LADS x “Who did this to you?”
A/N: Hoooo boy my ADHD is pulling me in like 5 different directions fic-wise but this theme has been feeding the brain worms. All LIs included, but the ficlets are varying lengths (Sorry, Zayne girlies, his was the first I wrote so it was the shortest). Also, check the cw for each because although I’m not trying to ruin anyone’s day here, there is some angst, implied assault and violence. Also, no smut this time, for that, I’ll shamelessly plug my Caleb fic, Delicate Things. Enjoy :)
cw: angst, violence, hurt/comfort, main story/anecdote spoilers, implied Dawnbreaker
In the span of minutes, all of Zayne’s worst nightmares are coming true before his eyes.
You’ve been a regular at Akso Hospital for years, of course. Both for the sake of monitoring your Protocore Syndrome, and for many more on-the-job injuries than he would like.
But this time is different.
This time, you’re in a worse state than your physician/boyfriend has seen you in recent memory.
Zayne had felt the first pricks of dread when the Hunter Association’s evac transport called ahead for triage of a patient exactly matching your age and description, but when they wheel you in, blood-soaked and unconscious, the sensation is more akin to being hit by a bus.
Ever the professional, Zayne’s focus narrows only to saving your life. Transfusion, fluids, stitches. The slight shake of his hands—normally rock-steady—as he readies his sutures is the only thing that betrays his raging inner turmoil.
Once you’re out of the ICU, sleeping fitfully in a private room, only then does he allow himself a moment to break down. He holds one of your hands between both of his, head bowed as tears stream out and then freeze in crystalline patterns on his cheeks.
While he waits for you to awaken, he’s a walking phantom. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t return home. It’s all Grayson can do to force him to eat a protein bar when they cross paths.
When you do wake up, say his name in a ragged voice and thank him for saving you, intense relief washes over him.
But what he didn’t expect was for your pained, tired smile to evoke such a burning, bitter fury along with it. See, that deep, jagged slash across your back, much too close to your spine for comfort, wasn’t inflicted by a Wanderer. After all his research and experience, Zayne can tell.
Human hands wrought this misery, and though the doctor has never thought himself a vengeful man, he wishes very much to know the culprit.
Zayne sees the way your brows shoot up and your jaw goes slack at his question. He figures you expected a lecture, a long-winded condemnation of your recklessness and a stern reminder that you nearly lost your life. But all of that can wait.
“I…” you swallow thickly, fidgeting with the edge of your blanket. “I’m not sure I’m at liberty to tell you, since it relates to my work with the Association.”
“Please. I have to know. For medical reasons,” In spite of his best efforts, Zayne can’t keep desperation from tinging his voice, or cold fury from sharpening his gaze. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes go wide—it’s almost unheard of for him to beg like this. For a moment, his insides twist with worry, wondering if his obvious ire, even if it isn’t directed at you, will cost him your trust. He tentatively takes your hand, thumb soothing your bruised knuckles. “If it eases your conscience, know that doctor-patient confidentiality still applies.”
“Not sure if that’s relevant,” you mutter. But either way, you decide to tell him everything. It was a lengthy deep-cover operation to infiltrate a crime syndicate with ties to Ever. Some double-agent or informant must have ratted you out, because instead of the supply drop-off you were meant to sabotage, you walked into a trap and got beat to hell for your trouble.
As he absorbs the details of your story, as well as any names and locations that you can remember, Zayne’s grip on your hand tightens. He lets out a long breath. “I understand. Thank you for being forthcoming about all this. My knowledge of this incident, beyond its impact on your health, won’t leave this room.” He stands up, ready to leave, but you grab his sleeve.
“Zayne, you’re not going to do anything stupid for my sake, right…?” You let the question hang in the air for a tense beat.
“No need to worry,” Zayne’s cool fingers brush your bangs aside, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I don’t have the time to hunt down an entire crime syndicate.”
You laugh, but Zayne doesn’t. It’s true, he doesn’t have room in his schedule for such a crusade. But what he neglects to tell you is that he intends to make some.
Your Zayne isn’t a killer. He is a protector of life, so dedicated to his work that he barely has time for himself and his own happiness. But the man in Zayne’s dreams blurring the line between realities, the notorious Dawnbreaker—he’s a different story entirely. That man never relishes killing poor souls who’ve lost their sanity, it’s merely a mercy. But who knows what will happen when he’s faced with men he’s sure deserve a painful death? Perhaps the bastards who laid hands on you will find out.
cw: violence, angst, kidnapping (not by Sylus), feral Sylus, vague myth spoilers, pre-relationship, MC is a tsundere and Sylus is into it
The leader of Onychinus has grown used to his imperfect, idiosyncratic little world.
Is it ideal? Not always—though it certainly beats being sealed in the Abyss or years of imprisonment in a space-time rift. There are moments of loneliness, even despair, but as he always professes, Sylus is good at adapting to life’s myriad obstacles and inconveniences. With his wits, willpower and vast wealth, there are few material threats, even in a place as chaotic as the N109 Zone. His composure is second to none. He is practiced in the art of the poker face, studied in smug grins and condescending little laughs. It’s usually enough, along with his imposing physique, to intimidate anyone into following orders, folding, whatever he needs at the time.
So, as far as Sylus is concerned, it isn’t really a big deal that for the past month, someone has been trying to kill him.
The first attempts were in public—or as public as Sylus was willing to venture. A fire erupted in his private box at the symphony. An explosion rocked the venue of an elite weapons auction. A briefcase at the site of a deal began spewing noxious gas. Most vexingly, men in dark helmets wielding top-notch firearms had given chase while he was on a joyride with a certain Hunter (who, by his observation, was just starting to warm up to him).
“How are you so damn calm?! This can’t be normal, even for you!” Your voice had leapt up in pitch in the heat of the moment, shrill and wobbly in his helmet’s comms. Still, as competent as ever, you’d pulled a glock from your thigh holster and shot with impressive accuracy, even as one arm clung to his waist for dear life.
Sylus hadn’t been able to help the rich laugh that rumbled in his chest as he weaved out of the enemy’s line of fire. “It isn’t normal, sweetie. Or, it wasn’t, until recently. But with you here, I like our odds.”
You’d scoffed, incredulous, but with your strengths combined, the two of you had made short work of the would-be assassins, barely even breaking a sweat.
Sylus had wanted so badly to observe your expression on the silent ride home. Was it etched with concern or disdain? He’d left a verbal crumb about his recent brushes with death to bait you, but he’d neglected to remember how the helmets and riding position would obscure your reaction. He’d mentally regrouped, tried to focus on your warm body pressed to his, but he couldn’t tell from your posture or your grip on him whether you’d been shaken by the idea of losing him, or if the prospect had rolled right off your back.
That all changed as soon as the two of you were safe in his garage. The second he cut the engine, you had thrown off your helmet and marched up to him, hands planted firmly on your hips. As always, you looked positively radiant when driven to the point of fury.
“What was that about ‘until recently’?” You demanded. “Sylus, has someone been making multiple attempts on your life?”
Sylus whistled, appreciative. “Always so observant, sweetie. The Association trained you well.”
You were not having any of his bullshit. Your nose scrunched and you moved in, as close to ‘up in his face’ as the height difference would allow. “Who? You’re the all-knowing big-shot of the N109 Zone, so isn’t it a piece of cake to find out and put a stop to it?”
“There are some leads, sure,” Sylus casually stepped past you before you could catch the growing smirk on his face and took off his gloves. He was confident he still sounded unbothered. “You know how it is. Having innumerable enemies isn’t new for me.”
You grabbed his arm and turned him to face you again, your expression grave. “Seriously? Shouldn’t dealing with this be top priority?”
Sylus sighed, resting a placating hand on your shoulder. “No need to worry, kitten. Obviously, they haven’t been successful. They’re rather uncreative, actually. And eventually, they’ll get frustrated enough with their failure that they’ll make a mistake. I’ll deal with them properly then.”
You scowled. “You’re way too cavalier about your own life. What happens if they get creative? If they don’t stop trying? I know you heal faster than most people, but you shouldn’t be so reckless—“
”Awww, sweetie. You really care what happens to me, don’t you?” Sylus cupped your cheek affectionately, only for your face to flush red as you shrugged him off.
”You’re ridiculous. Don’t bother haunting me if you end up dead.” With that, you’d tossed your hair and stalked away in a huff.
Sylus had watched you go, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. She cares about me, even in this lifetime.
He’s not smiling tonight.
Your parting comment is the last he’s heard from you in over two weeks. Not a call, text, or even a reply on ‘Moments’.
On its face, that isn’t necessarily unusual. Your contact with him, though it’s been growing steadily, is still rarer than he’d like. Plus, your job requires frequent excursions and undercover operations that leave you nearly unreachable.
What is unusual is that Mephisto has lost sight of your location. Sylus’ network of informants doesn’t have eyes on you, either. Funny how easily confidence can morph into sickening dread. Sylus thinks if you were here, you’d laugh at the absurdity of it.
But you’re not here, and that, he decides, is a problem. You left no word, no clues. And the assassination attempts have come to an abrupt, suspicious end. It’s to the point where Sylus is almost sure you’ve stuck your nose somewhere you shouldn’t have, and worse, you’ve done so for his sake.
He wishes you had confided in him first. He knows you’re a proud person, it wouldn’t be in-character for you to admit that you were worried enough to investigate his would-be killers on your own. Still, Sylus would like to think that at this point, if you were seriously in danger, you’d call for him.
Maybe it’s wishful delusion.
He’s sitting at his desk, going slowly insane as he polishes his new rifle for the umpteenth time when he gets a call from an unknown number. Something like doom or dark foreboding seeps further into his skin with every ring, and his chest constricts as he hits ‘accept’.
”Speak,” Sylus’ voice sounds undaunted as always, his unease masterfully hidden. For a moment, there’s only faint static on the other end. Then, a sudden, dull thud.
”Ugh,” a familiar groan meets Sylus’ ears, followed by some ragged, labored breaths. Sylus’s stomach plummets, his posture stiffening and thoughts racing, planning the next four moves.
“Kitten,” his voice remains deadly calm. “You know better than to contact me from an outside line. My poor nerves can’t take the strain. Where are you?”
Of course, having gestured to Luke and Kieran as soon as he heard your voice, Sylus is already halfway to finding out where you are. The twins are diligently decrypting the signal and pinpointing its origin.
Once again, there’s no immediate answer to Sylus’ question, only some gruff background mumbling, what sounds like a chair scraping against a concrete floor, followed by another muffled cry from you.
Sylus is used to rage. Feeling it, measuring it, mastering it. But it’s a real struggle for him to keep a level head while hearing your pained voice. It makes him burn, sharpens his killing intent more than anything else in this world—surpassing every unkept promise, every claymore to the chest.
”Kitten,” he seethes, his tone like silk-wrapped steel. “Tell me who did this to you.”
There’s a tense beat. Yet more silence.
”Answer, already. Tell him what we discussed,” a frustrated male voice snaps, and then Sylus hears the distinct sound of you spitting, presumably in your captor’s face. “Bitch!” The man roars, and there’s a ringing slap that makes Sylus’ jaw clench and his vision flash white-hot.
Then, gods help him, he hears you laugh. Airy and melodic and a note unhinged. In spite of everything, it brings him a modicum of relief. That’s exactly what he’d expect of the woman he cherishes.
”Don’t you dare come here, Sy!” You yell, still giggling, delirious. “These assholes want me to lure you here so they can blow you up or whatever. But I’ll be fine. You were right, they kinda suck at this—”
“That’s enough…!” There’s another violent crash, a male scream, a prolonged scuffle, and finally, the sounds of duct tape being unrolled.
It’s a long time before someone speaks again.
“How do you like our invitation, Sylus?” a raspy voice pants on the other end of the line, trying for intimidation and falling tragically short.
”Miss Hunter is charming as always,” Sylus says, and he means it.
The raspy-voiced man seems to sneer. “Your little pet has been a pain in the ass these past few weeks, but we finally caught her by the tail. Will you come to her rescue, or should we just slit her throat? Maybe take one of her limbs and put her out of commission? Or something smaller? Doubt she’d miss a toe.”
”Touch her again,” Sylus growls, “and there won’t be anything left of you to bury.”
He cuts off the call and heads straight for a sleek black SUV that’s armed to the gills. “Coordinates?” He calls over his shoulder.
“Already ahead of you, Boss!” Kieran responds, tossing Sylus the keys as he follows right at his heels. Mephisto gives a hearty “caw”, soaring overhead.
“I ran the guy’s voice through our recognition software,” Luke adds, only a pace behind. “It’s as we suspected, those bastards at the Hemlocke Syndicate have forgotten their place. They’re definitely behind the other incidents, too.”
“Good work,” Sylus’ words are punctuated by the slam of car doors and the metallic snap of loaded magazines. “Let’s repay them tenfold for their foolishness.”
“Don’t worry, Boss, we’ll definitely rescue Boss Lady,” Kieran pipes.
Luke laughs. “If she even needs our help. That girl’s always turning Wanderers into Swiss cheese. When we first brought her in, she had so many knives on her I knew she and the Boss were a match made in Hell.“
Sylus doesn’t even acknowledge the twins’ attempts to lighten the mood. He just steps on the gas, too focused on rocketing toward the blinking coordinate that represents you.
As they reach the outskirts of the city, the surroundings get progressively more barren and dilapidated. The Hemlocke Syndicate has holed up in what used to be a vibrant underground shopping complex. Now, it’s mostly rubble.
It’s Mephisto who spots the sentries first, heavily armed and perched on a high concrete roof. He lets out a squawk in warning, and Sylus snaps to Kieran, “Take the wheel.”
In a swirl of twisting shadows and crimson energy, Sylus leaps from the car and appears behind the nearest guard. There’s an echoing clatter as his gun hits the roof, and even before the man can scream, he seems to dissolve into a fine mist. Alerted to his presence, the other guards attempt to fire, but Sylus is a blur of shadows and fists as he eliminates them one by one. He seizes the last guard with his Evol, dangles him over the edge of the building and drawls, “Where is she?”
The guard’s eyes blow wide. He’s trembling, nearly hyperventilating as his gaze flicks from Sylus to the ground below and back again. He gulps. “Th-The sub-basement, innermost room. I-It used to be a movie theater.”
“Much obliged,” Sylus sets him back on the roof. He knocks the guard out instead of killing him, and calls to Luke and Kieran as alarms start to blare. “Finish up here, Mephisto and I are going ahead. I want this eyesore wiped off the map in the next ten minutes.”
Sylus barrels his way past repurposed husks of chain stores and half-melted mascots, through labyrinthine halls and hasty barricades, dispatching anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way. When he reaches the abandoned theater, he presses an ear to the double doors. All he can hear is the faint sound of a corny film score coming from inside.
When he eases the door open, he’s at the corner of the last row. The lights are dim, save for the glow of a famous black-and-white movie playing on-screen. In the current scene, a beautiful damsel is being tied to some train tracks by a nefarious mobster. Her cries are heightened, silly, but they set Sylus on-edge.
At the very front of the room, a large shadow is cast over the center of the screen by a middle-aged man in a burgundy suit, holding you upright as he presses a gun to your temple. Your mouth, hands and ankles are taped up, but your eyes are alert. When they lock onto Sylus’, they widen slightly. Sylus gives you a tiny smirk, his gaze briefly rising to the theater’s darkened eaves before it falls back to you.
“A bit on the nose, isn’t this?” Sylus mocks. He makes his way down the stairs, inching forward row by row. In the better lighting, he can make out the weathered face of Dorian Hemlocke: his former collaborator and current leader of the Syndicate. “Also, it seems defeatist to cast yourself as the bumbling villain, Dorian. Don’t you know they never win in these kinds of stories?”
”You made it, Sylus,” Dorian almost purrs, unfazed. “It’s been awhile since the leader of Onychinus slithered out of his den. I’m honored.”
Sylus lifts his chin along with his gun. “Your platitudes are unnecessary. Unhand her and I’ll make this a quick death.”
”Now, why would I do that? Seems like she’s my greatest advantage at the moment.” The man tightens his grip on you, and you thrash in his hold to no avail.
”Self-preservation,” Sylus warns, energy roiling and curling around his form as he steps closer.
”Ah, ah. Stay back.” The man smiles. “Wouldn’t want my finger to slip.”
Sylus huffs, but he does stop. “What is it you want?”
“To topple your reign over the N109 Zone, naturally.” Dorian jerks his head toward the gun in Sylus’ hand. “So, kindly use that to take your own life. If you do, I’ll let her go before your corpse cools. And if you don’t have the guts,” he cocks the gun. “I’ll spill hers.”
Sylus lets out a sigh. “You really are uncreative, old man.” He slowly, deliberately raises his gun, resting the barrel solidly against his own chest. In Hemlocke’s grip, you bristle and squirm, your protests muffled by the tape over your mouth. “I’m sorry it came to this, sweetie.” Sylus’ expression softens. “Close your eyes for me. It’ll be over in no time.”
Your muffled screams only get louder. Your eyes are brimming with tears, and the sight is cracking Sylus’ heart in two. “Quiet, girl!” Dorian snaps.
”I have your word you’ll let her go?” Sylus eyes Hemlocke one last time.
“Yes, now get on with it!”
”Heh. Fine, then. Eyes closed, now.” Finally, you stop moving, eyelids fluttering shut. The air is thick and heavy. Time seems to slow to a crawl. “Good girl. Three, two—”
Three things happen simultaneously: You slam your head into your captor’s chin, Sylus fires two bullets into the man’s chest, and Mephisto swoops down from the rafters, quick as a whisper, and knocks the gun away from your head, raking his claws across Dorian Hemlocke’s face for good measure. The ‘fearsome’ leader of the syndicate crumples like wet paper, and before you can hit the ground, Sylus catches you in his arms.
”Nice coordination, kitten. My offer to join Onychinus still stands.” Your eye-roll turns into a wince as he gingerly peels away the tape that binds you. The angry red marks left behind on your skin, the blooming bruises, they all stir his fury anew, but he keeps his vengeful thoughts to himself.
You don’t seem to notice the state he’s in as you lean forward to scold him. “What was with all that posturing, Sylus? You’re lucky I understood your signal. Your little charade would have been traumatizing otherwise.”
“But you did understand. I knew you would.” Sylus can’t help himself. He pulls you close to his chest, half-expecting you to shove him off. When you don’t, when you shiver and lean into his touch instead, he takes a deep, grounding breath. One arm holds you steady, and his free hand rises to stroke your hair. He can feel how fast your heart is racing—or is that his? When he speaks, it’s all bass and warmth in your ear. “You risked your life on my behalf. Thank you.”
Sylus watches surprise cloud your pretty features. Then, embarrassment. Your lips quiver, and you glance away. “I wasn’t all that worried.”
“Really?” Sylus teases, tilting your chin so his gaze meets yours. ”Those tears could have fooled me.”
Whatever retort you may have planned is drowned out by a low rumbling. The ground begins to tremble, and Sylus doesn’t waste any time lifting you into his arms again. His Evol hums, encircling the two of you like a crimson cloak. “Time’s up.”
“They were worried about you,” he grins. “And so was I.”
It’s all a blur. The rush of air and ringing sound, the acrid sting of smoke in his nostrils. He feels you curling into him, clinging, and it’s as if a void in his chest is suddenly filled. Everything is crumbling, but he is content. He knows exactly where to go. His wings unfurl, and soon he’s breathing fresh air, cradling you high above the burning wreckage.
“You can open you eyes if you want to, sweetie.” He tells you, so gentle.
But when you do, you don’t look toward the ground. You look him dead in the eyes. Your small smile has him hopelessly smitten. Melting. “Thank you for coming, Sylus. You saved me.”
No, he corrects you silently. It’s the other way around.
cw: violence, angst, hurt/comfort, blood, feral Xavier, main story/anecdote spoilers
Xavier hasn’t been able to calm down since your coordinates disappeared from the map on his Hunter’s watch. There was a short, brusque call with dispatch confirming it wasn’t a glitch, and since then, he’s been frantically zipping around the No-Hunt Zone where you went missing, slaying anything unfortunate enough to cross his path. At first, he thinks maybe you got trapped in an abnormal protofield. But the metaflux, though it’s intense as always in such a Wanderer-dense area, isn’t as strange as it had been during those previous incidents.
Wracking his brain, Xavier considers scenario after grisly scenario at lightspeed. Maybe your watch got smashed, and your skull along with it. Maybe you fell from a high cliff. Maybe your heart gave out and you’re lost to him once again. Maybe…
Suddenly, Xavier catches movement in his peripherals. The familiar black and white of a Hunter’s uniform, splattered with crimson. His heart plummets. He’s at your side in an instant, just in time to catch you as your knees buckle.
“Hey!” Xavier’s cry sounds foreign to his own ears, quivering and broken. He calls your name, cradling you ever-so-gently against his chest. You’ve been gagged and your wrists are bound painfully behind your back. Xavier makes quick work of the restraints with his lightblade, nearly growling at the sight of your skin rubbed raw. When he unties your gag, you cough weakly, lashes fluttering. There’s an angry bruise on your cheekbone, a bleeding slash above your eyebrow.
“Xav…ier?” you rasp. “How… are you here?”
Xavier’s lip quivers, barely resisting the urge to crush you against him in a hug. “Later, okay? You’re safe now. More importantly, who did this to you?”
By now, it’s obvious this wasn’t a Wanderer attack. You were tied up, clearly manhandled. There’s a muddy boot-print on your stomach. The sight of it makes Xavier’s blood run searing hot in his veins. When you don’t immediately answer, his eyes bore into yours. “Who?” He repeats, his tone lower and edged with fury.
Your teeth worry your bottom lip as your eyes fall to the forest floor. “I… think they must work for Ever.”
Xavier goes rigid. “Were they still following you when you escaped?”
“They probably tried,” you answer, smirking in spite of the pain. “They didn’t tie my feet, so I got some solid kicks in before I ran off.”
Xavier ruffles your hair. “That’s my strong, brave girl. Let’s get you out of—”
Suddenly, you hear the sound of branches snapping nearby. Xavier draws his weapon, shielding your body with his own as three hulking figures come into view.
“There you are,” one of them sneers as best he can while clutching his broken nose.
“We told you running was useless,” the second guy spits. He sports a limp and a crudely-bandaged hand.
“Ohhhh, when Dr. Lucius gets ahold of you, bitch—” the third henchman doesn’t get to finish his thought before Xavier launches himself at him and pins him down, one boot pressing against the man’s throat.
“What was that? Don’t think I heard you,” Xavier’s tone remains even as he grinds his heel and the man lets out a gurgling wheeze. “You said Dr. Lucius? Whoever that is, you’ll have to send him my regards since I can’t make it in-person. Yet.” With a loud crack, Xavier smacks the man’s temple with the butt of his sword, knocking him unconscious in an instant.
The man with the bloody nose roars and charges in an attempt to avenge his companion, but he’s too slow. You’ve always thought of your partner’s fighting style as poised and refined, not a motion wasted. But today, it’s as raw and dirty as a street brawl. For the moment, he’s discarded his blade entirely—is it out of mercy? Well… probably not. He ducks under a wide swing, lands a solid strike to the man’s solar plexus before using his opponent’s momentum to flip him over his shoulder and slam him violently to the ground.
While Xavier is distracted, the third henchman tries to take the opportunity to close in on your prone form, but Xavier is quick to intercept. In a flash of light, he teleports behind your would-be assailant and kicks his knees out from under him. He brings his foot down first on the man’s injured hand, then hard on his sternum, wrenching yowls of agony from his throat. When Xavier withdraws, the boot-print left on the man’s midsection mirrors the one you received. His lips twitch slightly upward, but he’s not nearly satisfied.
“Which one of you was it?” he seethes, landing another kick to the man’s groin. “Who’s responsible for the bruise on her cheek?”
That’s the wrong answer. Xavier moves from his current target to the man who just spoke. The man who just lied. He captures a meaty arm in a painful lock, bending his elbow the wrong direction. “No one wants to confess? How about telling me what rat-hole you crawled out of and where I can find Dr. Lucius?”
“Disappointing,” Xavier tuts. Broken Nose’s eyes well with tears as he hisses through gritted teeth. Any more pressure and his elbow joint will snap.
“Look, we’re just mercenaries! We just do as we’re told.”
“Yeah! We don’t know anything—”
“Hm. I see.” At this admission, Xavier produces a tiny needle from his uniform and, with something similar to the tranquilizer he offered you before your trip to the Nest, knocks them out in quick succession. He leaves them in a heap, then hurries back to your side.
“I’m sorry you had to be there for that. I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner, I… this shouldn’t have happened.” His voice has returned to the soft, kind Xavier you know and love. His azure eyes, once stormy and brimming with hatred, now fall upon you with anxiety and regret.
“Don’t be sorry,” you reach for his sleeve. “You found me. I’m okay now. Thank you.”
Xavier lets out a long breath. He leans his forehead against yours, your noses brushing. His long lashes keep shining tears at bay. “If Ever had taken you—”
“You didn’t,” you soothe, kissing his furrowed brow and his eyelids in turn. Xavier looks the slightest bit more relaxed.
“We’re going straight to Akso. Hang on tight.” Light begins to swirl around the two of you, and you lean your head on his chest.
“Of course. But, did you call for backup to collect those guys?”
Xavier huffs, not sparing them a glance. “I did. But we’ll see who gets them first—the Hunters or the Wanderers.”
cw: violence, angst, hurt/comfort, implied attempted assault, roofie, drowning (mentioned), sea god Raf, he kills people
Rafayel may seem brash, reckless, even. But in truth, he knows how to play the long game.
Art, love, revenge. All three are things he considers worth the wait.
The night begins like so many other boring gallery openings. Thomas had insisted upon a masquerade event as a gimmick, “Rich people love a theme! And an excuse to get all dressed up!” He’d crowed, evidently very proud of the idea.
But to Rafayel, whether he forces polite conversation and fields obtuse questions with a mask on or without is of little consequence. He’ll be subjected to the evening’s drudgeries either way. So, he begrudgingly heeds Thomas’ plea to seem ’mysteriously aloof’ instead of bored, giving his champagne a listless swirl as he surveys the sea of masked patrons. Even in their glittering finery, something about them strikes the artist as profoundly dull.
That is, until he senses you among them.
He can feel the shift in the air, catch the scent of your perfume even before he lays eyes on your figure in the distance. You’re radiant, a splash of technicolor contrasting shades of grey. A vision draped in rich blue silk that shimmers in the gallery lighting, flowing like a playful tide with each graceful motion. Rafayel’s hand unconsciously rises to his heart, trying to calm its erratic fluttering. As always, his senses conspire against him at every turn when it comes to you. The euphoria you evoke in him verges on pain. His yearning is deep and old as the ocean itself.
A grin tugs at the corner of Rafayel’s lips. It really is a pleasant surprise. You’d flat-out refused to come tonight when he’d asked. And no amount of teasing, whining or cajoling had moved you. When pressed for a reason, you’d simply said that you “had other plans”.
That had certainly left him sulking, but now, his hurt feelings are nowhere to be found. When the two of you make eye-contact from across the room, he notes the millisecond of mischief in your gaze, followed by a cheeky, secretive wink. You incline your head ever-so-slightly to the group of suit-clad men in your midst—high-ranking members of The Journeymen, a club rumored to be involved in illegal art dealings, protocore theft, and much worse. You deliberately adjust the bracelet at your wrist, and it’s all the confirmation he needs to know your presence is the Association’s doing. Rafayel internally thanks Captain Jenna for livening up his night.
Your covert communication and subtle moves scream ‘don’t interfere’, so Rafayel does his best to honor your wishes. But he does keep an eye on you as the night wears on—never close enough to arouse suspicion from your targets, but never so far as to lose sight of you. From what he can see, you seem to be holding yourself quite well, socializing and putting on a ditzy front to lower their guard.
Rafayel has to hand it to you, you put on a great show.
He only turns away once, having been pulled away by Thomas to chat with some influential buyers. Every excruciating second you’re out of view intensifies the annoyance brewing in his chest. Rafayel knows you’re a pro, you can hold your own in most situations. Still, his mind can’t stop fixating on the scenarios where you couldn’t, on the possibility of losing you again. His unease is punctuated by the shattering of glass and the acrid scent of blood.
Rafayel immediately snaps to attention. Drink forgotten, he hurriedly parts the throngs of wide-eyed patrons to make his way to you.
When he gets closer, a chill creeps up his spine. Your champagne flute is in pieces, scattered across the marble floor. The biggest one is clutched in your shaking hand, blood is dripping from a slash in your palm, and whether from pain or frustration, your eyes are brimming with tears. Crouched down and breathing shallowly, you look poised to gather the rest of the shards, but one of your targets stops you. Quite a bit older than you, the smarmy man, Edgar Mondreau, loosens your grip on the glass shard, pulls you upright by the wrist and casually lays his other hand on the small of your back. His tone is thick with condescension as he leans in to whisper in your ear.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, let the staff handle it. I’ll get you another drink.”
How dare that bastard manhandle you. Rafayel could kill him on the spot. The only reason he doesn’t is because he’d never hear the end of it if he compromised your mission. Still, his jaw is set as he watches how your muscles tense at the contact. He observes the sheen of sweat on your brow, the deep flush in your cheeks under the intricate mask you wear.
“That’s kind of you, but I shouldn’t.” Speech somewhat slurred, you seem drunk—only Rafayel is sure you haven’t had a drop of alcohol. You take an unsteady step away, only for the creep to seize both of your shoulders. You flinch. Fire flickers at Rafayel’s fingertips. As good an actress as you are, he can tell the difference between your charming little charade and genuine distress.
Unable to bear it any longer, he’s next to you in an instant, sunset eyes probing your hazy ones. He separates you from your unwanted companion, using his body to block you from your target’s reach. Letting you lean against his chest, he keeps you steady with one hand, and uses the free one to loosen his collar and wrap his silk scarf around your bloodied palm.
“Hey, what are you–?” The man looks indignant, but Rafayel just checks his impromptu bandaging, all business.
“Pardon me, Mr. Mondreau. This woman looks like she might faint. I’ll take her to the garden for some fresh air.”
“M-Mr. Rafayel, there’s no need for that, she’s just had too much to drink.” The man tries to push in closer, and it takes all of Rafayel’s restraint not to shove him into the champagne tower. Mondreau insists, “She came here with me. If she’s sick, I can take her home.”
Something churns inside him, then, some titanic emotion that feels too vast and consuming to chalk up to “anger” or “jealousy”. For a brief moment, the temperature in the room drops, the champagne goes flat, and the display lights flicker ominously—an ill omen.
When the light returns, a brittle smile is plastered on Rafayel’s face. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but he forces himself to keep his tone light. “She’s bleeding, and practically falling over. What kind of host would I be if I callously ignored her? Magnanimous as I am, my guests are of the utmost importance to me. Understand?”
For a moment, no one moves. The silence between the two men is loaded, heavy. Rafayel wonders if Mondreau will protest, pick a fight. But ultimately, he just scowls, making a small ‘tsk’ as he turns on his heel and stalks away.
“Now, everyone,” Rafayel addresses the concerned crowd at large with a penitent bow of his head. “I do apologize, but tonight’s festivities will have to wrap up a bit early. I know, it's disappointing. But they say time heals all wounds. Good night.”
With that, Rafayel winks and sweeps you into a bridal carry, ignoring the shocked murmurs that follow his path out of the hall and Thomas’ bewildered expression as he clears his throat and starts to awkwardly shepherd the attendees toward the exit. His focus is only on you.
Once you reach the garden, Rafayel gingerly sets you down on a bench next to a delicately sculpted stone fountain, kneeling in front of you to get a good look at your face.
“Cutie,” he whispers, lightly cupping your cheek. Your skin is burning hot, and your eyes still won’t focus on his. “Are you okay?”
“Raf,” You blink too slowly, your reaction delayed and your movements sluggish as you try to fan yourself. “It’s… too hot,” you complain. “And I feel really weird.”
“What happened? Did you grab someone else’s cocktail by mistake?”
“And you watched your drinks being poured, never set them down unattended?”
“No! M’not a baby,” you pout. But then, realization dawns. You wince. “Shit… once… I was grabbin’ the data stick off of Clarke. Had to do it while Shin was flirting with his ex-wife. Handed my drink to…”
You trail off, eyelids drooping. Rafayel’s gaze sharpens as he gently tilts up your chin. “Who? Who did this to you?”
You slump forward into Rafayel’s embrace and he holds you tightly, securely. There can be no doubt that your drink was spiked.
A potent cocktail of fury and self-loathing roils in Rafayel’s gut. He should have stopped this. He should never have left your vicinity. He should never have let Thomas invite these reprobates to his gallery opening. They’ll have to have a serious conversation about this, it was really–
“Shit,” Rafayel bites out. Then, he lets out a string of muttered curses in Lemurian. But that’s enough for now. He’ll have to contain his emotions for the moment.
Instead, he focuses on getting you back home safely. He helps you change, removes your makeup, and tucks you into bed. Watching your sleeping face stirs his guilt again, and he entwines his fingers with yours. He stays by your side the whole night, never letting go.
“I was careless,” you groan, pressing an ice pack against your pounding forehead. “Sorry I ruined your event.”
“No,” Rafayel counters. “I was careless.”
“Please, it’s not your fault. It was my mission–”
“I wasn’t there when you needed me,” he insists, too quiet and grave for your liking. “You were doing great, but you were outnumbered. Also, for the record, there was nothing to ruin, cutie. You only ever brighten any place you walk into.”
“Geez, Raf,” You blush at that, hiding your face in your pillow. Adorable.
“What will the Association do with those bottom-feeders now? Prison? I hope it’s prison.”
You chuckle at Rafayel’s attempt to lighten the mood, but you shake your head. “They have ties to the police—to the Fleet, even. I secured the data we needed to build a case, but an all-out assault is a no-go. It could be months before we bring them in.”
“Mhm.” Rafayel’s scowl is so overblown that you can’t help but laugh. You reach out to caress his cheek, planting a featherlight kiss on his forehead. “Thanks for being mad on my behalf, fishie. But you don’t have to worry. All I need you to do is stay by my side. Please?”
“No fair. How could I say ‘no’ to that?” Rafayel leans into your touch, letting your warmth seep into his skin. He grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles, your wrist, reverent. He’s not lying to you, he’ll stay for as long as you need.
But as for those bastards… this will not do.
Once you’ve curled back into the blankets to sleep away the afternoon, Rafayel silently pads out of the room, retreating to your balcony. He pulls his phone from his pocket, and Talia’s name fills the screen.
“Rafayel! How are you, dear?” His aunt’s voice is as clear and melodic as ever.
“Not great, Auntie,” he heaves a sigh. “Miss Bodyguard got herself tangled up with some disgusting scum. And I… I couldn’t protect her, even though she was right under my nose.”
“Who?” Talia’s voice takes on a sharp edge. “What do you need?”
“It might be a lot to ask, but I was thinking…” Rafayel stares at the midday sky–too clear for his current mood. There’s a finality to his words. “A farewell concert.”
A week later, Rafayel is in his Lemurian form, circling the ugliest super-yacht he’s ever seen. And that’s saying something.
The paint job is a glossy, putrid green, somewhere between swampwater and bile. It’s trimmed in an obnoxious amount of gold swirls, not so much artfully placed as clumsily slapped on by an amateur. Her name, Journey Seeker, is scrawled in barely-legible script. And the sails—three of them, too tall to be practical, definitely compensating for something—are each carved with the likeness of a founding member of the Journeymen. Every tacky, narcissistic detail is enough to make Rafayel’s stomach turn.
He can’t wait to let the ocean claim it.
The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon when he summons stormclouds to cover its streaks of pink and gold with a foreboding gray-green. The waves begin to churn, a restless prelude to violence. Rafayel takes in deep lungfuls of petrichor and sea-brine, feeling his once-dormant power spark, catch and ignite in his chest. It roars in his ears. It sears through his bloodstream from head to tail. His eyes and scales begin to glow, casting a faint blue light into the swirling void below. It has been some time since he let this strength surface, and on most occasions, he wouldn’t risk losing himself to instinct or cruel fate. But this involves his bodyguard, his muse, his beloved bride.
If there is one person this power is meant to protect and avenge, it’s you.
He expects a fight against primal urges, or at least some resistance. But instead, the Sea God’s will is almost too aligned with his. Rather than disdain, he feels anticipation– pleasure. This all-consuming wrath, the desire to draw blood, to plunder, to kill... It makes his bones ache and his muscles burn with want. He’s underwater, but he can barely breathe, his senses are heightened, honed in on the deck and the distant figures wriggling atop it like parasites.
The plan is in motion. The yacht’s crew have been replaced with Lemurians. Talia is currently wowing the Journeymen with an exclusive performance, lowering their guard and gathering them all on the deck. All he has to do is wait for her signal to begin the assault in earnest. But she’s taking too long.
Rafayel craves justice. He longs to unleash his wrath upon those who wronged you.
Right as his last thread of restraint is fraying, a bright red flare streaks through the swollen clouds, trailing white smoke that signals the Journeymen’s doom. He catches sight of Talia and the crew members diving into the ocean, toward safety. And that’s all he needs.
With a jagged flash of lightning, the rain begins to pour in icy torrents, percussive against the frothing sea. The wind screams, and in a tornadic surge of saltwater, Rafayel rockets above the deck, looming over his enemies from on high. Thunder shakes the masts, and, as if conducting a deadly symphony, he sweeps his trident in arc after wide arc. The waves heed him, rising impossibly high before slamming the hull with incredible force. The ship groans in protest, rocking dangerously back and forth. The suit-clad Journeymen’s screams are muffled by the rain and thunder, but they’re crystal-clear to Rafayel. He savors each one.
The men all look like drowned rats, scrambling to cling to the sails, the masts, anything. But Rafayel is relentless, battering the ship from all sides. He sends a lightning bolt directly at each sail, and one by one, the images of Clarke, Shin and Mondreau burst into flames, spurred on even in the downpour with the help of his Evol.
It isn’t long before the boat can’t stay upright, and with the help of another terrible wave, it crashes into the surf in slow motion. Some of the men, in a frantic survival attempt, leap over the edge into the freezing ocean. Most are sucked under the ship as it rapidly takes on more and more water.
Rafayel calls his shark friends to deal with the stragglers, but there’s one person he wants to deal with personally. Scanning the churning seascape, his eyes eventually lock onto him: Edgar Mondreau, clinging to a piece of a broken sail.
“You,” he rumbles, deep and dark as the sea-floor. He descends upon the trembling man, unearthly blue stare boring into Mondreau’s soul. “There you are.”
“W-What–? Who…?” Mondreau’s eyes are wide, disbelieving. They dart from Rafayel’s tail to his trident, then, finally, to his face. “Rafa…yel?”
A feral grin spreads over Rafayel’s lips as he lets electricity crackle between his clawed fingers. “That’s right. Are you shocked?”
Mondreau is rendered speechless. He tries, in vain, to paddle backward, but he loses his grip on the sail. Before he can sink, Rafayel grabs him by the tie and yanks him to eye-level. Mondreau coughs and wheezes, sniveling. “Wh-Why are you doing this? What did we ever do to you?”
“You don’t remember?” Rafayel tightens his grip. “Not even how… impolite you were to that woman at my gallery?”
Mondreau doesn’t seem to make the connection at first, but then, it clicks. “H-Her? That’s it?! I’m sorry. Really, I am. If you let me live I’ll give you riches, influence, any woman you want. Anything!”
For a tense moment, neither of them speaks. Rafayel tilts his head, like he might consider it. Then, he sneers.
He stabs Mondreau through the heart with his trident. Once, twice.
“Foolish human,” Rafayel growls. “As if there’s anything you could give that would make up for your heresy. The price for hurting my bride is death.”
With those words, he lets the man's lifeless form plummet into the depths of the sea.
The next day, an anonymous tip as to the location of the Journeymen’s hideout, rumored to contain their stash of illegal protocores, is left at the Hunter Association. Shortly after, the news reports the shocking news of the sunken yacht and its casualties. You are flabbergasted, but Rafayel simply arches a brow, sipping his tea in silence.
cw: violence, blood, angst, hurt/comfort, yandere/vengeful Caleb, DAA era (pre-explosion), implied (attempted) assault, main story/anecdote spoilers, Caleb beats up the perpetrator, also he tortures the guy with his Evol for a bit
In his first year at the DAA, amidst grueling bootcamps, flight training and academic rigor, Caleb finds solace in his visits home.
There are many reasons—old friends, familiar locales, Gran spoiling him with her cooking—but the foremost reason has been, and always will be, you.
Caleb keeps up a cheery front as always, but he can’t pretend the distance hasn’t been hard. You text most days, call when your schedules allow. But since it’s your last year of high school and his first at the academy, both of you are crazy busy. He’s got plenty to keep him distracted, but the yawning void in Caleb’s gut is never quite full unless you’re nearby: laughing, bantering, bossing him around.
One of his favorite parts of these home visits is reuniting with you at the train station. The way your eyes light up at the sight of him as he steps onto the platform makes him giddy. You always rush to meet him with a grin, only to stop short of an embrace and school your features into a more neutral expression, trying to look like an overly-excited kid and more like a grown-up. He finds it adorable. Like everything else you do. Caleb loves nothing more in these moments than to ruffle your hair and crush you against his chest so tight, feeling the awkwardness melt away as you return his hug.
Only this time, you aren’t there to greet him. Instead, he gets an apologetic text explaining that you’ll see him later because you have a ‘scheduling conflict’. Caleb hates the sound of that. So vague, so… distant. He tries to pry a bit more, sending some wide-eyed apple stickers and playful questions. But you leave him on read.
Suspicious, he thinks, unable to untangle the knot in the pit of his stomach.
Still, he’s nothing if not patient. Caleb shops for your favorite foods to stock the fridge, meets up with Gran to walk her home from chair yoga. By the time the two of them arrive back at the house, the sun is setting, but you’re still not back home.
“Geez, it’s getting late. D’y’know where she ran off to?” Caleb asks over the soft sizzle of the beef fried rice he’s tossing in the wok. “If she isn’t back soon, dinner’ll get cold.”
Gran takes a sip of her tea and waves off his concern. “She might still be awhile. She’s on a date.”
Caleb nearly burns himself on the pan. That’s what you meant by ‘scheduling conflict’? He tries to compose himself before responding. “Wooow, really? She didn’t even mention it to me.”
“Well, you know,” Gran muses, “she’s never been one for romance, and she’s at that age where having a crush can be embarrassing. I’m sure she’s just shy.”
Actually, ‘not one for romance’ isn’t quite right, and Caleb knows it. You haven’t brought up many boys to him—it’s a touchy subject for you two—but that’s not for lack of admirers, and he knows you’ve had at least some passing interest in your schoolmates over the years. Thing is, Caleb has made sure that none of those pesky flies buzz around you for long. Some have been more persistent than others, but in the end, Caleb takes pride in the fact that he hasn’t let any assholes slip through the cracks and break your heart. Or, he used to. But, now that he’s away, leave it to Gran to encourage you to go out with some punk kid.
Caleb bites back a string of profanities and just gives Gran a noncommittal ‘hmm’. He’s about to send you a message to check in, just in case, when he hears the lock chime as you burst through the front door, letting it slam behind you.
“Ah, welcome back, honey,” Gran calls.
Caleb hears you shuffling as you kick off your shoes, but instead of coming into the kitchen to greet the two of them, you keep your head down and hurry straight to your room.
“Hey, pip-squeak, you hungry—?”
“No, I’m tired,” you mutter, your bad mood punctuated by yet another slam.
Caleb and Gran share a look. He turns off the stove and instead fills the electric kettle with water for tea. The few minutes it takes to steep feel like an eternity, but once the drink is steaming and honeyed, Caleb carries it into the hallway, keeping his motions quiet as he presses an ear against your door. It’s faint, the sound muffled against your pillow, but Caleb swears he can hear you sobbing. His brows pinch with worry, and he knocks three times. “Pips, you okay in there? I brought chamomile.”
The crying stops. A quiet, shaky inhale. “I’m fine. Go away.”
If you’re trying to deter him, answering in such a raw, rough voice isn’t the way to do it. Caleb would normally give you more time to calm down, but under these circumstances, his anxiety and protective instincts win out. He pushes the door open, only to find you clutching your pillow for dear life, face puffy and red from crying. He sucks in a breath. “You—"
“What part of ‘go away’ was hard to understand?” you snap, but to his ears, your attempt at anger only sounds like the bleating of a wounded lamb.
“If you really want me to leave, I will. I’ll set this here.” Caleb puts down the mug on your bedside table, fully intending to give you some space and return later. But before he can get far, you’ve squeaked out a, “No, stay.”
Caleb eases onto your bed slowly. The mattress dips with his weight, but he maintains some distance at first. His eyes scan your body for signs of injury, but you’re curled in on yourself and deliberately angled away from him. His worry mounts as he reaches for your arm, but you reflexively flinch away from his touch. Even you seem shocked at this—your teary doe-eyes waver for a moment with guilt.
Fury flashes hot behind Caleb’s eyelilds for a moment at the fact that someone made you fearful enough to elicit such a response, but he stops trying to touch you, just slings an arm behind your pillows and speaks to you in soft tones.
“It’s okay now, pip-squeak. You’re safe at home. Gran’s here. I’m here. You don’t have to tell me what happened. You don’t even have to say anything. But if you want to cry, you know… I’m right beside you.”
“C-Caleb,” A shudder goes through you. A quiet sob leaves your parted lips, and Caleb’s heart wrenches as you bury your head in his chest, inching closer and closer until you’re flush against him. He can feel you shaking, feel hot tears soaking into his t-shirt, and it’s killing him that he can’t banish your sadness with a thought, a touch.
“This okay?” one hand falls to your forehead, gentle, tentative. “If it’s too much right now, I’ll stop.”
“No, s’okay,” you manage, drawing an arm around his back. “Can you just… hold me?”
Caleb feels as if he might break in half. He pulls you close, his free hand stroking your hair just the way you like, nails running softly over your scalp. The two of you stay like that for a long time as you cry yourself out. You were holding back before, but now that he’s next to you, you feel safe enough to let your tears flow freely, to let unfiltered wails and heaving gasps escape you in waves. Each whimper is a dagger in Caleb’s stomach, but he holds his protective embrace, the only visible traces of the storm roiling under is skin are the unshed tears stinging the corners of his eyes.
Slowly, slowly, your sobs die down and your heartbeat steadies. Your breathing deepens, and your tears dry up. You’re still clinging to him tight, but your features have softened in sleep.
Caleb brushes a kiss on the top of your head and murmurs bitterly into the silence, “Who did this to you?” The unspoken connotation is clear: whoever it is will pay dearly.
Once he’s sure you’re deeply asleep, Caleb pulls out of your grasp a bit, searching for clues. You were off before, hiding something with your closed-off posture. Caleb’s breath catches when he determines why—there are darkening bruises blooming on your skin, one on your left wrist, and two on your thighs, distinctly in the shape of handprints. For a moment, Caleb’s mind goes blank. Visceral, murderous intent surges through his veins at the despicable imagery these marks evoke. Then, his adrenaline-fueled thoughts come all at once, too quickly to parse.
Should he beg Gran to pull you out of school? Burn the place down himself? He could take you out of Linkon, tuck you away in Skyhaven, or in some distant sanctuary where nothing like this would ever happen again.
As for the perpetrator? Whoever it was that dared lay hands on you would never escape his reach, his retribution. Dark, violent scenarios dance before Caleb’s eyes, all the bloody ways he would like to take his revenge. He had worked for years to enter the DAA, but he’d throw everything away if it meant punishing this vile act. But he’ll have to find him first.
Like a sign from the divine, your phone lights up on the bedside table. Caleb swiftly unlocks it, having known your passcode for years. The messages are from someone named Brett. The name vaguely seems familiar, maybe someone in your year who was getting too friendly with you. Caleb had fixed that. When he opened your conversation with him, there were some innocuous messages about homework, plans to meet up for a date hours earlier, and finally, just now, a string of messages that made his skin crawl.
B: I can’t believe u ran off, ur such a tease
B: Bet u gave it up to ur ‘brother’ tho, fucking slut
B: Wait til I tell everyone u choked on my cock
B: Think they’ll believe little miss perfect is really a whore? I do
With shaking hands, Caleb screenshots the messages, sends them to himself, and then sends a new message.
Me: Don’t be butthurt! Changed my mind :p meet me at the park for some fun~
When he receives the desired affirmative response seconds later, Caleb scoffs. He deletes the text thread, blocks Brett’s number and turns your phone off. Then, he pads out of your room, eases the door shut and nearly runs smack into Gran.
“Is she okay?” she pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Caleb can feel the weight of about ten more unasked questions hanging in the air between them. But right now, time is of the essence.
“She will be,” he scowls, swiping his keys off the counter. “I’ll be right back. If she wakes up before I get back, you should keep her company. Maybe bring her some of the ice cream we bought earlier.”
Gran, looking as if she can read Caleb’s mind, but like she knows there’s nothing she can do to stop him when he’s like this short of a sedative, lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t get caught.”
Caleb rolls his eyes. “Do I ever?”
Caleb wishes he could take a picture of the bug-eyed look on Brett Daniels’ face when, instead of the girl he expected to meet for a late-night tryst in the park, a muscle-bound pilot-in-training emerges from the shadowy treeline.
Under different circumstances, he’s sure you’d find the snapshot hilarious.
The bastard blinks once, twice, like maybe he’s hallucinating. He never heard a car pull up, barely even hears the taller man’s footsteps as he approaches. The star basketball player he used to envy is bulkier than he remembered, all broad shoulders and corded muscle. His jaw goes slack, and Caleb doesn’t miss the sheen of sweat that springs to his brow. “C-Caleb Xia… what…?”
Caleb flashes his signature golden-boy grin. Only now, under the silver-blue tint of night, its undertone seems wolfish and threatening. “Surprised to see me, Daniels? You shouldn’t be after tonight’s monumental fuck-up.” He fishes his phone from his pocket, showing off incriminating screenshots of Brett’s whole text thread with you—threats, insults and all.
“H-How—?” The shithead’s throat bobs.
Daniels cringes. He’s never heard Caleb so icy, so eloquent—and your stalwart protector has all the gory details of the night’s encounter. In other words, he’s so fucked.
Panicking, he tries to scramble backward, only for Caleb’s Evol to root him to the spot. The pressure is intense—it’s all Brett can do not to sink to his knees. Still, he fights to remain upright, trying to sound tough.
“What are you doing here, Xia?” he lets out an uneasy nose-laugh. “Playing white knight?”
”Not at all,” Caleb bites back a sardonic smile. He comes to a stop in front of Brett’s trembling form and cracks his knuckles. “My intentions aren’t nearly so noble.”
”H-How are you even here, asshole?” Brett snaps. “Aren’t you supposed to be training in Skyhaven?”
“Ever heard of a weekend visit?” Caleb mocks, all faux-cheer. “Oooh, I see. You thought my living situation would save you, huh? You thought you could get away with touching Pips because I’m busy these days? Because I’m not in school with you anymore? I almost admire your optimism.”
”You’re bluffing,” Brett taunts. His smirk reeks of brash entitlement, and it’s really testing the limits of Caleb’s patience. “You won’t do shit. Not when there’d be CCTV footage that’d ruin your career before it starts. So, you’ve got screenshots. Those are easily doctored. And who do you think people would believe? The son of a prominent government official, or violent gutter trash like you and your whore little sister?”
“I take it back,” Caleb shakes his head, gesturing toward the surrounding area. There are no cameras or surveillance bots, much less anyone passing by. “You’re not an optimist. Just a dipshit.”
Caleb grabs Brett’s hair and yanks it back, hard, eliciting a yelp. His intense stare bores straight into the boy’s soul. When he speaks, there’s no outward anger. Only a calm befitting the sky before a tornado. “Do you think,” he begins, “there’s a distance you could travel, a rat-hole remote enough that I wouldn’t find you to punish your depravity? How naive.”
Brett squirms helplessly against the force of Caleb’s Evol and the vice-grip on his hair. He stares up with red-rimmed, watery eyes filled with desperation, but not an ounce of remorse. ”L-Listen, man,” he blubbers, “I didn’t—she’s the one who flirted with me, okay? She teased me and made me think I’d get what I wanted, and then she chickened out and acted all offended when I tried to hit—”
Caleb’s fist collides with Brett’s nose faster than he can form a thought, faster than a growl can rumble in his chest. The crack as it breaks sends a rush of feral electricity up the base of Caleb’s spine. He wails on him, barely registering the pain in his knuckles or Brett’s agonized screams. He lets his wrath and mad satisfaction crescendo with each strike, only stopping once your assailant’s face is nearly unrecognizable. When he loosens his grip on Brett’s hair, he crumples to the ground in a whimpering heap.
”There we go,” Caleb pants, flicking the blood from his hands and eyeing his work with reverence. “Now you have some lovely bruises to match the ones your disgusting hands left on her skin without consent.”
Brett’s voice breaks pathetically, blood, snot and tears running into his gasping mouth. This time, Caleb can’t hold back the cynical laugh rising in his belly.
”Am I?” His smile is like glass, glinting and jagged in the moonlight. “Because I can’t think of anything less sound of mind than what you’ve done. Letting your selfish need for power override another person’s free will. You really are sick.”
”What about you?” Brett spits. “Does she know you’re here? You’re a hypocrite.”
The word is spoken like it’s meant to wound Caleb’s pride, make him reconsider his position. But it only draws out another low laugh. The sound makes Brett shudder, evoking a fear so primal it feels straight out of a nightmare.
”She doesn’t,” Caleb confirms, “and she never will. But there’s a difference between you and me, Daniels.” Caleb kneels down to be level with Brett’s face.” You were trying to claim something that will never belong to you. And me? I’m simply protecting what’s mine.”
”I knew it,” Brett manages between heaving gasps. “I knew something was going on in that fucked-up little house of yours. You’re both disgusting freaks—gaaah!“
”Do you know what G-forces can do to the human body, Daniels?” Caleb drawls, expression serene in the face of Brett’s pathetic whimpering. There’s a harsh shift in the air as his Evol intensifies. “‘Y’see, most people can handle between 4 and 6 gs before their bodies start taking serious damage. And that’s to say nothing of prolonged exposure. Our brains and hearts aren’t built for that kind of pressure, the rush of blood to and from our extremities.” Caleb emphasizes his point by letting up on the intense pressure, only to slam it down again. Brett retches, blood and bile streaming from the corners of his mouth.
”Most people would have to get on a roller coaster, a rocket or an aerobatic plane to feel something this extreme. But with my Evol, I can demonstrate it with a thought. How is it?” He increases the downforce on Brett’s body, and he groans in agony. “Does it hurt? Or are you too light-headed to register the pain?”
Brett’s eyes flutter, and for a moment, he actually passes out. Caleb scoffs, letting up until he’s conscious again, gasping, pale and disoriented. “That’s called G-LOC. Fun? Some people chase that feeling, but you don’t look like you enjoyed it much.”
“You gonna… kill me?” Brett slurs, barely coherent. “I didn’t even… get my dick wet.”
Caleb’s jaw clenches. He grips Brett’s collar and yanks him up to eye-level. One hand rests on his neck—not hard enough to constrict his airway, but enough that he can feel the frantic flutter of his pulse. Caleb gives a tight smile. “How lucky for you that you didn’t. That means your miserable existence can continue for now.”
“I—You’re letting me go…?”
”On one condition. Go straight to your congressman daddy and explain exactly what his worthless son did. And then tell him if he doesn’t have you transfer schools immediately, not only will I kill you, I’ll release enough evidence to disgrace your family name many times over. Got that?”
All Brett can manage is a little nod.
”Good. I never want to see you in Linkon again. I never want to hear about you touching an unwilling person or coercing someone into sex. Clear?” Another nod. ”Perfect.” Caleb promptly slams his knee against Brett’s crotch and lets him slide to the ground, shaking and sniveling.
The guy’s probably still crying out in pain as Caleb retreats, but he doesn’t register anything besides the blood roaring in his ears. His adrenaline is still running high, he has to actively restrain himself from turning on his heel and pummeling Brett Daniels into the dirt until he stops moving.
When he arrives home, the house is dead silent. Caleb does his best not to make any noise, padding straight for the bathroom to change and clean himself off. His knuckles are all scraped up, but he figures he can chalk it up to Academy training. Gran’d know the truth, but you’d buy that—probably.
Caleb is so deep in thought that it’s a total jumpscare when you appear outside the bathroom door, wrapped in a fluffy robe and rubbing sleep from your puffy eyes.
”Gah, pip-squeak! You scared the crap out of me,” Caleb clutches his chest, taking a few calming breaths.
”Did you go somewhere?” You ask, innocent eyes searching his. Your tone is edged with the slightest bit of worry.
”Nah, not really, just needed some air,” Caleb ruffles your hair and pulls you softly against his chest. You don’t fight him, instead nuzzling your cheek against his heart, seeking a feeling of safety as your hands cling to the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Caleb is nearly overwhelmed by the raw desire to protect, to possess. It wrenches and twists at his insides, fraying the edges of his reason, but he keeps his expression placid, gently stroking your back. “You okay, Pips?”
You sigh into him, your grip tightening. “Mhm. Just… worried about school on Monday.”
Caleb’s lips brush the crown of your head, and his voice is warm and sweet enough to make your chest swell. “Don’t. Everything will be okay. Put your trust in Caleb, and whatever it is will work out.”
You let out a dry little laugh, “You always say that. So cocky.”
”Don’t believe me?” Caleb’s thumb traces your cheek, the dark circle under your eye, like he’s brushing away invisible tears.
You can’t help but lean into his touch. Everything really isn’t okay, you’re still upset and afraid. But when he’s here, things feel lighter. Less overwhelming and sad. You meet his gaze, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I do.”
”Good girl,” Caleb presses his forehead to yours and lingers for a spellbinding moment, eyes lightly closed. He squeezes you tighter in an embrace that’s closer to what he’s always really wanted. A closeness that transcends ‘childhood friend’ or ‘big brother’.
After awhile, though, he forces himself to pull away, to adopt that cheerful, familial affect that protects his peace and conceals his yearning. He slings his arm over your shoulder and steers you toward the kitchen. “I’ll make us some tea, how’s that sound?”
