#caleb supremacy

Caleb

It started off innocent.

A cute note. A smiley face. A “Good luck, lovebug ♡” scribbled in pink gel pen on a sticky note pressed against the inside of his lunch container. Caleb had found it during mission briefing, pulled it out with a big dumb grin on his face, and showed it to everyone like you’d just sent him a medal.

But then?

You escalated.

Monday: a heart-shaped PB&J and a flirty “Don’t forget what’s waiting for you at home 😉” note.

Tuesday: strawberries sliced into flowers and a cartoon doodle of you both in bed—with a lot of hearts and a slightly suspicious lump under the blanket.

Wednesday: spicy noodles and a very detailed message about what else you’d like to be slurped later.

Thursday?

You went nuclear.

Because he opens his lunch in the Farspace mess hall—packed with pilots, staff, and top-level officers—and tucked between his Tupperware and chopsticks is a full polaroid of you wearing nothing but his flight jacket and a suggestive smirk.

The back of the polaroid says:

“If you finish your food like a good boy, you can unwrap dessert at 2100 hours. 🥺💋”

Caleb chokes so hard on his own saliva he nearly knocks over the tray.

The guy across from him glances at the photo. Blinks. Whistles.

“You married a menace, Colonel.”

Caleb doesn’t even argue.

He just clutches the photo to his chest, cheeks flushed, muttering something about how nobody’s allowed to look but him.

Later that night, he storms into the apartment, throws his gear down, and pins you to the wall in one smooth motion.

“You think you’re funny?” he growls, eyes wild with equal parts reverence and desperation.

You blink innocently. “Did you like the picture?”

“I liked it so much I almost got court-martialed.”

You grin. “You finished your food?”

“Oh, I finished everything.” His voice drops, fingers curling around your hips like you’re the only thing tethering him to gravity. “But I’m still hungry, sweetheart. And you’re on the menu.”

And that’s how you end up with noodles on the floor and Caleb showing you exactly what kind of dessert he meant.

Xavier

Xavier isn’t used to packed lunches.

He’s used to mission rations, cold energy bars, and whatever vending machine items don’t scream immediate regret.

So when he opens his gear pack during a routine debrief and finds a neatly packed bento box on top—wrapped in one of your pastel cloth napkins with your handwriting in the corner—he freezes like it’s a bomb.

He unwraps it slowly.

Inside: onigiri shaped like stars, strawberries cut like hearts, even a tiny container of dipping sauce… and a folded note taped to the lid.

He hesitates.

Then opens the note.

“Hope this holds you over, baby. But just so you know… dessert’s waiting in silk and nothing else. 😘”

His ears go pink. Then red.

He sits there, staring at the note like it just physically struck him. His mind has cleared of every tactical detail he learned in training. All he can hear is your voice in his head, teasing and sweet and barely dressed.

He eats one rice ball and immediately chokes.

Back at home that night, you’re reading on the couch when you hear the door open. You don’t even get a hello before a very flushed, very tense Xavier walks in—jacket half-off, eyes wild.

You blink. “You okay?”

He says nothing.

Just crosses the room, crouches in front of you, and holds up the note.

“I couldn’t focus.”

You smile, playful. “That was kind of the point.”

His jaw flexes.

“You said dessert.”

“I did.”

“And… silk.”

“Mhm.”

You lean forward, letting your fingertips graze his cheek. His breath stutters.

“You ready to cash in?” you murmur.

He nods.

Slow. Deliberate.

And then?

Very quietly—almost reverently—he says:

“…Can I unwrap you like you packed me?”

You’ve never seen him lose control faster.

Rafayel

Rafayel doesn’t usually remember to eat. Or sleep. Or hydrate.

So when you start packing him lunch every afternoon before he disappears into the studio, it’s more about survival than romance—at first.

Today, though?

You were feeling bold.

So you packed his usual—veggie wrap, fruit, chocolate—but with a little extra flair: strawberries sliced into hearts, a ribbon tied around the bento box, and a note folded like origami and tucked under the lid.

You don’t hear from him for hours.

And then—

BANG. The studio door slams open like a scene from a telenovela.

“What the hell is this,” Rafayel demands, waving the lunch box like it personally offended him. His hair’s a mess, his shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, and his mouth is stained red.

You raise a brow. “Lunch?”

He storms over and slams the note down onto the table:

“Eat this like you plan to eat me later. Slowly. Messily. No crumbs left behind.”

You barely hold back a grin. “Was it too much?”

“Too much?” he scoffs. “Too much? Baby, I licked the juice off my fingers and got hard in front of a canvas.”

You burst into laughter. He does not.

“I was trying to paint,” he says, voice strained. “And all I could think about was how you’d taste if I laid you out on the palette table.”

You blink.

“…Do you want a different note next time?”

He narrows his eyes. Crosses the room. And cages you against the wall with one palm.

“Next time,” he purrs, “you pack yourself. In the box. Naked. With whipped cream. Deal?”

You open your mouth to respond—

And he kisses you instead.

Hard. Sweet. Just a little messy.

There’s fruit juice on your chin and paint on his fingers and you don’t even care because he’s already lifting you onto the nearest flat surface.

“I’m not leaving crumbs this time,” he murmurs against your neck.

And, well.

He doesn’t.

Zayne

Zayne’s lunch breaks are brief. Efficient. Predictable.

He doesn’t even like eating during the day—it “slows him down.” But ever since you started packing meals for him (“just something light, don’t argue”), he’s been eating more regularly.

Which is great for his health.

Less great when you decide to be cute.

You packed him a neat, nutritious bento. Quinoa salad, steamed chicken, a little mango.

Oh—and a folded note tucked under the lid, sealed with a kiss mark in your favorite lipstick.

You wrote:

“Don’t forget to eat me next. ❤️ P.S. I’m not wearing panties.”

Simple. Sweet. Spicy.

Zayne opens it in the hospital break room. With two other attending surgeons present.

He doesn’t say a word.

Doesn’t even flinch.

Just folds the note back up, very slowly, and tucks it into his coat pocket like it’s a nuclear code.

The other doctors go silent. One chokes on his yogurt.

Zayne clears his throat.

“I’ll be taking my lunch in my office today.”

He storms out.

Not in anger.

In desperation.

You don’t even get a warning text. You just hear the front door slam open two hours later and a very composed, very flushed Zayne drops the lunch box on the counter and says—

“Where are they?”

You blink. “Where are what?”

“The panties,” he growls, already walking toward you. “I checked. You lied.”

You don’t have time to answer.

You’re too busy being lifted onto the counter.

“Next time,” he breathes against your neck, “think very carefully about where I might be when I open something like that.”

You grin, breathless. “You didn’t like it?”

“I’m going to punish you for it.”

And from the way he kisses you—slow, possessive, a little starved—you think maybe lunch just became his favorite meal of the day.

Sylus

To be fair, you weren’t trying to start anything.

You just thought it would be funny.

Sylus doesn’t “do” lunch—but when he left his suit jacket at home this morning (after a particularly enthusiastic goodbye), you took your chance and sent him off with a black-lacquered lunchbox.

He rolled his eyes.

Said nothing.

But you knew he’d open it eventually.

Probably surrounded by his inner circle—Onychinus lieutenants and morally bankrupt geniuses. Maybe even a few government spies pretending not to be impressed by him.

Which is exactly why you slipped in the note. Right beneath the neatly wrapped meal.

In your handwriting:

“Every bite better remind you whose mouth it should be in.

Come home hungry. I’ll be wearing nothing but your ring.”

You didn’t expect a response.

But that afternoon, your phone buzzes.

It’s a photo.

Your note—next to an empty container.

And then a message:

Sylus: “Meeting ended early. Your fault. Open the door or I break it.”

You barely have time to laugh before you hear boots in the hall.

He’s already there.

Still in all black. Collar undone. Red brooch askew. Energy crackling like he barely made it through the day without devouring something.

He steps inside.

Locks the door behind him.

Then looks you over—slow, dark, dangerous.

“You wanted to be cute,” he says.

You shrug, fake-innocent. “Was I?”

He’s already walking toward you.

“No,” he mutters, pinning you against the wall. “You were reckless.”

“And now I’m—”

His mouth covers yours before you can finish.