near a cluster of crates.

“Bristle!” you gasp, sprinting.

But she darts away, spooked by movement.

You stumble—

And Varka is instantly at your side, steadying your elbow.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Let me.”

He kneels slowly, lowering his massive frame with surprising gentleness.

“Hey, little knight,” he says softly, hand extended. “Come here.”

His warm and soothing voice works instantly.

Bristle creeps forward, sniffing his fingers, then headbutts his palm with a tiny mew.

The sound you make is half-laugh, half-sob.

Varka scoops her up with one careful hand and stands, turning to you. “Here,” he says softly, offering her.

You take Bristle, holding her against your chest like something precious. She purrs immediately, the sound vibrating through you, and your eyes sting with relief.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Don’t.” Varka's voice is rough. “Don’t thank me for—” He stops himself, jaw tight.

You look up at him.

He’s still too close. Close enough that you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing hasn’t quite evened out, the careful control he’s barely maintaining.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he says quietly. “Either of you.”

Bristle purrs louder.

You can’t speak.

Can’t move.

Can’t do anything but stand there with your cat between you and Varka looking at you like—

Like he’s been holding back for weeks and his control is hanging by a thread.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

Your breath catches audibly.

He notices—of course he notices—and something in his expression shifts. Darkens. Wants.

He takes a half-step closer.

Your back hits the wall behind you, and somewhere in your brain you register that he’s backed you up without you even realizing, that he’s close enough now you can feel the heat of him, that his hand is braced on the wall beside your head and—

“Varka,” you breathe.

He stops.

Freezes completely, his eyes searching yours.

His eyes go dark. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with devastating gentleness.

Bristle meows between you, squirming.

The moment shatters.

Varka pulls back sharply, breathing hard, and you both stare at each other.

“We should,” he starts, voice rough. Clears his throat. “Get you home. Both of you.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He doesn’t touch you on the walk back.

Doesn’t need to.

The tension walks between you like a living thing, crackling and charged and waiting.

— ✦ —

Back inside, you set Bristle down carefully. She immediately darts to her blanket corner, curling up like nothing happened.

You exhale shakily, adrenaline still coursing through you.

Varka moves to the window—the one she escaped through—and checks the latch.

“It wasn’t secured properly,” he says quietly, testing it. “The wood’s warped here. I can fix it tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He says it simply, not looking at you. “I don’t want this happening again.”

You watch him work. Those large, careful hands adjusting the mechanism, making sure it’s tight. Making sure you’re safe. Making sure the cats are safe.

Something in your chest cracks. “Varka,” you say softly.

He glances over his shoulder.

You’re closer than you meant to be. Close enough to see his pupils dilate slightly, to see his breath catch.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For… everything. For coming when I was panicking, for knowing where to look, for—”

Your voice breaks.

His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t thank me like I did something extraordinary.” He turns fully to face you now, and the intensity in his eyes stops your breath. “Like I wouldn’t drop everything the second you needed me. Like I haven’t been—”

He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair.

The space between you feels electric.

“Been what?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment. “Completely gone for you. For weeks now. Maybe longer.”

The world tilts.

“Varka—”

He takes a step back, trying to create distance.

Your hand shoots out, catching his wrist.

He freezes.

You’re both staring at where you’re touching him—your fingers wrapped around his wrist, feeling his pulse thundering beneath your touch.

When you look up, his eyes are dark. Wanting. Barely controlled.

His breathing goes ragged.

Your hand slides from his wrist up his forearm, and you feel him shudder. “I’m asking you to stop being patient. Stop being chivalrous. Stop—”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Because Varka moves.

His hands find your waist and he walks you backward until your back meets the wall.

His forehead drops to yours, breath coming hard.

“Last chance,” he rasps. “Tell me to stop and I will. But if you don’t—”

You fist your hands in his shirt and pull.

“Don’t stop.”

The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and surrender.

Then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is everything you didn’t know you were starving for. Heat and hunger and weeks of carefully restrained wanting finally unleashed. His lips are firm, demanding, devastating in their intensity.

When you gasp against his mouth, he makes a sound low in his throat and deepens the kiss with an urgency that steals the air from your lungs.

You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders.

He groans into your mouth—a low, rough sound that vibrates through your whole body—and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth claims yours with growing hunger.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer like you’ve been waiting for this just as desperately.

The sound he makes is somewhere between surprise and surrender.

His grip tightens.

You arch into him and he responds immediately. His hand sliding from your waist to your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left. Until you can feel every inch of him.

Like he’s trying very hard not to lose himself completely.

Like he might anyway.

His other hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth claims yours with growing hunger. The contrast—that rough desperation tempered by such careful tenderness—makes you dizzy.

Heat. Everywhere. The solid wall of his chest against yours, the strength in his arms, the way he’s surrounding you completely and it should feel overwhelming but instead feels like safety, like home, like finally.

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, you’re both gasping for air.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Can’t seem to.

His forehead drops to yours, breath ragged and hot against your lips. One hand is still fisted in your shirt. The other cradles your face like you’re something precious.

“You really are like a cat,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

Your breath hitches. “What?”

His lips brush your jaw. Barely a kiss, more like a promise. “Wary.” Another brush, just below your ear. “Careful.” His mouth finds the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “Slow to trust.”

You shiver, fingers digging into his shoulders.

His hand slides up your spine, fingers spreading wide across your back, holding you steady.

“But once you decide to let someone in—” His voice drops, goes rougher, and his mouth is so close to your throat you can feel every word against your skin. “—you give everything.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can only feel the heat of his mouth on your throat, the careful restraint in his touch, the way he’s holding you like you’re precious and desired all at once.

“Varka,” you manage, and his name sounds like a plea.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and what you see in his eyes makes your heart stop.

Want. Yes. Need, definitely. But also something deeper. Something that looks like awe, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like he’s terrified and elated in equal measure.

“I need—” His voice cracks. “Tell me you want this. Not just tonight. Not just because we were scared and—”

You cup his face in both hands, cutting him off. “I want this,” you say firmly, clearly. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since—” You swallow. “Since the Angel‘s Share. Maybe before.”

The sound he makes is somewhere between relief and reverence.

“Thank Barbatos,” he breathes.

And then he’s kissing you again. Slower this time but no less intense. Thorough and deep and claiming, like he’s memorizing every response, cataloging every sound you make, learning exactly how to take you apart with just his mouth.

His tongue sweeps against yours and your knees actually buckle. He catches you immediately, arm banding around your waist, holding you up, holding you close.

The kiss goes molten.

Heat pools low in your belly. Your fingers find his hair, tugging, and he groans into your mouth. A deep, pleased sound that vibrates through your whole body.

He kisses like he does everything else. With complete focus, total commitment, like you’re the only thing that matters in the entire world.

When you finally break apart this time, you’re both trembling, flushed, breathing hard.

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, trying to steady himself.

You can feel his heart thundering against your palm where it rests on his chest.

“I should—” His voice is wrecked. “I should probably go. Before I—”

Before he what? Loses control completely? Forgets to be careful? Stops being the gentleman he’s trying very hard to be right now?

“Don’t.” Your hands tighten on his shirt. “Stay.”

His eyes snap open, dark and searching and full of want barely held in check.

“You sure?”

“Not for—” You flush. “I mean, just—stay. Please. I don’t want you to leave yet.”

Relief and something warmer floods his expression.

“Alright,” he murmurs. He presses a kiss to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. Small, tender touches that feel like promises. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He doesn’t let go. Just holds you against him, one hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing gradually evens out.

“You know,” you murmur against his chest, “I think you’ve officially adopted the cats now.”

You feel his laugh rumble through him. “Yeah?”

“Mm. You named one. You helped move them. You ran through Mondstadt at night to find one.” You pull back enough to meet his eyes. “They’re yours too now.”

His expression does something complicated. Soft and pleased and almost shy.

“When did that happen?” he asks quietly.

“Probably the moment you found us in that alley,” you admit. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

His smile is devastating. “Best thing I ever found.”

“The cats?”

“You.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “The cats are a bonus.”

You laugh, and he kisses you again. Soft and sweet and full of promise.

When he finally, reluctantly pulls away, his hand lingers on your face.

“I should let you sleep,” he says, though he doesn’t sound like he wants to leave.

“Will you come back tomorrow?”

“Try to stop me.” He presses one more kiss to your forehead. “Sleep well. All four of you.”

You watch him leave, and when the door closes behind him, you touch your lips.

They’re still tingling.

Behind you, Bristle meows softly.

You turn to find all three cats watching you from their corner—Whisper’s eyes half-closed, Pepper already asleep, Bristle looking distinctly unimpressed with the delay in her post-adventure pets.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, moving to join them.

But you’re smiling.

And when you fall asleep that night, it’s with the memory of his hands in your hair, his voice in your ear, and the absolute certainty that everything just changed.

You’ve found home.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

More Varka to follow soon. (My drafts for him keep piling up and at this point I’m just embracing the chaos.) Masterlist.

[canaria-herrscherr]

As a fellow meow person, I can vouch for this tooth-rotting fluff (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ. Thanks sm for the serotonin boost I didn't know I needed today