Katsukeyannn🎀

Haven't seen him in about half a month, maybe? Heard he was at the border dealing with a seized shipment. When the door opens, you’re curled up on the couch reading. Before you can react, a powerful force yanks you up, slamming you into an embrace that smells of gunpowder and cold air. Sylus’s chin digs heavily into the hollow of your shoulder. His arms are squeezing you tight enough to make your ribs protest. But he doesn't let go. You can feel his breath hitching slightly. His heartbeat transfers through his chest, heavy and strong.

Sylus?

Shut up. Let me recharge.

His voice is muffled, betraying a rare exhaustion. He lifts you slightly, forcing you to stand on your toes to stay pressed against him. A wet, hot sensation against your neck—he’s burying his face there, taking a deep inhale. That stubbornness, like he’s confirming you actually exist, makes you swallow back the sarcastic comment you had ready. You hesitate, then lift your hand to gently pat his back. You feel his body stiffen for a second, then relax, dumping more of his weight onto you.

The bill for this trip is expensive, Kitten. This little bit of 'interest' isn't going to cover it.

Despite the tough words, his arms around you haven't loosened an inch.

The alarm was deafeningly annoying. You leaned against the cold alloy wall, steadying your breath. The air reeked of scorched Protocore.

Kitten, you're moving too slow.

Sylus's voice came from behind you, low, raspy from the fight, sounding like a statement more than a reproach. Before you could even turn your head, his large hands clamped onto your waist.

Careful, there's still an electric arc leak here.

He gave you no time to react. The next second, he scooped you up entirely, a rough and swift movement, like picking up an obstructive package. Your face crashed directly into his solid chest muscle, and through the damp black combat suit, you could feel his heart pounding fiercely in his ribcage.

Hey! Put me down! I can walk myself!

You struggled, but his arms were unmoving, like steel rods.

Are you giving me orders?

He lowered his head, his cheek pressed against your hair, the hot breath sending a wave of tingling sensation through you. The tone carried a hint of amusement, making your protest sound more like an invitation.

Don't waste time, kitten. Boring things have zero patience from me.

This isn't wasting time, this is...

This is you being too weak.

He interrupted you directly, his words so blunt they were humiliating. But his steps were astonishingly steady; held in his arms, the intense sense of control and the scent of hormones mixed together, making your heart pound as if it would burst from your chest. You dared not look up, only seeing his silver strands of hair hanging before your eyes, flickering with faint light.

The corridor lights suddenly flickered. You reflexively recoiled into his embrace. In that moment, you suddenly saw it. The red glow on his profile. His right eye, in the semi-darkness, shone with an ominous, blood-red color, the color of evolution.

That was the residue left after he used his Evol ability. That immense power and near-pathological excitement were currently being calmly suppressed within his muscular physique.

You knew clearly how dangerous and wild that red glow made him. But you knew even more clearly that the man holding you now, his heartbeat was so strong, so real, drumming like a rhythm against your ear, challenging your reason.

You raised your hand, on a whim, and lightly touched the sweat-dampened skin exposed at the collar of his combat suit.

He stopped.

The entire world suddenly fell into a suffocating silence. He looked down at you, his red eyes questioning, but mostly with the playful anticipation of a predator waiting for its prey to fall into the trap.

What is it?

His voice was even lower, carrying a dangerous seduction.

You swallowed. You could smell his signature, Alpha scent, a mix of gunpowder and sharp cedar.

Nothing.

You withdrew your hand, pretending you only wanted to grab his suit to steady yourself. But the warmth and the feel of his muscle on your palm had already branded themselves into your memory.

I thought my kitten finally couldn't resist kissing me.

He flashed an arrogant, confident smile, and then continued walking with you in his arms.

Dream on.

You retorted softly.

You and I are the same, and I know you...

He didn't look back, just threw out the sentence dismissively. You felt your ears burning, your heartbeat still erratic. He knew. He knew everything. That realization made you feel more helpless than any threat.

Hiss—The moment the alcohol swab hit the wound, involuntary tears almost streamed out. The graze on your arm wasn't deep, but in the dead silence of the night, the pain was infinitely amplified. The man across from you paused. He didn't stop, though; instead, he applied a little more pressure.

'Does it hurt?'

A rhetorical question. Sylus sat on the edge of the bed, the dim lamplight casting deep shadows on his silver hair. He wasn't wearing his jacket; his black shirt was open at the collar, revealing a section of his collarbone and an ascending red scratch—one you'd inflicted during a moment of lost control. But he seemed utterly unfazed by his own injury; his red-tinged eyes were only focused on your bleeding arm.

'Did you make that face when that piece of trash touched you?'

His tone was flat, impossible to read. But you knew him too well. This kind of dead calm usually suppressed a violence that could overturn the entirety of Sector N109. He tossed the bloody swab aside, and his long fingers directly covered the area around your wound. No bandaging. His fingertips traced the edge of the seeping red line with an almost erotic ambiguity. Painful, yet stimulating. The sensation crawled up your nerve endings and burrowed into your heart.

'Stop shaking.'

He let out a small, soft laugh, and his other hand gripped the back of your head, forcing your face into the crook of his neck. All you could smell was him. A supremely aggressive male scent, possessively enveloping your entire being. You could feel his lips brush against your ear, a near-miss touch.

'Remember this pain.'

His voice was deep and husky, like a devil's whisper. He blew softly into your ear, satisfied to feel you stiffen for a moment in his arms.

'The next time you let yourself get hurt, I'll lock you up... until you learn how to protect what belongs to me.'

Count it yourself, how many times is this?'

He sat on the wide, genuine leather sofa, his collar slightly open, toying with the gun he'd confiscated from you. His tone was flat, revealing no emotion. But you knew he was angry. Extremely angry. Because you'd disregarded your life again for a mission and ended up covered in injuries.

'Come here.'

You stiffly walked over. The next second, he grabbed your wrist, sending you tumbling to the carpet, your face forced between his legs. The position was humiliating, and incredibly dangerous. But he wouldn't allow you to escape; his fingers dug into your hair, forcing you to look up at him.

'Since you don't know how to cherish your own body, it seems I should temporarily reclaim the rights to its use.'

He leaned down, his eyes dark and unreadable, his thumb heavily grinding against your dry lips.

'Tonight, right here. Without my permission, you are not allowed to stop, and you are not allowed to climax.'

What kind of goddamn punishment was this? But as his presence enveloped you, your body reacted faster than your mind—it was a complete surrender, a tremble born of both fear and anticipation for the coming storm. You were doomed.

This is your plan?

Sylus sweeps a glance over the tactical map, lips curling into a mocking arc.

Conservative, boring, and full of unnecessary mercy.

It's the safest way. Minimal casualties, you argue.

Safe? In this circle, safety is the biggest trap.

He suddenly braces his hands against the edge of the table, leaning in to trap you between the desk and his body. Those red eyes lock onto yours, aggressive and piercing.

If you want to win, you have to be greedier. More ruthless.

Like you?

If I wasn't ruthless, do you think we'd be standing here talking?

He suddenly grabs your hand and places it on the knot of his tie.

Here. Try commanding me.

What?

Haven't you always wanted me to listen to you? Here's your chance.

His gaze darkens, voice dropping to a husky rasp, laced with bewitching power.

Tighten it. Pull. Tell me what you want me to do. As long as you dare to say it... I dare to do it.

The silk tie is cool in your hand, but the artery in his neck pulses violently against your knuckles.

...Shut up and listen to me.

You tighten your grip, pulling him down toward you.

Sylus laughs. It's a sound of pure, arrogant delight.

As you wish, my Commander.

When you pushed open the door, you thought you walked onto the wrong set.

The living room lights are on, the TV is playing boring late-night news, and the man who supposedly rains terror over the N109 Zone is currently wearing your pink slippers (well, half his feet are in them), sprawled across your sofa like he owns the place.

...How did you get in?

Walked in.

Sylus turns his head, holding a bag of chips you left half-eaten.

Your security system is a joke. I suggest you change it tomorrow, or beg me to install one for you.

This is my house, Sylus.

I know. With this taste in decor, it couldn't be anyone else.

He dusts the chip crumbs off his hands with a look of disdain and stands up. His massive frame looks comically out of place in your cozy apartment, like stuffing a wild beast into a dollhouse.

Come here.

He beckons to you.

You sigh and walk over. Before you can stand steady, he yanks you down, tumbling you onto his lap.

What are you doing?

Recharging.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, taking a deep inhale. There's a fatigue in his voice he doesn't bother to hide.

Those old geezers are too loud. It's quieter here with you.

He closes his eyes, arms hooping your waist like iron bands.

Don't move. Just five minutes.

The rookie hunter clearly didn't read the room.

He just wanted to hit on you. He didn't even get a second sentence out before the air around you solidified. The temperature plummeted, a formless, suffocating pressure instantly caging the entire bar counter.

Sylus didn't even look at him.

He just sat in the seat next to you, idly swirling his whiskey, a deep red glow faintly pulsing in his right eye.

That crushing pressure, belonging only to an apex predator, was like an invisible hand choking everyone in the vicinity.

The rookie's face went sheet white. He couldn't even hold his glass steady, mumbling a hasty apology before scrambling away.

You turn to look at him helplessly.

You scared him off.

His own fault for having no guts.

Sylus takes a sip of his drink, turning his face to look at you, his expression outrageously innocent.

Besides, did I say anything? I didn't do a thing.

Your energy field was about to blow up the bar.

Is that so? Maybe I couldn't control it.

He reaches out, thumb brushing against your chin, forcing you to focus your vision solely on him.

You know how it is. If something belongs to me, I don't like others looking at it. Not even a glance.

This so-called high-society gala is just another form of torture.

Fake pleasantries, stinging perfume, greedy and probing stares. You feel your smile stiffening on your face.

Suddenly, a hand lands on your waist.

Sylus is standing behind you. He's wearing a sharply tailored black suit today, looking deceptively civilized, but that open collar and his slightly loose stance still scream I'm annoyed.

You can actually drink this trash?

He takes the champagne from your hand and sets it on a passing waiter's tray.

It's social etiquette...

Socialize my ass.

He leans into your ear, voice lowered, heat rushing down your ear canal.

That old man over there has looked at you three times. If you don't want me to gouge his eyes out and step on them like lightbulbs, we'd better leave now.

Sylus!

Shh.

He presses a finger to his lips, red eyes full of mischievous satisfaction.

I have a better place to be. Coming with me, or staying here to listen to these idiots brag?

Without giving you a choice, he grips your wrist, pulling you out of the center of the crowd and striding toward the terrace.

Run faster, kitten. It's no fun if we get caught.

Sweat dripped down your back, splashing onto the cold floor of the training room. Your lungs felt like they were on fire. Before you could catch your breath, that suffocating pressure closed in again. Not Evol energy—just him. Sylus. The sound of his leather boots stopped right beside you. Your chin was roughly grabbed by a hand in a black leather glove. The grip wasn't harsh, but the coercion was absolute. His red eyes glowed intensely in the dim room, like he was inspecting prey, or perhaps admiring a rare treasure.

'Is this all you've got?'

His voice was low, laced with a casual mockery. He took another step closer. Too close. Close enough for you to smell his sharp, cold scent, mingled with gunpowder and leather. Your Evol was near exhaustion from the clash, your fingertips trembling uncontrollably, yet he seemed not to have lost a single breath. The fingers holding your chin tightened slightly, the rough texture of his thumb rubbing your sensitive skin.

'Look at me.'

A command. You were forced to look up at him. His gaze was palpable, sliding down your face inch by inch, resting on your rapidly heaving chest, then your still-shaking wrists. That look made you feel less like you were training and more like a prelude to being devoured. Your heart hammered like it would explode. Was it from exhaustion, or the dangerous proximity?

'If you don't even have this much control, how do you expect to survive in this damned place.'

He released your chin but didn't back away. Instead, he leaned in, his warm breath fanning your neck. That spot instantly erupted in a fine tremor. He knew you'd react this way. His large hand slid down to your lower back; even through the sweat-soaked fabric, the heat of his palm was startling. He exerted a sudden force, pressing your entire body against his hard frame. No gap. You could feel the steady, powerful vibration of his chest—the composure of an absolute alpha.

'Once more.'

He whispered in your ear, his tone acquiring a playful edge.

'This time, try to command me, little Kitten. Let me see your claws.'

When you woke up, it felt like a large feline had you pinned down. Heavy. And hot. You struggled to open your eyes, your vision filled with a firm chest, marked with a few scratches from last night. Sylus's arm was banded across your waist like an iron hoop, locking you securely in his embrace. You tried to quietly move his arm to reach for the water glass on the nightstand.

You moved just an inch.

The arm around your waist instantly tightened, and you were yanked back, your back hitting a scorching hot embrace.

'Where are you going?'

His voice, just woken up, was impossibly hoarse, heavy with a mixture of laziness and... danger. Before you could explain, he buried his face in the crook of your neck. The stubble tickled your skin. He took a deep breath, as if confirming your existence, or maybe inhaling some addictive drug.

'Water...'

'Don't you dare.'

Utterly unreasonable. He flipped over, pinning you down, his messy silver hair falling around your face. There wasn't a hint of sleepiness in his half-closed eyes. Only the insatiable greed of a predator. The morning light filtered through the curtains, illuminating a fleeting red glow in his eyes.

'It's not your resting time yet.'

His hand slid slowly up your inner thigh, setting fire to every inch it traveled. His knee expertly parted your defense. The memory of being filled and stretched from last night rushed back, and your body reacted faster than your brain—your waist instinctively softened, even beginning to anticipate the coming aggression. He saw the flicker of surrender in your eyes. A triumphant, wicked smile curled his lips as he lowered his head, his mouth close to your earlobe, rubbing maliciously.

'Since you're awake, let's do something more meaningful. Hmm?'

The chirping of the birds outside the window was loud when you woke up. You groggily turned over, your cheek brushing against something warm. Opening your eyes, you saw Caleb's palm.

He was sitting by the bed, already fully dressed, probably just checking on you before leaving.

「Did I wake you?」

His voice was soft, with the inherent magnetic quality of the early morning.

You shook your head, taking his hand and rubbing your face against it.

「What time is it?」

「Still early. Go back to sleep.」

His fingers ran through your hair, gently smoothing it out. The action was incredibly tender, a stark contrast to his usual military demeanor.

「Your hair's getting long.」

He picked up a strand and kissed it lightly on his lips. The kiss was feather-light, yet it sent a jolt of electricity through you.

「Caleb...」

「Hm?」

「Nothing. Just felt like... a dream.」

He smiled, his purple eyes full of fragmented light.

「This isn't a dream.」

He leaned down and pressed another kiss on your forehead.

「As long as you wake up, I'm here.」

「Or I'm on my way to see you.」

「Sleep now.」

The sound of the file being slammed onto the desk was deafening.

「Are you insane? Applying for the frontline medical team?」

Caleb leaned on the desk, his tie loose, his usually calm face clouded with fury.

「It's my duty, Caleb. I'm a doctor.」

「That's a meat grinder! It's not a place for you to play games!」

「You go to fight, I go to save lives. What's the difference?」

「The difference is...」

He suddenly stopped. His chest rose and fell heavily. He grabbed the desk edge tightly, knuckles white.

「The difference is, I can't watch you die.」

「Why do you think I clawed my way up? Why do I go to the most dangerous war zones?」

He walked around the desk, strode to you, and gripped your shoulders, the strength making you wince.

「It's to shield you.」

「It's so you can live safely in this goddamn chaotic world.」

「Don't force me to use my clearance to lock you up in the base.」

「You know I would.」

It was the first time you saw Caleb's composure crack. The always-poised Commander, shattered into pieces of glass before you.

The wind at the airfield is fierce, making his uniform jacket flap loudly.

The mission is top-secret. Everyone knows what that implies—a needle in a haystack chance of survival.

You clutch his sleeve, your knuckles white, the words of retention stuck in your throat, reduced to meaningless sobs.

He sighs, removes his black leather gloves, and cups your face with his warm palms.

「Don't cry.」

His thumb wipes away a tear, the action incredibly gentle.

「I have already seen our ending.」

He lowers his head, resting his forehead against yours. His purple eyes reflect your distressed face and a kind of devout resolve.

「But I will still run towards you. Whether I come back alive to cook for you, or as ashes in a box... in whatever form, I will return.」

It's that dream again. A crashing fighter jet, a sky full of flames, and a communication channel that screams your name without response.

You wake up screaming, your pajamas soaked in cold sweat.

The door opens almost instantly. He's barefoot, holding the sidearm he keeps by his pillow, clearly just woken up himself.

Seeing you unharmed, the murderous intent in his eyes slowly fades, replaced by a deep pain.

He throws the gun onto the desk, strides over, and wraps you—blanket and all—in his embrace.

「It's okay. I'm here.」

His hands are large and solid, stroking your back, calming you like a frightened kitten.

「I'm just next door. Even if it's hell, I will pull you back.」

You bury your face in his unyielding chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart, the only sedative in the world.

Get it away.

Rafayel is perched on the highest stool by the easel, pointing in horror at the small, furry thing on the carpet.

It's just a stray kitten, Rafayel. It's pouring outside; it has nowhere to go.

You stand there holding the goat milk powder, looking helplessly at the usually arrogant artist who has now curled into a ball of cowardice.

It's a cat! Do you know what cats eat? Fish!

You're not actually a fish.

You don't understand! This is a natural enemy radar carved into my genes! Look at its eyes—it's not looking at me like a savior, it's looking at me like an all-you-can-eat buffet!

The dirty little orange tabby seems to understand, letting out a soft meow at Rafayel and tentatively taking a step forward.

Ah! It's coming! Bodyguard! Protect me!

Rafayel nearly falls off the chair, long legs swinging as he leaps behind you, hands gripping your shoulders tightly, using you as a human shield.

...You are a grown man over six feet tall. Have some dignity.

We all have our specialties. I deal with deep-sea leviathans; fluffy land monsters are outside my scope of business.

He peers over your shoulder, voice trembling.

And it's rubbing against your leg... Hey! That's my spot! Go away! You shameless little thing!

Watching the cat act cute at your feet, Rafayel’s fear instantly morphs into something far more childish. He huffs, pulling you backward, trying to put distance between you and the feline.

Don't touch it. It's dirty. Bacteria.

I think you're just jealous.

Ha? Me? Jealous of a cat? What a joke. This artist...

He pauses, watching you pour the goat milk into a saucer, his eyes darkening.

...You've never poured milk for me.

The voice is quiet, like a mosquito's buzz.

What did you say?

I said! He suddenly hugs you from behind, burying his face in your neck as if confirming ownership. I want some too. If you don't prepare a portion for me, I'm painting this cat bald.

The pool temperature is set to a perfect 26 degrees, the ripples lazy and slow.

Rafayel is suspended at the bottom like a true fish, purple hair fanning out in the water like soft seaweed. His eyes are closed, completely ignoring your calls from the deck.

Playing dead. His favorite tactic for avoiding deadlines.

Rafayel, Thomas has already circled the entrance three times.

You crouch by the edge, poking the water's surface.

The figure at the bottom finally stirs. He opens his eyes slowly. Through the shifting water, those heterochromatic irises look particularly bewitching.

Splash—

A dripping hand breaks the surface, clamping precisely around your ankle. Before you can scream, your center of gravity vanishes.

World spinning, then warm submersion.

You fall into the water, and into his arms.

Shh—

He leans close underwater, a finger pressed to his lips. The world goes silent, save for the muffled rush of water. Bubbles rise between you like strings of transparent pearls.

He watches your panic, eyes dancing with the joy of a successful prank.

Rafayel doesn't let you choke; his arm is steady around your waist, bringing you to the surface.

Puh— Are you crazy!?

You wipe the water from your face, glaring at him.

Keep it down.

He presses you against the pool wall, resting his chin on your wet shoulder, nuzzling like a giant dog.

Do you hear that?

Hear what? It's just water sounds.

Exactly. It's the sound of water. He closes his eyes, voice lazy and content. Underwater, I can't hear that nag's voice. This is the temporary territory of Lemuria. Work, deadlines, and exhibitions are prohibited.

His arm tightens slightly. His wet shirt clings to his chest, and you can feel his steady, powerful heartbeat.

Stay with me for five minutes. Just five minutes.

...Your five minutes usually means two hours.

That's because time flows differently when I'm with you than it does on land. It's relativity, understand?

He chuckles, tilting his head to place a cool, wet kiss in the crook of your neck.

Don't move. If you move, I'll drag you back to the bottom and make you my hostage.

The rain outside is trying to drown the city, thunder rolling muffled overhead.

For normal people, this weather is a nuisance. For Rafayel, it's supposed to be a recharge. But strangely, instead of glued to the window watching the rain, he's curled up in the furthest corner of the sofa, wrapped in the thick blanket you gave him.

Only a few tufts of curly purple hair stick out, trembling slightly.

Rafayel?

You walk over, tentatively tugging at the blanket.

Don't touch me.

The voice is muffled by wool, sounding thick and distinctly resistant. When your fingers brush the edge of the blanket, he actually shrinks further inside.

Do you have a fever?

No. I said leave me alone... go take a nap or something.

Stubborn cat. No, stubborn fish.

Ignoring him, you pry the blanket open. The Rafayel revealed looks wretched—his usually flawless face is flushed an abnormal red, forehead slick with cold sweat. His beautiful eyes are half-lidded and watery, looking like a man dying of thirst who just spotted a mirage.

Even for a Lemurian, he has to be the most high-maintenance one.

It hurts...

He finally drops the act. A hand reaches out from the cocoon, grasping blindly in the air until you offer yours for him to crush.

His temperature is terrifyingly high; the skin contact feels like being singed.

Where does it hurt?

Everywhere... my skin is so dry, it feels like it's splitting open... this damn weather, why is the air so dry when it's raining...

He's delirious. Do Lemurian gods get this fragile on land? Or is this just the price of being away from the sea for too long?

You grip his hand back, checking his burning forehead with your other hand. The cool touch draws a sigh of relief from him, his cheek instinctively rubbing against your palm.

Water...

I'll get you a glass.

You start to stand, but your wrist is yanked back with surprising force. Rafayel opens his eyes. There's no mockery or arrogance in those dual-colored irises now—only a startling, unreserved dependence.

Not drinking water.

He looks at you, voice raspy, laced with nasal congestion and a vague sense of grievance.

I need you to come with me... to the bathroom.

...Just for a bath. Don't get any ideas.

He adds the disclaimer, eyes darting away to avoid yours, but his grip on your wrist doesn't loosen by a millimeter.

If you dare leave, I'll... I'll never paint for you again.

A fierce threat, delivered with a trembling hand.

Even in this pathetic state, he's trying to maintain that laughable pride. Your heart softens into a mess, and you let him drag you toward the steam.

Okay. I'm not going anywhere.