"Phainon."
"Ah-! Partner, you've arrived."
Today's Document
Xuebing Du

oozey mess
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

Love Begins
KIROKAZE
dirt enthusiast
RMH
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

Product Placement
Not today Justin

titsay

⁂

Kaledo Art
Game of Thrones Daily
d e v o n
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Misplaced Lens Cap

if i look back, i am lost
seen from Malaysia
seen from Switzerland
seen from Australia
seen from Germany

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Belarus

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from Netherlands

seen from United States

seen from Canada

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Spain

seen from Lithuania
seen from United States
@onlyafterrain
"Phainon."
"Ah-! Partner, you've arrived."

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
you want to betray me?
trailblazer reliving khaslana's memories: what are these options dawg.
AU doodle
after hours (1:00am) - caleb x reader
18+ | pseudo incest // adoptive sibling dynamic summary: You survive childhood by clinging to Caleb. Growing up makes that a problem.
cw: pseudo-incest / adopted sibling dynamic, childhood abandonment, implied parental drug addiction, foster care trauma, grief, nightmares, codependency, attachment issues, emotional dependency, jealousy, possessiveness, teenage drinking, underage drinking, panic/emotional shutdowns, complicated first love, unhealthy coping mechanisms, non-explicit sensual tension, minors navigating romantic feelings, eventual 18+ themes.
Word count: 2,590 of 60k+
For chapter one, go here: chapter one
Chapter two
December arrived quietly, though Gran decorated anyway. Nothing heavy or overwhelming-just a soft silver garland across the living room shelf, warm fairy lights around the window, and a tiny artificial tree Caleb insisted was “tragically small” despite being barely taller than you.
“It looks like a toothbrush,” he complained from the couch.
Gran snorted from the kitchen. “Then decorate your toothbrush tree properly.”
And somehow, despite everything, the house began to feel warm. Safe. Lived in. You almost let yourself forget what month it was.
Almost.
Then December 23rd appeared on the calendar, and everything inside you began unraveling days before it arrived. Gran noticed first. You grew quieter, skittish again, following Caleb even closer than usual with your fingers constantly brushing his sleeve for reassurance. You stopped sleeping properly. Every loud sound made you jump.
Caleb noticed too.
One afternoon, he found you sitting on the hallway floor, staring blankly at the calendar near the kitchen. Your birthday had been circled neatly in blue pen.
DECEMBER 23.
He leaned against the wall beside you, arms folded loosely across his chest, his dark hair still damp from a shower and curling slightly around his ears. “You okay, Pipsqueak?”
You did not answer. Your eyes stayed fixed on the date.
Caleb followed your stare, and the shift in his face was subtle. Quiet understanding settling in.
“Oh,” he said.
That was all. No pushing. No asking what was wrong. Just understanding.
But understanding did not stop the day from coming.
The morning of your eighth birthday, Gran tried. God, she tried. You woke to the smell of pancakes and cinnamon drifting through the house, soft music playing faintly from the kitchen, and wrapping paper hidden badly beneath the coffee table because Gran was terrible at secrets. For one brief, sleepy moment, it almost felt normal.
Then you remembered.
One year ago today.
One year since the police station. Since your mother kissed your forehead and disappeared. Since your father did not look back.
You stayed in bed.
Gran came in around midmorning carrying a little wrapped box and wearing the careful expression adults used around wounded animals. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
The words alone made your throat close.
“No.”
Gran paused. “Honey-”
“I don’t want it.”
Your voice came out sharp and panicked. Gran immediately set the gift aside. “Okay. That’s alright.”
But it was not alright. Every attempt at celebration felt unbearable. Cake meant the police station cupcake. Going out meant your mother smiling and saying birthday surprise. Presents meant waiting, and waiting meant abandonment.
By lunchtime, you were barely holding yourself together.
Gran tried gently again while making tea. “We could just have a quiet day at home. No big fuss. Maybe your favourite dinner tonight?”
You started crying before she even finished the sentence. Not soft tears, either. Immediate, choking sobs that tore out of you before you could stop them.
“I don’t want a birthday!”
Gran’s face crumpled. “Oh, sweetheart-”
“I don’t want it!” Your hands shoved against your own chest like you were trying to physically push the feeling out. “I don’t want today!”
Gran crossed the kitchen and pulled you into her arms despite your struggling. “Okay. Okay, darling. It’s alright.”
But you were spiraling too hard to believe her. Birthdays were bad. Birthdays meant people leaving. Your body remembered before your brain could stop it-the smell of rainwater, the police station lights, your mother walking away.
You cried so hard you hiccuped.
Gran looked devastated. Not frustrated. Never frustrated. Just heartbroken in that quiet adult way children notice without fully understanding.
So eventually, she stopped trying.
No more suggesting outings. No more mentioning presents. No more talking about birthdays at all. The decorations stayed unlit, the little wrapped box disappeared from the coffee table, and the whole house shifted into careful silence around your grief.
Even Caleb accidentally stepped on the landmine once.
It happened late in the afternoon while you were both sitting on the living room floor. Caleb was working on one of his aircraft models, pieces scattered around him chaotically, violet eyes narrowed in concentration as he tried to attach something impossibly tiny. Then, casually, without thinking, he asked, “So what flavour cake do you even like?”
Silence.
Caleb looked up immediately.
Your face had gone blank. Then your eyes filled.
“Oh no,” he breathed.
The tears came too fast. You curled inward like something had struck you, shoulders shaking as sobs tore through your chest.
“I’m sorry,” Caleb said instantly, horrified. “Hey-hey, Pipsqueak, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want cake,” you cried.
“I know. I know.”
“I don’t want birthdays anymore.”
Something awful flashed across Caleb’s face then. Not annoyance. Not discomfort. Pain. Real pain. Suddenly, he looked like a child too. A child who understood a little too much about losing things.
He moved closer carefully, sitting cross-legged in front of you. “Hey.”
You would not look at him.
His hand hovered awkwardly for a second before settling gently around your wrist. “You don’t gotta celebrate. Gran won’t make you. I won’t either.”
Your breathing hitched painfully.
“It’s just another day, okay?”
Another sob escaped you anyway. Caleb looked panicked for a second, like he wished he could physically fight the thing hurting you, but all he could do was shift closer until his knee bumped against yours.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Look at me.”
You couldn’t. Everything felt wrong. The room. Your chest. Even breathing.
“I don’t want today,” you cried again.
“I know.” Caleb’s voice softened, but his hand stayed steady against your wrist. “But you’re here. You’re with Gran. You’re with me.”
You shook your head violently. “No, I’m not-”
“Yes, you are.”
The words came firmer that time. Not harsh. Certain, like he needed you to believe him.
Another sob caught in your throat, and Caleb hesitated only a second before awkwardly wrapping both arms around you. It was clumsy, the way children comforting children always was. His sleeves bunched weirdly beneath your fingers, and one of his elbows dug painfully into your arm because he was still too young to know how hugs worked properly.
But he held you tightly anyway.
And he stayed.
That was the important part.
“You don’t gotta like today,” he whispered near your hair. “You don’t gotta celebrate it. But you’re still here.”
Your face pressed into his shoulder as you cried. Caleb smelled faintly like laundry detergent, paper, and the sour lemon lollies he was obsessed with lately. Underneath that was something warmer. Familiar already. Something your body had started recognising as safe before your mind could catch up.
His hand rubbed uncertain little circles against your back.
“It’s okay,” he murmured every time your breathing started breaking apart again. “It’s okay. I got you.”
Eventually, the sobs weakened. Not because the pain disappeared, but because Caleb sat through all of it without pulling away once.
By the time Gran peeked carefully into the living room later that evening, she found the two of you curled together asleep on the couch beneath a blanket, your face buried against Caleb’s chest while one of his arms remained stubbornly wrapped around you even in sleep.
She stood there for a long moment.
Then quietly turned the lights off and left you both there.
✦ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ✦
That night, you woke to the soft creak of floorboards.
For one horrible, sleepy second, panic surged through you. Dark room. Movement. Leaving.
Then a familiar whisper drifted through the darkness.
“Pipsqueak.”
You blinked blearily. Caleb stood beside your bed, moonlight spilling silver through the curtains and catching in his messy dark hair. He wore oversized sleep clothes and a grin that looked far too pleased with itself for midnight. In one hand, he held a bag of sour lemon lollies triumphantly above his head.
Your nose scrunched immediately. “They’re sour.”
“They’re amazing,” Caleb corrected.
You glanced at the glowing clock beside your bed.
11:59 PM.
“What’re you doing?”
Caleb climbed onto the mattress without permission—though honestly, he practically lived there at this point—and sat cross-legged beside you. Then he dramatically held out the lollies.
“Here.”
You stared at the packet.
“No birthday,” he announced firmly.
Your chest tightened at the word, but Caleb pushed ahead before the sadness could settle.
“Instead…”
He looked toward the clock.
The numbers flicked over.
12:00 AM.
December 24th.
Caleb’s grin widened instantly.
“Betterday.”
You blinked at him. “...What?”
“Betterday,” he repeated proudly, shoving the lollies into your hands. “The twenty-fourth is Betterday now. It’s a better day than the twenty-third, so we celebrate this one instead.”
You stared at him while your fingers slowly tightened around the crinkling packet.
Caleb pointed dramatically at the clock. “No bad birthday day anymore. That day sucks.”
A tiny laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Caleb immediately looked victorious.
“See?” he said, pointing at you now. “Betterday already works.”
You shook your head, but your mouth twitched upward anyway. The room felt softer somehow. Less haunted.
Caleb beamed like he had personally defeated sadness in hand-to-hand combat.
“Rules of Betterday,” he declared.
“There are rules?”
“Obviously.” He held up one finger. “One: no crying unless you stub your toe really bad.”
You snorted.
“Two: sour lollies are mandatory.”
“That’s a bad rule.”
“It’s a fantastic rule.”
“Your tastebuds are broken.”
Caleb gasped in outrage. “Take it back.”
You laughed again—actually laughed this time—and for a brief moment his expression softened. Relief flickered across his face, quick enough that you almost missed it, like he had been waiting all day to hear that sound.
Then the grin returned.
“And three,” he said more quietly, “nobody leaves on Betterday.”
Something in your chest ached at that.
Not painfully.
Warmly.
You looked down at the sour lollies in your lap, then back at Caleb sitting cross-legged in the moonlight with sleep-creased clothes, messy hair, and stubborn violet eyes.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Caleb smiled.
Not teasing this time. Not triumphant.
Just real.
“Okay,” he echoed.
And from that point onward, every December 24th belonged to the two of you.
✦ ✦ ✦ ♡ ✦ ✦ ✦
Christmas passed gently after that. Gran kept it quiet for your sake—no overwhelming parties, no loud family gatherings, just the three of you in the little house filled with fairy lights and the smell of cinnamon and roasted vegetables. Caleb spent most of Christmas morning sprawled on the floor in a sea of wrapping paper, enthusiastically explaining every present he opened as though he were hosting a documentary.
“This,” he announced dramatically, holding up a flight simulation game, “is peak human achievement.”
Gran laughed from the kitchen. “You say that about everything plane-related.”
“Because planes are incredible.”
Meanwhile, you sat curled beneath a blanket beside the tree, unwrapping your gifts slowly while Caleb kept glancing over to make sure you were smiling. Not because he wanted excitement from you. Not because he cared whether you liked the presents enough. He just wanted proof you were okay. And little by little, you were becoming okay—not healed, not fixed, but softer around the edges. Less frightened each morning you woke up and found Gran and Caleb still there.
Then January came, and with it came school.
The second Gran parked outside the building, your stomach dropped so violently you thought you might cry. Children flooded everywhere, too loud and too many, while the building stretched above you in shining white panels and glass windows that reflected the morning sunlight painfully bright. Voices echoed across the courtyard. Shoes squeaked against pavement. Teachers called directions over one another.
You froze before Gran even turned off the engine.
Caleb noticed immediately, his violet eyes flicking to your face and then to the way your fingers had already begun twisting tightly into your sleeves. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
No. Absolutely not.
You stared at the school gates like they might swallow you whole.
Gran reached back from the front seat and squeezed your knee gently. “You don’t have to be brave all at once, sweetheart.”
That almost made you cry.
Caleb suddenly unbuckled himself with great drama. “Good news.”
You blinked at him.
“I’ve decided,” he announced seriously, “if the school sucks, we can fake our deaths and live in the woods.”
Gran sighed. “Caleb.”
“What? It’s a backup plan.”
You stared at him for a long moment before a tiny laugh broke through your panic. Caleb grinned immediately, victorious, then jumped out of the car first. When you hesitated, he waited beside the open door, not impatient, not rushing you. Just there. Like always.
So eventually, you grabbed his sleeve and followed him through the gates.
The school felt terrifying. Every hallway was too bright, every voice too loud, and every child seemed impossibly comfortable standing in groups while you felt like a ghost wandering through someone else’s world. So you clung to Caleb. Literally. Your fingers wrapped tightly around the back of his uniform shirt while you half-hid behind him every time another student looked your way.
Caleb, meanwhile, adapted horrifyingly fast.
By recess, he was already talking to people. Actually talking. Laughing easily with a group of boys near the basketball court while you hovered beside him like a tiny anxious shadow. You did not understand how he did it—how he smiled so naturally, how he moved through spaces without fear chewing holes through him.
But Caleb never forgot you were there.
Every time another child approached, he pulled you into the conversation before you could disappear entirely.
“This is my Pipsqueak,” he would say casually, slinging an arm around your shoulders.
The nickname made your face burn every single time.
One girl blinked at him. “Your what?”
“My Pipsqueak.”
“She’s not a dog.”
Caleb looked horrified. “Obviously not. She’s way meaner.”
You elbowed him weakly. He grinned. The other children laughed, and somehow, impossibly, it made things easier. Caleb introduced you like your place beside him was the most natural thing in the world. Not embarrassing. Not burdensome. Important.
At lunch, you sat pressed against his side under the shade structure while Caleb talked enough for both of you.
“Oh my god, did you see the science room?” he rambled between bites of food. “They’ve got actual drone kits. And I think the teacher used to work with aircraft systems because she mentioned aerodynamics and—”
He stopped abruptly.
Your hands had tightened around your juice box. A group of older kids had passed too close, laughing loudly, one of them bumping your shoulder by accident. You shrank inward before you could stop yourself.
Caleb noticed instantly. His expression changed in a heartbeat-still soft, but attentive now. Protective. He shifted closer until his shoulder pressed against yours.
“You’re okay,” he murmured, quiet enough only you could hear.
Your breathing steadied slightly.
Then, without making a scene, Caleb launched straight back into his ramble about planes, as though nothing had happened. Like he understood instinctively that sometimes comfort meant making things feel normal again.
So you listened while he talked about jets, engines, and how he was definitely going to become a pilot one day because “planes are basically magic if you think about it.” And though the school still scared you, though the noise still made your chest tighten and the unfamiliar hallways felt too large, Caleb sat beside you under the January sun with messy dark hair falling into bright violet eyes and spoke about the sky like he belonged there.
Somehow, because he was there beside you, the world felt survivable enough to stay in.
© hopelesslala written at 1:00am. protected at all hours. ✦ all writing posted here belongs to me. please do not repost, translate, adapt, copy, or upload elsewhere without permission. reblogs keep writers alive. theft kills them.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
HAPPY JUNELEB 🍎
[ Caleb x MC/Reader ] Jealous Colonel interrogating you.
Warning: Drunk possessive Caleb. MC/Reader is a brat.
— ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ —
You were trapped between him and the kitchen counter.
Caleb had been acting weird ever since you both left the formal party the Fleet held to congratulate his recent achievement. You wondered if something had happened, maybe the higher-ups said something that aggravated him again. They have never seen eye-to-eye when it comes to handling the Fleet after all.
He was looking into your eyes with such intensity, and that combined with the prolonged silence started to make you feel uneasy. You recognized this Caleb. He was still wearing his Farspace Fleet Colonel mask on.
🍏 “…Caleb? Did something happen?”
🍎 “….”
🍏 “You haven’t said anything since we left the party,” you touched his arm, softly rubbing it trying to make him feel less tense, “you know you can tell me when something—“
🍎 “I saw you talking to that young lieutenant.”
You could smell the strong hint of alcohol in his breath, what with his face only inches away from you. Didn’t he only take one glass of champagne? You were pretty sure you only saw him take one, after all you never took your eyes off him the entire— oh.
🍎 “What were you talking about? You seemed to have such a good time with him. I could hear your laughter even from where I was standing,” he said almost in a whisper. It wasn’t a question out of curiosity. He was interrogating you.
🍏 “Uhh… We were just talking about how tough the first few days are for a rookie Fleet Officer. You know, since I also experienced it when I came to Skyhaven before we met again? Haha…” you blabbered under his incriminating gaze, which you realized only makes you appear even more guilty. Why would an innocent person be this anxious? You could’ve just said—
🍎 “And you went to such great length, looking for something in common just to be able to talk to him because…?” he asked dangerously close next to your ear. There was no more space between your bodies, no more way for you to escape.
Your heart was practically jumping out of your chest at this point, this reminds you too much of the interrogation room back then. You felt ridiculous for still feeling scared of this Caleb, but felt even more ridiculous noticing there was also a small tinge of excitement inside of you.
🍏 “Umm… Because I just didn’t wanna feel awkward standing alone…?”
That should’ve been a good enough answer since it implies anyone was fine as long as you had someone to talk to, that the male lieutenant was totally irrelevant.
But that answer didn’t seem to satisfy Caleb.
He grabbed both sides of your face roughly and started kissing you in such desperation, no, ANGER, which caught you off guard. You had just indirectly told him the man was totally random and he was still upset??
But then you remembered something even more important than what was happening.
It was past 3 AM right now and Caleb had a special morning assembly tomorrow that would be attended by important people the Farspace Fleet had been trying to get to work with for months.
He had to wake up early and deliver a speech tomorrow. This past week you had been staying at his place, you had seen him memorize his long speech during breakfast, before bedtime, basically every little time he could find in the midst of his hectic days. He barely even had time to spend with you. You figured this must be really important for him and so you had been waiting patiently until that cursed speech day would finally be over and done with.
Your mind was pulled back into present time as you realized something growingly hard was pressing your lower stomach.
No, we can’t do this today… Not when victory is so close for both of you, you are NOT about to let his drunken self do something impulsive and blow off everything you both had been working so hard on.
Caleb was still going back and forth between sucking and licking your lips when you tried to push his chests, but he wouldn’t budge.
🍏 “Mmhh…. Hahhh…. Caleb—“ You called to him as you turned your head to the side.
But he wasn’t listening. He chased your lips and started suckling on it.
🍏 “Ugh— Mmmhh….” you turned your face to the other side once again, “—Caleb! Listen to me!”
Come to think of it… He had never really listened to you, didn’t he?
At least not when you’re pleading like this. In this exact kind of situation, doing this exact kind of thing.
He clicked his tongue, visibly irritated, then grabbed your head this time. One hand firmly gripping behind your head while the other was holding your face, cheek to chin, in place so tightly the leather was digging into your skin.
You were also starting to get irritated. And aroused, but the annoyance you felt was still bigger. How dare he try to seduce you when clearly you were the only one capable of making sound decisions at this moment!
So you decided to use your best skill that Caleb himself had acknowledged to be “unbeatable.” You bite his lips hard enough to give him electrocuting pain. You made a promise in your heart to give it hundreds of kisses later, but for now he just had to deal with it. It was for his own good.
🍎 “OUCH!”
Caleb pulled his face away in surprise, one of his hands instinctively reached for his lips while the other was gripping the edge of the counter. You took that chance to move aside and run towards your bedroom door.
🍎 “?! Where are you going??”
He was still standing there, looking annoyed and confused, when you finally got behind your door and locked it from the inside.
🍏 “Go to bed!! You have that speech tomorrow, remember?!”
🍎 “Come out of your room right this instant, Pips. I’m not finished with you.”
You could hear the heavy thuds of his footsteps as he was getting closer. You prayed his drunken brain wouldn’t remember he had the master key to all the rooms in this house.
🍏 “Caleb, you’re drunk! Your mind isn’t thinking straight!”
🍎 “Drunk and I can still talk just fine. Open the door!”
You were frantically trying to keep the door knob from turning. Even if you had locked it and everything, you knew it was useless because he could take that door off its hinges if he was feeling crazy enough to do it.
🍏 “Sleep! We can continue tomorrow, I’ll let you do whatever you want later if you could just let tonight pass peacefully!”
🍎 “How can I sleep peacefully when I’m still feeling like this?? Come out Pips, please… I just want to ask a few questions.”
🍏 “Talk then, I’m listening!”
🍎 “I need to see your face when we’re talking!”
🍏 “NO!! I’m scared of you right now!!”
The door knob stopped moving. Caleb didn’t say anything.
You wondered if he had finally given up and went back to his room. You waited and waited, until a few minutes had passed.
🍏 “….Caleb?”
There was no answer.
🍏 “….Caleb, are you still—“
🍎 “Alright. I’ll go to sleep now.”
🍏 “….Really?”
🍎 “Tomorrow. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”
🍏 “….Okay. Good night, I’ll wake you up in the morning.”
There was no response. He must have gone to his room, you thought.
Then you heard the sound of the opposite door closing.
— ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ —
He didn’t return your good night. That was unusual.
He must had been really upset… or maybe even angry.
Was he still angry because he was jealous you talked to that officer?
Or… was he angry because you said you were scared of him?
Maybe it reminded him of the time when you were avoiding him for months because you weren’t used to his Colonel side yet. Especially since he was still wearing his uniform earlier.
Did you accidentally hurt him by saying that? But you said that because he was behaving impulsively and you were afraid he would also make you lose control and therefore ruin tomorrow for him.
It had been an hour since you both last exchanged words and you were feeling more and more guilty as time passed.
🍏 “….I should go check on him. Maybe change him out of his uniform too… Couldn’t possibly be comfortable sleeping in that.”
— ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ —
You opened the door to his room softly. There he was, lying on his stomach and as expected, still wearing his uniform. You walked to his side and crouched down, making sure to be as silent as possible.
As you watched his beautiful lashes touching his cheeks and listened to his even breaths, you noticed his expression seemed much more relaxed than earlier.
🍏 “Dummy Caleb… You made me say hurtful things because you just wouldn’t listen,” you said in an almost-inaudible whisper while gently stroking the stubbled skin on his cheek with your fingertips.
🍏 “I’m sorry I said I was scared of you. I didn’t mean it the way you might’ve thought…”
Your fingers slowly slide over to his slightly parted lips. You could see the bite mark you left on his lower lip and chin and stroked there too, hoping it might help lessen the pain.
🍏 “I know how important tomorrow is for you and how hard you have been preparing for it. I’m not going to let anything ruin it, even if it’s your own doing.”
Then something caught your fingers, hard. Something leather-y and big.
🍎 “Are you sorry too for looking at another man when I wasn’t there?”
🍏 “??! Caleb, you’re awake??”
He pulled your hand forward until you fell on top of him. Then he turned your bodies over so now not only was he on top of you, he was also caging both of your sides with his clenched arms once again. Except this time there was absolutely no more chance to get away with his hand gripping your fingers so tightly.
Maybe… If you pretend to fall asleep…
🍎 “Answer me. Do you regret talking to him now that you know how much I dislike it? Don’t you think you should’ve just waited patiently for your big brother to come back to your side?”
🍏 “But you were taking so long—!”
Wrong answer. And now he was back to pressing his tongue down into your mouth with a renewed flare of anger. This time he made sure you wouldn’t be able to do any of your previous tricks again.
🍏 “Hahh— Are you seriously using your evol to hold my teeth in place right now??!”
🍎 “No more biting, I have an important speech tomorrow.”
🍏 “SO YOU DO REME—MMPPHHH!!”
— ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ — ⟢ —
None of you got any sleep in the end, but everything still turned out to be alright.
Because Caleb is Caleb, and there has never been a time where he failed to do something he has put his mind into.
Not even when he was hungover and sleep deprived.
— thank you for reading! 🧡
Casual ( ∩´ ᐜ `∩)♡
This will be my first Juneleb this year! (ㅅ´ ˘ `)
after hours (1:00am) - caleb x reader
hey all,
have gotten back into writing recently and have also fallen headfirst into the LaDS fandom. zayne is my main, technically, but i cannot get caleb out of my head, so here we are.
18+ | pseudo incest // adoptive sibling dynamic summary: You survive childhood by clinging to Caleb. Growing up makes that a problem.
cw: pseudo-incest / adopted sibling dynamic, childhood abandonment, implied parental drug addiction, foster care trauma, grief, nightmares, codependency, attachment issues, emotional dependency, jealousy, possessiveness, teenage drinking, underage drinking, panic/emotional shutdowns, complicated first love, unhealthy coping mechanisms, non-explicit sensual tension, minors navigating romantic feelings, eventual 18+ themes.
Word count: 3,254 of 60k+
By the time Gran took you home, you had learned not to cry loudly.
Quiet crying was safer. Quiet crying could be hidden behind sleeves, behind too-long hair, behind the hard plastic chairs of police stations and foster offices and unfamiliar kitchens that smelled like other people’s dinners. Loud crying made adults sigh. Loud crying made them look at one another over your head, tired and pitying, as though you were a problem someone had left behind with no return address.
Which, technically, you were.
You had turned seven at a police station.
December 23rd, 2055.
Your parents had brought you there with one small backpack, a jumper with a missing button, and a promise that they would be “right back.” Your mother had kissed your forehead too quickly. Your father had not looked at you at all. You remembered the smell of rain on his jacket. The twitch of your mother’s fingers. The way the officer behind the desk had bent down to ask your name in a voice too soft to be normal.
You remembered waiting.
You remembered the birthday badge stuck to your shirt by one of the officers because someone had heard you say the date.
You remembered refusing the cupcake they gave you because if you ate it, that meant time was passing.
And if time passed, then maybe they really were not coming back.
For almost a year after that, you became very good at being still.
You moved from house to house like luggage with a pulse. You learned the different sounds of adults losing patience. You learned that some homes were clean but cold, and some were warm but temporary, and some people liked the idea of helping a child until the child actually needed help. You clung to hands, sleeves, shirt hems. You followed people from room to room because closed doors felt like abandonment wearing wood and paint.
Then, eventually, you stopped following.
Stopped asking.
Stopped expecting.
By November 2056, you were quiet enough that adults called you “well behaved.”
They were wrong.
You were not well behaved.
You were terrified.
Gran met you in a room that smelled faintly of paper, floor polish, and old coffee.
She was not what you expected.
Most adults who came to meet children smiled too much. Their faces went soft and strange, their voices turning syrupy, as though sweetness could cover the sharpness of what was happening. But Gran looked at you like you were a person. A very small, very tired person, maybe, but a person all the same.
She crouched in front of you, knees cracking faintly, and held out one hand.
Not too close.
Not demanding.
Just there.
“Hello, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m Josephine. But you can call me Gran, if you like.”
You stared at her hand.
Her fingers were warm-looking. Soft at the knuckles. Steady.
Beside her stood a boy.
He was older than you. Not by a huge amount, but enough that he felt impossibly big in the way children do when they have longer limbs and sharper elbows and eyes that have already learned to hide things. The first thing that got you wasn’t the fact that he was bigger than you, no. It was his eyes. Those piercing violet eyes. His dark hair was slightly messy, like he had been dragged out of bed or had spent too long running his hands through it. His posture was straight, but not stiff. He watched the room like he was memorising exits.
Then he looked at you.
And for some reason, the buzzing in your chest went quiet.
And although the colour of his eyes could be considered cold, his gaze was warm.
Gran followed your gaze and smiled. “This is Caleb.”
The boy gave you a small smile, “hi.”
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your backpack.
Caleb glanced at it, then back at your face. His voice softened, but he did not talk to you like you were a baby.
“You like dinosaurs?”
You blinked.
He nodded toward your backpack. The faded little green dinosaur keychain hanging from the zipper had only one eye left.
You did not answer.
Caleb did not seem offended. He only leaned slightly closer, as if sharing a secret. “That one looks like it’s been through a war.”
Gran made a soft sound, half laugh, half warning. “Caleb.”
“What?” he said, still looking at you. “It has.”
Your mouth did something strange.
It almost smiled.
Caleb saw it. His violet eyes brightened, but he did not make a big deal out of it. Somehow, even then, he knew not to scare it away.
So Gran signed papers. Adults talked. Words floated above your head: placement, finalised, guardianship, transition support, trauma response, attachment.
You did not understand most of them.
You understood only this:
Gran was taking you home.
And Caleb was coming too.
At first, you didn’t know what to do with that. Home had become a word adults used too easily. They said “home” like it was a place. To you, home was a door that shut. A car that drove away. A mother’s perfume disappearing from your clothes one wash at a time.
But Caleb stayed beside you while Gran spoke to the caseworker.
Without thinking, you reached for the side of his jacket.
The moment Caleb looked down, your whole body went rigid. You expected him to pull away.
Instead, he simply stepped a little closer.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
Just that.
Okay.
Something broke in you so gently it almost felt like relief.
You clung harder.
Gran noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Her expression softened in a way that made your throat ache. She did not tease. Did not coo. Did not say, ‘Oh, isn’t that sweet?’ like you were a doll performing something precious.
She only said, “Looks like you’ve made a friend already.”
Caleb glanced at you again.
You stared at the floor, cheeks hot, fingers still twisted in his jacket.
After a moment, his hand came down. You thought for sure he’d pry you off. Instead he simply rested it over your knuckles, warm and careful.
“Yeah,” he said.
And although you had known him for less than an hour, although you did not know his favourite colour or why Gran was adopting him too or whether he had also learned the shape of being left behind, your body decided something your mind was too frightened to believe.
Caleb was safe.
So when Gran finally led you both out into the cold November afternoon, you walked pressed close to his side, your backpack bumping against your legs, your hand still gripping his sleeve like a lifeline.
Caleb never complained - not when you followed him to the car, not when you sat so close your shoulder brushed his arm, and not when Gran caught sight of the two of you through the rear-view mirror. He only watched the city slide past in silver-blue streaks before quietly resting his hand on the seat between you, palm up. You stared at it for a long moment before slipping your hand into his. His fingers closed gently around yours, and for the first time since your birthday, you fell asleep without waiting for someone to leave.
That first night in Gran’s house did not feel real enough to sleep in.
The bedroom was too clean.
Too quiet.
The blankets smelled like lavender detergent instead of cigarettes and damp carpet. There was a small lamp glowing warm yellow in the corner, and soft curtains shifting gently every time wind touched the window. Gran had tucked you in with embarrassing gentleness, smoothing your hair back from your forehead as though she had done it a thousand times before.
You had not known what to do with that either.
So you had laid there stiff as a board while Caleb hovered awkwardly in the doorway behind her, arms folded over his chest.
“Night, Pipsqueak,” he had said casually.
Like he already planned on there being another night after this one.
You had fallen asleep clutching the sleeve of the oversized jumper Gran had lent you.
And then the dream came.
It always came.
Your mother’s face appeared first, blurry around the edges like wet paint running under rainwater. Smiling too brightly. Lipstick chipped at the corner.
We’re going out for your birthday, baby.
Your father’s voice behind her somewhere. Distant. Distracted.
She’ll love it. C’mon, birthday girl.
The dream shifted wrong after that, the way dreams always did.
Suddenly the police station lights buzzed overhead in violent white flashes. Your shoes slapped against tile floors that stretched impossibly long beneath you. Your parents walked ahead.
Farther.
Farther.
You tried to run.
Your legs would not work properly.
Like wading through glue.
“Mama?”
No answer.
“Dad?”
They kept walking.
Then the darkness came.
Not normal darkness.
It moved.
It crawled along the floor behind you like spilled ink, climbing walls, swallowing corners, reaching for your ankles with hands that were not hands at all.
You screamed for them.
This time louder.
Desperate enough your throat hurt.
Your mother never turned around.
Your father never looked back.
The darkness rushed toward you.
And suddenly you were running from it instead.
Tiny lungs burning. Feet slipping. Reaching for your parents while they faded farther and farther away.
“Please!”
The darkness touched your back-
You woke with a scream so sharp it tore your own throat apart.
For one awful second, you did not know where you were.
The room was dark and unfamiliar. Shadows stretched crooked across the walls. Your chest felt split open, your heartbeat clawing violently against your ribs. You grabbed at your shirt with shaking hands, fingers digging into your chest like you could physically rip the nightmare out from under your skin.
Air would not go in properly.
You were crying before you even realised it.
Small, horrible sobs you could not stop.
Then footsteps.
Fast.
The door flew open.
Gran rushed in first, slippers barely making noise against the floorboards. “Oh, sweetheart-”
You flinched so hard your whole body recoiled.
Gran stopped immediately.
Not offended.
Just careful.
“Oh, honey,” she whispered again, slower this time, approaching like someone trying not to scare a wounded animal. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”
You could barely hear her over the blood rushing in your ears.
Your hands were still clawing at your shirt.
Your lungs hurt.
Gran sat on the edge of the bed and reached for you gently, carefully pulling your hands away from your chest before you scratched yourself raw. “Breathe for me, darling. There you go. Nice and slow.”
But you could not.
The dream was still there.
Your mother walking away.
Your father not turning back.
The darkness.
The terrible certainty that everyone eventually left.
Then another figure appeared in the doorway.
Caleb.
He stood there in oversized sleep clothes, hair messy from bed, eyes heavy with exhaustion. But the second he saw you crying, whatever sleepiness remained vanished from his face entirely.
You looked at him.
And something inside you cracked wider.
Because suddenly you wanted him.
Not your parents.
Not the police officer.
Not a foster parent whose name you barely remembered.
Him.
Gran noticed the exact moment your gaze locked onto Caleb.
Her eyes softened.
“Caleb,” she said quietly.
He hesitated only a second before walking over. The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, leaving enough space for you to pull away if you needed to. Instead, your hand moved first, latching desperately onto his sleeve. Caleb glanced down, then back at you. Heat flooded your face. You were crying, shaking, barely breathing properly. But he didn't laugh or look uncomfortable. He simply turned his arm so your fingers slipped from his sleeve into his hand. His palm was warm and steady.
“It’s okay,” he said softly.
Your crying hitched harder.
He glanced at Gran once before looking back at you. His expression had changed somehow. Less teasing. Older than a child should look.
“I get them too,” he admitted quietly.
You blinked at him through tears.
“The nightmares.”
His thumb rubbed once across your knuckles in an absent little motion. Comforting you before he probably even realised he was doing it.
“You don’t gotta be scared.”
Your voice came out tiny and broken. “You do?”
Caleb nodded once.
For a moment, his face looked strange in the dim light. Not childish. Not fully.
Lonely.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Sometimes they feel real when you wake up.”
Gran stroked your hair while Caleb held your hand, anchoring you to the room instead of the nightmare. Little by little, the panic loosened its grip. Your breathing steadied, the trembling in your fingers eased, and through it all Caleb never let go. Even as exhaustion began pulling you back under, his thumb brushed absent circles over your knuckles as though reassuring himself you were still there. Sometime before morning, still aching with leftover fear, you drifted unconsciously toward him. Caleb stilled for a moment, then carefully shifted so your head rested against his shoulder instead, as though he already knew how to hold fragile things.
From that night onward, you became inseparable.
Gran found it adorable.
Everyone else found it slightly concerning.
If Caleb stood up, you looked up immediately like your body had been tied to his by invisible string. If he left a room, you followed without question. The first few weeks in Gran’s house, she could barely turn around without finding you hovering somewhere behind Caleb’s shoulder, clutching the hem of his shirt or standing close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm.
You rarely spoke to adults unless spoken to first.
But you spoke to Caleb.
Quietly.
In little bursts.
Small things at first.
“I like this cereal more.”
“That cloud looks like a fish.”
“I had a teddy once.”
Sometimes you would speak so softly he had to lean down to hear you properly. He never complained about it. Never asked you to repeat yourself impatiently. He would just tilt his head, dark fluffy hair falling into his amethyst eyes as he listened with an attentiveness most adults never gave children.
And Caleb listened to everything like it mattered.
Even nonsense.
Especially nonsense.
“Do bugs have birthdays?” you asked one afternoon while sitting cross-legged beside him on the living room floor.
Caleb looked up from the little aircraft model kit Gran had bought him.
“Hm,” he said seriously. “Probably.”
You stared at him. “Really?”
“Yeah. Tiny little bug parties.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“They probably eat crumbs instead of cake though.”
You thought about that for a very long time.
Gran nearly cried laughing when she overheard you later whispering happy birthday to a beetle outside.
Caleb was the opposite of you in almost every visible way.
Where you shrank inward, Caleb expanded outward.
He spoke easily. Moved easily. Smiled easily. Not all the time - there was still sadness in him, hidden in quiet corners when he thought nobody was looking - but he knew how to exist in the world better than you did. He carried confidence in a rough, boyish way. Skinned knees. Untucked shirts. Grinning too wide when he got excited about something.
And Caleb got excited about everything.
Mostly airplanes.
God, he loved airplanes.
Military jets. Passenger aircraft. Old aviation history. Flight mechanics. Wing designs. Cockpit layouts. You were seven years old and somehow already knew more about aircraft engines than most adults because Caleb never stopped talking about them.
“Okay, look,” he would say, sprawled dramatically across the carpet with books open everywhere around him, violet eyes bright with excitement. “This one’s called a hypersonic interceptor. Isn’t that cool?”
You would stare at the picture solemnly.
Then nod because Caleb thought it was cool, and therefore it probably was.
Sometimes he would ramble so fast he tripped over his own words.
“And then—and then the wings shift because of drag and velocity and—wait, no, hold on, Gran, where’s the other book?”
Gran would call from the kitchen, “Caleb, sweetheart, you’ve already got six books out.”
“Yeah, but I need the plane book.”
“You are holding three plane books.”
“It’s not the right plane book.”
Meanwhile you sat beside him quietly with your knees tucked to your chest, listening like he was telling the most important stories in the world.
Because to you, he was.
Caleb dragged you outside constantly.
You hated outside at first.
Outside meant strangers.
Noise.
The possibility of being perceived.
But Caleb never really gave you room to hide forever.
“C’mon, Pipsqueak,” he would groan dramatically, standing in front of you with his hands on his hips. “You can’t become one with the couch.”
You frowned at him from beneath the blanket cocoon you had constructed.
“I like the couch.”
“You’ve liked the couch for six hours.”
“It’s soft.”
Caleb narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “That’s true.”
You looked hopeful.
Then he grinned suddenly, all crooked and mischievous. “Too bad. Playground.”
You stared at him in horror as he grabbed your wrist.
Not rough.
Never rough.
Just determined.
“Caleb—”
“Outside. The sun misses you.”
“The sun doesn’t know me.”
“It told me personally.”
And somehow, impossibly, he got you laughing.
Not a full laugh at first.
Just tiny little bursts of sound.
But Gran heard them from the kitchen one afternoon and quietly stopped washing dishes because it had been almost a year since anyone had heard you sound like that.
At the playground, you stayed glued to Caleb’s side initially. Watching other children from behind him like they might bite.
Caleb never pushed too hard.
He would just sit beside you on the swings, trainers scraping dirt beneath him while he talked endlessly about whatever had captured his interest that week.
Sometimes aircraft.
Sometimes space.
Sometimes weird facts.
“Did you know octopuses punch fish?”
You blinked. “Why?”
“They’re haters.”
You stared at him.
Caleb grinned proudly like he himself had discovered this scientific breakthrough.
Eventually he started coaxing you into things.
Small things.
“Touch this leaf.”
“No.”
“It’s not gonna kill you.”
“You don’t know that.” you’d scoff.
“I do know that. I’m basically a scientist.”
“You ate soap last week.”
“That was one time.”
Then there were bugs.
You hated bugs.
Caleb adored them.
“Look at this one,” he whispered excitedly one afternoon, crouched beside the pavement.
You approached cautiously.
On the ground sat a large beetle, twitching slightly.
You stopped immediately. “No.”
“C’mon.”
“It looks evil.”
“It’s literally just standing there.”
“It knows things.”
Caleb burst out laughing so hard he nearly fell sideways into the grass.
Then he looked back at you with that bright expression you would spend the rest of your life associating with safety. Violet eyes warm. Dark hair falling over his forehead. Smile wide and boyish and impossible not to trust.
“Okay,” he said, gentler this time. “Then I’ll touch it first.”
And he did.
Carefully.
Like the tiny creature mattered too.
You watched closely as the beetle crawled slowly across his fingers.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he promised.
You hesitated for almost a full minute before finally reaching out one trembling finger. The beetle’s shell brushed lightly against your skin. You gasped softly.
Caleb looked ridiculously pleased. “See?”
Your face scrunched up immediately. “It feels weird.”
“But you did it.”
You looked down at the bug again.
Then very quietly, “Yeah.”
Caleb smiled at you like you had just accomplished something enormous.
And maybe, to him, you had.
Because every tiny step you took away from fear felt important to Caleb.
© hopelesslala written at 1:00am. protected at all hours. ✦ all writing posted here belongs to me. please do not repost, translate, adapt, copy, or upload elsewhere without permission. reblogs keep writers alive. theft kills them.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Officially Juneleb 🌊🌺
“We’ll go to a place where we’ll be happy forever. A paradise just for us. I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”
been thinking about caleb llateley
dont judge me i had to screenshot this from my insta bc it wouldnt let me copy paste the images
anyway reference
i believe in color grading sketches as an art form idk it really adds something to my pathetic drawings thank you camera photo editor thing
did a study of a grumpy colonel and had to put kisses i mean look at him!

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
In the hollow of a crimson apple, two souls find each other—close enough to touch, far enough to keep dreaming 🍎
if only👀👀👀caleb could👀suck on my finger👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
happy juneleb guys
ig




