#xavier x reader

if you could be honest, you were avoiding xavier.

you had danced with idea for a few days. it seemed too harsh to be true and it made your heart cave when you realize that you can't ignore it any longer. you were avoiding your boyfriend due to fear. the same boyfriend that had matching earrings with you and would, quite literally, appear from thin air if you so desired.

it was a harsh truth and it made your heart tremble.

you hated the fact that you couldn't even carry the blame. it made you furious but your brain - it was all her fault. it wouldn't stop. it felt like you were running through a maze. you didn't know what was real at times. you swore that xavier called you and he wasn't there. it seemed like a thought eventually turned into all your thoughts and you didn't know what to do with xavier.

you couldn't figure out whether to be selfish or let him be free.

your current focus was perfection. it had always been perfection. it won't ever be anything but perfection. you hate falling short and you hated even more when anything or anyone, was late. everything seemed to make your hands shake and you had no idea how to make it stop. what type of girlfriend would you be if you bothered him? you'd be horrible. absolutely horrid. that would make you a bad girlfriend. that would mean that you hate xavier. that's what society constantly says so it must be true. a perfect girlfriend is the girl that keeps it undercover.

it makes you ill, really. none of this makes sense.

too many things dug into your skin. if you could be honest - xavier scared you. you felt too deeply. you feel too much and too fast. you were so afraid that he'd leave and you'd be stranded in a hall of your memories. you were absolutely terrified - because in your eyes... there's so much poison. so much ink. no matter how much you choke out, you

xavier, 6:30am: When something happens, U tell me.

xavier, 6:31am: Ok?

too many things happened. you thought that you had left the kitchen stove on twice and had to turn back. you were late to work because you couldn't stop thinking about it. you clocked in at 8:03 and that enough was plenty to make you mad. your co-worker had made a joke that made you itch all over — when had you started panicking over tidiness? no? why were you so panicked by the lack of order? the lack of plans. you couldn’t relax for the life of you. you were sure.

you'd be sure that your own fear will eat you whole.

that’s why you were avoiding xavier. he had a way to figure out how something was bothering you and to what degree.

you hadn't noticed but you were visibly erratic. tara had been keeping an eye on you for the past few days and she couldn't help but pipe up when she sees you stare at the coffee pot. she trusted that you knew how much she cared for you - that's why she's the one that throws the first tiny stone.

"you're avoiding xavier, aren't you?" tara quips from behind you. you're in the breakroom and you're brought away the bubbling pot. you don't dare look at her as you say,

"i'm avoiding everybody. nobody's special." your voice is flat. a pitch that rarely runs your office walls. tara's eyes widen at the sudden sharpness and her soft brown eyes are simply staring at you.

"are you okay, y/n?" tara asks and she's trying to reach. you pull away discreetly, reaching for the coffee mug instead.

"yes. i apologize if i was too rough. i'm just tired these days."

"y/n-"

"tara." xavier says. his voice is gentle but there's a firmness you recognize. he finally got it. he had his answer. "can i handle this?" he asks and you wish the coffee pot would burn a hole into the earth for you to hide in. from the corner of your eye, you see your best friend nod and give you a moment. xavier's politely closing the door behind her and you can't help but sigh.

"what was that?" he quips and you truly can't believe that your first argument is in your breakroom. how absolutely embarrassing. but truthfully, you didn't have it in you to care. you felt so wired. you felt absolutely off-the-rails and you couldn't get control of your own head. what a horrid feeling. what a horrible thing.

"what was what?" you ask and you're trying to keep your eyes away from him. he's going to see through you. he's going to see that you're being held by a string of sorrow and utter confusion. you don't know what to do. you don't know who to trust. you go through seasons of intense fear and paranoia - it makes sense to you - why should you taint your sweet boy with absolute noise?

your hands reach for the lilac mug and xavier feels like he's staring at another person for a second. only for one second. evasive. you're hiding. you're staring out the windows like you're searching for something. looking for somebody. watching for fear, at all times now. he's worried. he's always worried.

"you're going to have to elaborate. i'm currently making coffee. it's not done yet-"

xavier grinds his teeth and he reaches for you. he needs to see you. he knew that there was something twinging in your eye - a distant look. he didn't know why he didn't pay attention - why he didn't find out more. but he's looking now. he's going look straight at you.

"i'm not joking around. what's going on with you?" he accuses and his soft eyes finally look into yours. he sees the exhaustion. he sees the seething anger. but under it all; he sees fear. so much fear. you, on the other hand- you hate the accusative tone so much. your expression changes and before you can defend yourself, he speaks again.

"you're crankier. angrier."

"i'm not."

"you are." he firmly says and you exasperatedly ask.

"xavier, what do you want?"

his own name shifts the conversation and he's left with a confusing flame. his eyes furrow together and he's split between furious and absolutely heartbroken. "what do you mean what do i want? can i not ask if my girlfriend is alright?"

right.

he was your boyfriend. the person you were supposed to trust most in this world. you could hear the cooing feeling of absolutely rage. to show somebody your weakness - is to risk it all. they could laugh at your wounds. they could absolutely hurt you, even more. xavier wasn't like that though. so why couldn't the voices stop? why wouldn't the harsh and dropping feeling... just leave?

"i'm sorry. i just - i'm going through things." you say but through the entire conversation - not once have you made eye contact with him. you've been avoiding and he knows that you want to cry. he knows that you want to say more. so, he can only sigh.

you look down at the floor and the sigh overplays in your head. you're annoying him. he's absolutely exhausted. he's tired of you. why are you so annoying? why can't you be normal? why can't you trust your heart and tell xavier what's going on? why couldn't you face him?

"i know." he says softly. your shoulders dropped and your head low. he can only kneel in front of you, forcing you to look at him and your eyes full of tears destroy him every single time. "but we can't do that. not to tara. she cares about you so much. and i care about you so much. why are you avoiding me?"

you stare at him and bite your lower lip. his eyes ease softness and comfort. you feel his heart comforting yours and you look away in shame. you're embarassed. why can't you control your emotions? why did your mind get so thrilled with running away from you? being away from your control. it's all so...

scary.

"talk to me, sweetheart. what's going on?"

"i don't know." you start and you're looking at him - you're confessing everything. tears streaming down your face, "i'm so tired. i'm so tired and i can't relax. i don't know what's going on with me. i hear things and see things that aren't there. i'm so tired. i'm so scared of telling you and so scared of you seeing me differently-"

xavier's standing and wrapping his arms around you without hesitation. he brushes your hair softly and he's kissing the top of your head. you can't stop crying. you're petrified. he scolds himself for not realizing earlier but the two of you had one thing in common,

you two loved each other every much.

"i'm here." he coos,

Xavier

You and Xavier are sent on a high-level mission to clear out multiple lumnivores that have been tearing through the outskirts of Linkon.

With the threat level this high, hunters from every division have been pulled in — including people you trained with.

--

You have mixed feelings about seeing your old cohort again. Some of them you're glad to see. Some you'd hoped never to run into again.

One name in particular sits heavy in your chest: Brad.

He was sharp, always top of the class, a big broad-shouldered man with a fire evol and a permanent scowl reserved just for you. From the day he met you, he decided he didn't like you — and he never once tried to hide it.

He'd shove you in the halls for no reason at all. Whisper something to his friends the second you walked past, then laugh, mean-girl style, even though he was a grown man. He'd comment on your hair, call it messy, even when it wasn't.

It came to a head on an ordinary training day. Brad had been worse than usual — because that morning, one of the trainers had praised you in front of everyone for how much you'd improved. You'd taken his spot at the top of the monthly rankings, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself feel proud of it.

So you decided to talk to him. Calmly. Like an adult.

"I respect that you're a hard worker, and that a lot of people look up to you," you said, holding his eye. "I just want us to be able to get along. I don't think we are."

He laughed in your face.

"Wow. That's a lot of bullshit coming out of your mouth." His eyes raked over you, contemptuous. "The reason I don't like you is because you don't deserve to be here. You're underqualified, your evol is useless — you should be cleaning my shoes, not training next to me."

His friends laughed on cue.

You didn't answer. His words didn't land the way he wanted them to — you knew exactly what you'd fought for to be standing there. You turned and walked away without a word.

That silence made him angrier than anything you could have said. He'd wanted tears. Groveling. Rage. Instead, he got nothing — and he decided the next time, he'd make sure you couldn't just walk away from it.

--

It was a bright, easy morning when it happened. You woke up, chatted with your roommate over nothing in particular, and were halfway through breakfast when a knock came at your door: your supervisor wanted to see you.

You didn't think much of it walking over — figured it was something about the mission rotation, maybe a schedule change. Then you pushed open the door and found the room already half full.

Captain Voss sat behind the desk. Brad was in the chair to the left of it, arms crossed, doing a poor job of looking neutral. And beside him, dabbing carefully at her eyes with a tissue she'd clearly brought with her, was Chelsea — the girl who trailed Brad and his friends everywhere, always laughing a beat too early at whatever he said.

You hadn't even sat down yet and the tears were already going.

"Oh — sorry," Chelsea said, voice wobbling on cue, pressing the tissue under her eyes without smudging a single thing. "I just — this is really hard for me."

Brad's hand found her shoulder immediately, rubbing slow, sympathetic circles into it. "Hey. Hey, you don't have to do this if it's too much." His voice had gone soft, gentle, nothing like the voice he used on you. He glanced at Voss. "Can we maybe reschedule? She's really shaken up."

"Of course." Voss was already halfway out of his seat with concern. "Chelsea, do you need a minute? Water?"

"No, no, I want to—" a small, brave sniffle, "—I want to get through it. I don't want to be a coward about it."

You hadn't said a single word yet.

"Right," Voss said, settling back down, his whole posture rearranged now, softer, like he was handling something fragile. He gestured for you to sit, but he didn't look at you the way he'd looked at her. "Let's begin. Chelsea, in your own time."

"I'll get straight to it," he said once you were seated, folding his hands on the desk. "A complaint's been filed against you. Bullying and intimidation."

You already knew who from. You didn't need it spelled out — you just hadn't expected the performance to come with it.

"I haven't bullied anyone," you said, keeping your voice level, careful. "Can I ask what I'm supposed to have done?"

That was all it took. Chelsea's breath hitched, sharp and audible, and her shoulders started to shake.

"See, this — " she managed, voice cracking beautifully, " — this is exactly it. The way she just — talks to people."

"Hey, hey." Brad was already leaning in, one arm curling around her, murmuring against her hair like she was made of glass. "You're okay. You don't have to explain it if it's too much right now."

"No, I want to." She lifted her chin, brave and trembling, dabbing at eyes that — you noticed, clinically, distantly — never actually produced a tear. "I just get so anxious around her. I never know which version of her I'm going to get."

Voss's whole face softened. He reached across the desk and slid the tissue box an inch closer to her, a small, automatic kindness he hadn't once extended to you.

"Take your time," he said gently.

You hadn't raised your voice. You hadn't said more than nine words. You filed that away and kept your face still.

"Several of your peers have described you as... a lot to be around," Voss continued, glancing at Chelsea like he needed her permission to keep going. "Confrontational. Difficult to approach."

"Difficult how?"

"Well — you tell people what you think. Directly." A small, tight shrug, like that alone explained everything. "Some people find that intimidating, coming from you."

"Coming from you." You noted the phrasing and said nothing yet.

"I raised a concern with a peer once," you said. "Calmly. In private. That's the only conversation I can think of."

"That may be how you remember it."

Chelsea made a small, wounded sound at that, and Brad's hand tightened around her shoulder like he was holding her together. "It's okay," he murmured. "You don't have to relive it."

"That's how it happened," you said again, quieter now, aware of how useless the words already sounded in the room.

Voss looked at you like you'd raised your voice, though you hadn't. He sighed, the kind of sigh that suggested you were the one being unreasonable simply by disagreeing with him. "Look — I'm not saying you did anything with bad intentions. But you have to understand how you can come across. You're... a very strong presence in a room. Loud, even when you're not trying to be."

You hadn't raised your voice once since walking in.

"I haven't raised my voice," you said.

"I didn't say you had." He leaned back. "I'm talking about energy. Presence. It's not really about volume."

You felt the ground shift under the conversation without a single thing about it actually being said outright.

"Several people have mentioned feeling uncomfortable in training with you. Like they have to walk on eggshells." He tapped his pen against the desk, and his eyes went, almost involuntarily, back to Chelsea — checking on her, the way you check on someone you actually care about. "One trainee described the environment as hostile."

"Hostile how? I run drills. I give feedback when I'm asked for it."

"Maybe it's not what you say. Maybe it's how you say it." His eyes flicked over you, quick and assessing, in a way that made your skin crawl. "You have to admit, you can be... a lot. Intense. It puts people on edge."

Chelsea sniffled again, right on cue, and Voss's hand twitched toward the tissue box before he caught himself. You'd worked under him for months. He'd never once softened his voice for you like that — not when you'd come in bruised after a training accident, not when you'd asked for feedback on a drill he'd praised in front of everyone else. It clicked, then, watching the two of them — the careless familiarity, the way his eyes lingered on her a half-second too long even now, the fact that Brad had never once been called into this office despite starting every single one of these incidents himself. Whatever this was between Voss and Chelsea, it wasn't just captain and trainee. And it explained, with an ugly kind of clarity, exactly why nothing you said in that room was ever going to matter.

"I'm doing my job the same way everyone else here is doing theirs."

"I'm not disputing that you're skilled." A small, thin smile, the kind meant to sound like a compliment. "Genuinely — you're one of the strongest in your cohort. But talent doesn't excuse making people feel small. Or scared."

"I have never once made anyone feel scared."

Chelsea's face crumpled fully at that, tears finally spilling — real or not, you couldn't tell anymore, and it didn't matter, because the room had already decided which of you was the injured party the second you'd walked through the door. "She's doing it again," she whispered, like it physically pained her. "Raising her voice at me."

You hadn't raised your voice.

Brad pulled her into his chest, glaring at you over the top of her head, and for one unguarded second you caught the smallest flicker of amusement pass across his face before he smoothed it back into righteous outrage.

"That's not what I'm hearing," Voss said, already reaching for the form, not even bothering to ask you to explain. "I'm required to log this as a formal incident. You'll be pulled from the joint exercises for two weeks while it's reviewed."

"This is because I said something to Brad, isn't it."

"This isn't about any one person." He wouldn't meet your eyes when he said it. "This is about a pattern of complaints."

"From people who happen to be his friends."

"I'd be careful," he said, voice cooling, "about how that sounds. Getting defensive isn't going to help your case."

"Defensive." You almost laughed. Nothing you said in that room was going to be heard as anything other than exactly what he'd already decided it was.

You signed the form because there was no version of refusing that didn't make it worse. You walked out numb, replaying every word, every raised eyebrow, every "you can be a lot" — trying to find the version of yourself he was describing and coming up empty every time.

You were punished for something you never did.

After that, you kept your distance. Stopped trusting anyone from your old cohort. Smiled less. Watched more. And you learned, in that one conversation, exactly how little it would take for the truth to stop mattering once someone had already decided who you were.

--

Present day, and you're a different person than you were back then — steadier, sharper, more sure of your own hands. You cut through the lumnivores with barely any wasted movement. Captain Jenna, pulled away to handle something else, leaves you in temporary charge of your unit.

You're mid-sentence, laying out positions and fallback points for your team, when a voice cuts through the noise behind you.

"Ahh, the black bitch thinks she's in charge now."

You don't turn around. You keep talking, keep pointing out the treeline, keep your voice level.

"This black bitch is actually ignoring me," Brad says louder, closer now, playing to the small crowd he's dragged with him. "Your shitty plan isn't gonna work."

You still don't turn — until his hand closes around your wrist and wrenches you around to face him.

You look at him with nothing but disgust.

"You still haven't grown up, have you, Brad?" A small, humourless smile. "Jealous?"

That's what breaks whatever thin control he had left. His face goes red, twisting into something uglier, and the words that come out of him are ugly to match — about race, about superiority, about things no one should ever have to hear said to their face. You keep your voice light, mocking, refusing to give him the reaction he's chasing —

— until his hand closes around your throat and slams you back into a tree hard enough to knock the air clean out of your lungs.

Xavier's head snaps toward the sound from two units over. The second he sees it's you, something in him goes very still, and then very fast.

It's a blur — a flash — and then you're on the ground and Xavier has Brad choked half-unconscious on the dirt, thrashing under him. You've never seen him like this. Not once.

"You piece of shit." His voice is a low snarl, nothing like the Xavier you know. "How dare you touch her."

Brad's lips are turning purple by the time three other hunters manage to drag Xavier off him.

The moment he's free, Xavier is on his knees in front of you, pulling you into his chest, hands shaking as he checks you over. You cry silently into his shoulder, and he just holds you, murmuring against your hair — that you don't deserve to be treated like you're less than, like you don't belong, that you are smart and capable and everything good he's ever known.

Your teammates bring you something sweet once you've calmed down. You get back up, finish the mission, and walk away with a commendation for it.

Brad gets fired. Not even his father's name can save him this time. He's made to write a formal apology — one you and Xavier read together that night, laughing until your sides hurt.

--

Zayne

You're a nurse at Akso Hospital — transferred here a while back, mostly so you could be closer to Zayne. It's the start of another twelve-hour shift, the kind that used to intimidate you and now just feels like home.

Since you and Zayne start at the same time, mornings like this are easy: he makes breakfast, you get ready, you kiss him on the cheek and thank him before he drives you both in. Small, steady rituals that make the long days bearable.

The drive in takes you past the same stretch of the city every morning — grey high-rises giving way to the sprawling glass-and-steel campus of Akso Hospital, ambulances already queued at the emergency bay even this early. Zayne parks in his reserved spot near the staff entrance, the one perk of dating the hospital's top surgeon that you'll happily admit to enjoying.

You're assigned to the emergency department — your bread and butter, the chaos you thrive in. You pull your scrubs on, clip your ID badge into place, and brace for whatever the day throws at you. The department smells the way it always does this early — antiseptic and stale coffee, the low beeping hum of monitors down every corridor, fluorescent light a little too bright for how little sleep you got.

The handover from the night shift is a lot: a wanderer attack overnight, multiple injuries, exhausted staff. You're told bed five needs a CT scan and to run the standard checks on the rest.

Your first patient is a sixty-seven-year-old man, grey-haired, stubbled, complaining of chest pain.

"Hello, my name is Y/N, I'll be your nurse today," you say, calm and professional. "I'm just going to check your blood pressure, if that's alright."

"No. You're not touching me." His arms cross, voice hard.

"Oh — may I ask why?"

"I don't want you touching me." Each word deliberate, his face darkening.

"Can I ask why," you try again, gently.

"Because you're black." He says it plainly, like it's an answer that should satisfy you. "You people are everywhere, stealing our jobs. I want a white nurse. A white doctor."

You're hurt, but not surprised — you've met people like this before, people who doubted you, second-guessed you, looked past you for someone who looked more like them.

Then his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist hard enough to bruise, a slur spat straight at your face, spit landing on your cheek.

You're scared now, and there's no one else on the floor — you're short-staffed, and it shows.

"Please, sir, let go of me," you say, voice steady even as your pulse isn't. "I'll get you a white nurse."

He doesn't let go.

That's when Zayne rounds the corner, a tray of coffee in hand for the nurses, and freezes at the sight of you — pinned, wincing, on the edge of tears, with no one around to help.

Something in him goes cold and precise all at once.

"Let go of her." His voice doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. He pries the man's fingers off your wrist himself, tucking your hand safely behind him. "This hospital has zero tolerance for violent behavior toward staff. I'm having you transferred to a different facility, and your family will be informed."

He doesn't wait for a response. One hand stays on your back the entire time he makes the call, guiding you to the break room, speaking to the head nurse in the same flat, controlled tone.

You're shaking. You've handled difficult patients before, but never quite like this. There's a lump in your throat you refuse to let win.

--

You'd barely gotten your breathing back under control when there was a knock at the break room door — the head nurse, apologetic, telling you the patient's son had arrived and wanted to speak to "whoever was in charge of his father's care."

You didn't want to go back out there. But it was your patient, technically, still, until the transfer went through, and hiding in the break room wasn't going to make that true any less.

The son was younger than you expected, maybe mid-thirties, arms crossed in a mirror of his father's posture from earlier. "What exactly happened out there," he said, tone already accusing before you'd said a word.

"Your father declined care and became physically aggressive," you said carefully. "Dr. Zayne intervened and arranged for a transfer to another facility, per hospital policy."

"He says you provoked him."

You felt your stomach drop. "I introduced myself and asked to check his blood pressure. That's the entirety of what happened before he grabbed my wrist."

"My dad's from a different generation," the son said, like that was an explanation rather than an excuse. "He didn't mean anything by it. Maybe if you'd handled it a little more delicately instead of getting the doctor involved, this wouldn't have turned into a whole thing."

Something in you went very still. "He used a racial slur and grabbed me hard enough to bruise."

"I'm not saying that's okay." He said it fast, the way people do when they're about to say something that makes clear it actually is, a little. "I'm just saying — he's sick, he's scared, people say things they don't mean when they're scared."

You didn't get the chance to answer. Zayne appeared at your shoulder, having clearly heard enough of the conversation from down the hall to know exactly where it was headed.

"I was here for the incident," Zayne said, voice level, professional, immovable. "There was no provocation. If you'd like to file a formal complaint, I'll have someone bring you the paperwork. Otherwise, your father's new placement is already confirmed, and I'd encourage you to focus on getting him there."

The son opened his mouth, closed it again, and left without another word.

Zayne turned to you the second he was gone, some of the careful professionalism cracking at the edges. "You okay?"

"I don't know why I let that get to me," you admitted, voice smaller than you meant it to sound. "I've had worse."

"You shouldn't have to measure it against worse," he said quietly, guiding you back toward the break room with a hand at the small of your back. "Bad is bad. You don't need to rank it to be allowed to be upset."

--

Once everything's sorted, Zayne takes your hand and leads you into his office. The door clicks shut behind you, and then his arms are around you, and the only thing you manage to choke out is *thank you* before you're crying into his chest.

"You're okay," he murmurs, stroking your braids, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You're okay, my love."

He sits, pulling you into his lap, and unwraps a sweet, popping it gently into your mouth — the familiar fruity taste grounding you, slowing your breathing.

"You won't have to worry about that again," he says. "I love you, and you deserve to be here just as much as I do." A small, tired smile. "Without nurses, doctors like me are useless."

You laugh despite yourself, wiping your eyes.

"His son basically told me I provoked it," you say quietly, the words still sitting sour in your throat.

Zayne's jaw tightens. "I heard the tail end of that."

"It just gets exhausting," you admit. "Having to prove, every single time, that I didn't do anything to deserve it."

"You don't have to prove anything. Not to him, not to his father, not to anyone." He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering against your cheek. "I've watched you work this floor for over a year. You are, without exaggeration, one of the best nurses in this hospital. Anyone who can't see that isn't worth a single second more of your energy."

You rest your forehead against his shoulder, letting the words settle somewhere they might actually stick. "After your shift, let's do a movie night. That weird show you like."

"My shows aren't weird," you say, pouting.

"Thank you," you tell him again, quieter this time, holding him tighter. "I don't know what would've happened if you weren't there."

"You'll never have to find out," he says, pressing one last kiss to your temple before loosening his hold, reluctant, like he'd rather keep you there the rest of the shift.

Then you smooth your scrubs down, square your shoulders, and head back out to finish the rest of your twelve hours — steadier this time, his voice still sitting somewhere warm in your chest.

Rafayel

It's a warm summer night, and an important one — Rafayel's showcase, weeks of work leading up to this single evening in a pop-up gallery downtown. Watching him work these past few weeks has been its own kind of magic; the way his mind moves, restless and brilliant, is endlessly attractive to you.

Raf almost doesn't want to leave for it, clinging dramatically to your arm at the door like a man being dragged to his execution, until you physically peel him off and promise him a cheeky reward when you're both home again.

Since the event doesn't start until late, you take your time getting ready — a full pampering routine, a fresh wig install (no, raf didn't do your hair this time), a glass of champagne while you slip into a fitted lilac mermaid dress that hugs every curve exactly right.

You check yourself out in the mirror a little longer than strictly necessary, humming along to your favourite songs, feeling good. Then you call an uber and head out to support your boyfriend like the incredible partner you are.

The building is packed — a line wrapping the entire block. You feel a swell of pride seeing how many people showed up for him.

Raf told you that if you just gave your name at the door, security would let you straight in. So you approach the two men guarding the entrance — both well over six feet, built like brick walls.

"Excuse me, I'm Rafayel's girlfriend," you say, calm and polite. "He said if I mentioned that, you'd let me in."

"You got an invitation?" one of them says, arms crossed, not budging.

"Well — no, because he said—"

"Listen, sweetheart, we get girls all night claiming to be the artist's girlfriend, sister, cousin, whatever. If you don't have an invitation, get in line like everyone else."

"I'm trying to explain, my boyfriend told me I could just—"

"I don't care." His voice is flat with contempt now. "Why would someone like Rafayel date a black bitch like you anyway. He deserves better than someone claiming to be his girlfriend."

"I am his girlfriend," you say, feeling your face heat as the small crowd nearby starts to look over. "That was incredibly rude."

The insecurity hits before you can stop it — the quiet voice that's told you before that you don't deserve someone as brilliant and kind as Raf.

"I don't care. You're probably just trying to sneak in — cause trouble, maybe steal a piece." He smirks. "Perfect disguise, right? Bet your whole crew's in there right now."

You try to explain again, voice cracking now, tears building as the insults keep coming.

Across the room, Raf feels something twist in his chest — you're not there yet, and it's setting off every alarm bell he has. He weaves through the crowd, scanning every face, spiralling harder with every second he doesn't find you, half-convinced something's happened, half-convinced it's somehow his fault. Thomas trails behind him, having pulled him away mid-conversation with the gallery owner.

Then he sees you.

On the ground. Dress crumpled, hair coming loose from its careful style, mascara smudged down your cheeks, a security guard still looming over you as onlookers murmur and do nothing.

Something in Raf goes very quiet, and very red.

You'd seen Raf annoyed plenty of times — dramatic huffs, exaggerated pouting, a running commentary of complaints delivered with a flourish, all noise and no real weight behind it. This wasn't that. This was silence. A stillness that didn't belong on him at all, like watching someone slip out of their own skin.

"—just wait, you blackie, I'll catch your whole crew—" the guard is saying.

"What did you just say to her." Raf's voice is low. Too low. Flat in a way you'd never once heard from him, not even the time he'd found out a gallery had tried to pass off a forgery of his work. His eyebrows are drawn tight, his breathing gone shallow and fast, and for the first time since you'd met him, there was no performance left in his face at all. No sulking, no theatrics. Just something underneath all of that finally showing through.

Every head turns at once.

Thomas, a step behind him, goes pale. "Rafayel—" he starts, low, urgent, a hand half-raised like he already knows it won't matter.

Raf doesn't even look at him.

He crosses the distance like something unleashed, hauling the man off you by the collar, the strength in it entirely at odds with the lean, elegant hands you'd watched hold a paintbrush that same afternoon.

"I said — what did you just say to her."

"What are you gonna do about it, pretty boy." The guard doesn't recognize him.

Raf's mouth curls into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. It was the same smile he gave gallery owners who lowballed him, the one that always made you laugh because you knew there was nothing behind it but mischief. There was nothing playful about it now.

"Are you sure you want to find out?"

He cracks his knuckles, unhurried, almost lazy about it, and something behind his eyes goes flat and cold — the kind of calm that doesn't come from control, but from having already stopped caring about consequences.

The crowd that had been staring at you moments ago took an unconscious step back, the air around him gone thin and sharp, like the temperature itself had dropped. You'd never seen people afraid of Raf before. People adored him, fussed over him, indulged him. Nobody had ever looked at him like this — like something dangerous had just walked into the room wearing his face.

What follows is fast, and ugly, and entirely one-sided. He has the man pinned by the throat before anyone can stop him, movements precise in a way that felt wrong on someone who complained about breaking a nail.

"This is what happens when someone hurts what's mine," he says, almost pleasantly, watching the fear bloom in the man's face, his voice dropping into something low and intimate, like he was sharing a secret rather than a threat. "Watching the light go out of your eyes might just be the best part of my night."

The guard made a strangled sound, hands scrabbling uselessly at Raf's wrist. Nobody moved to help him. Nobody dared.

You've seen Raf angry before. Petulant, sulky, a little sharp-tongued when a critic said something stupid about his work. You've never seen this — this version of him that felt like it had been sitting coiled under the surface the entire time you'd known him, waiting for a reason.

"Raf — please." Your voice comes out small. His eyes flick to you instantly — and for just a moment, something in them wavered, like two different versions of him were fighting for control of the same face.

"He hurt you, cutie. Said the ugliest things a person can say." His voice was almost gentle again when he spoke to you, a jarring, unsettling softness right next to the violence still coiled in his hands. "He deserves to feel exactly what he put you through."

"Please. Just for me. Let's go home." You keep your voice soft, pleading, watching something in him fight itself — the boy who cried about leaving your apartment that morning.

"...You're scaring me."

That does it. He lets go instantly, crossing to you, fear flooding his face where fury had been a second ago — and just like that, the stranger who'd had a man by the throat was gone, and it was just Raf again, wide-eyed and stricken, looking at you like he was the one who'd been hurt.

"I'm sorry, cutie. I'm sorry — please don't be scared of me." His hands are shaking as he pulls you close, and you can feel it now, the tremor running through him, adrenaline with nowhere left to go. You're trembling too, though not because of him.

You sit together on the cold pavement while he apologises over and over, quiet and broken, the night air cooling the tears on your face.

Eventually you gather yourself, pull him up with you, and fix what you can of your smudged makeup with the back of your hand.

"Come on," you say, threading your fingers through his. "Let's go admire my talented boyfriend's hard work."

--

Sylus

The ballroom took up the entire top floor of the Aldaric Building, all soaring ceilings and gold leaf, chandeliers dripping crystal light down onto a sea of black tuxedos and jewel-toned gowns. A string quartet played something slow and classical in one corner, barely audible over the low hum of conversation and clinking glassware. Marble floors, polished to a mirror shine, reflected the chandeliers back up at you every time you moved. Waitstaff in crisp black-and-white wove between clusters of guests with trays balanced on one palm, and out past the floor-to-ceiling windows, all of Linkon City glittered gold and white beneath a clear night sky.

You didn't belong to this world, not really — but Sylus did, and tonight you were his, which was supposed to be enough.

He hadn't left your side for the first twenty minutes. Hand at the small of your back, murmuring names and titles into your ear before you needed to ask, steering you through the crowd like he'd mapped every inch of it years ago. It felt, briefly, like armor.

Then a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Sylus. There you are." A broad-shouldered man in an impeccable navy suit, flanked by two others you didn't recognize, all three wearing the particular polished smile of people about to talk about money. "We need five minutes. The Hendricks account isn't going to close itself."

Sylus's jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. "Now?"

"Unless you want them walking by morning." The man's eyes flicked to you, brief and assessing, then away again, already dismissing you from the conversation entirely.

Sylus turned to you, and for a second the polished CEO mask slipped, something softer showing through. "Five minutes," he murmured, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. "I'll find you the second I'm done. Don't wander too far."

"I'll be fine," you told him, and meant it, or thought you did.

He pressed a kiss to your temple before he let the men pull him toward a private room off the main floor, glancing back once over his shoulder before the door shut behind him.

And just like that, you were alone in a room full of people who'd already decided, at a glance, exactly how much space you were allowed to take up in it.

The cool glass felt reassuring in your hand as you took a small sip. The champagne flute beside it probably cost more than your weekly food shop. You shook your head with a quiet laugh. Rich people really lived in a different universe.

"Excuse me."

You turned, expecting to see another guest. Instead, an elegantly dressed woman smiled expectantly at you, diamonds at her throat catching the chandelier light.

"I've been waiting nearly five minutes."

"...I'm sorry?"

"My champagne?"

Realisation settled over you. She thought you worked here.

"Oh." You offered an apologetic smile. "I don't actually work here."

Her eyes swept over your face before slowly travelling down the length of your dress.

"...Really?"

"Really."

A strained laugh escaped her.

"My mistake."

"It's alright." You turned back towards the drinks table, its white linen cloth lined with more crystal than you'd seen in your entire life. "I suppose I just assumed."

You didn't ask what she'd assumed.

You already knew.

--

"You look absolutely gorgeous," said the next woman, one closer to your mother's age, circling you slowly beneath the chandelier like you were a piece on display.

"Thank you."

"The colour is stunning on you." Her hand lifted, reaching toward one of your curls without asking. You stepped back on instinct; her fingers caught nothing but air.

"Oh — I was only going to touch it."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"I was just curious."

"I know."

"Is it real? All of it?"

"Yes."

"I've always wondered how—" She stopped herself, laughing awkwardly. "I suppose I shouldn't ask."

"No," you agreed.

"You probably get that all the time."

"I do." Your smile didn't reach your eyes anymore.

--

"You have excellent posture," an older gentleman offered a while later. "Modelling?"

"No."

"...Athletics, then?"

"Not really "

"Hm." He looked genuinely stumped. "So what do you do?"

"I work for the hunters' association". His eyebrows climbed.

"You don't look like someone who'd work in that field."

"What does someone in my field look like?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. "...Not what I expected."

Of course not.

--

By the time the orchestra changed songs and the crowd drifted toward the dance floor, you'd started recognizing the pattern before people even finished their sentences. The pitying tilt of the head. The "I'm just saying" tone dressed up in pearls and good manners.

"So — you came with Mr. Sylus?" one woman asked, all polished surprise.

"I did."

"I have to admit, I was surprised. I simply thought someone like him would've..." she searched for the word, "...chosen differently."

"Differently?"

"You know. Someone who matched him."

"I do match him."

She laughed like you'd made a joke. "I meant 'socially.'"

You held her gaze, steady. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

"Nothing." A smile. "My, you're rather defensive."

"I'm asking a simple question."

"I haven't insulted you." No — not directly. That was the trick of it. Everything was wrapped in enough politeness that reacting made "you" the problem.

--

A younger woman approached next, champagne in hand. "Oh — I've been looking for you. The organiser said staff would be in burgundy." Her eyes flicked to your dress. "I need someone to take my coat."

Before you could answer, the first woman murmured, just loud enough, "She doesn't work here."

The younger woman flushed and fled with an apology. The first woman watched her go, then turned back to you, almost sympathetic.

"It is a little unfortunate," she said, tilting her glass thoughtfully. "The dress is beautiful, but in this lighting... it all sort of blends together. I almost couldn't tell where the dress ended and—" She stopped. "Never mind."

She said it like a compliment. Your appetite vanished on the spot.

--

You slipped out onto a quiet balcony for air, the heavy glass door swinging shut behind you and cutting the noise of the ballroom down to a distant murmur. Stone railing, cool under your palms. Below, the city sprawled out in grids of light, headlights crawling along wet streets, the occasional horn drifting faintly upward. Rain hadn't started yet, but the sky over Linkon City hung low and heavy with it, clouds smothering the moon, the air thick with the particular electric stillness that comes right before a storm breaks. For the first time all night, you let your shoulders drop.

"You slipped away," said a voice behind you. Not again.

A man joined you at the railing, introduced himself, repeated your name slowly like it was a foreign object in his mouth. "That's... unusual."

"It isn't."

"I mean originally."

"I'm from Linkon."

His smile thinned. "You know exactly what I mean."

Before you could leave, the first woman reappeared with two others in tow, eyes dragging over your curls.

"I simply never imagined Mr Sylus would date someone quite so... bold."

"I suppose he likes making a statement," the man said, smirking into his glass.

"Or perhaps she's just a phase," someone else offered, and they laughed together, easy, like you weren't standing three feet away.

Your grip tightened around the stem of your glass. You'd smiled through the whole evening. Bitten your tongue through every backhanded compliment. But you could feel your patience finally running out.

"...Bold?" you repeated quietly.

"You know what I mean."

"No. I don't."

"Then perhaps you're choosing not to."

Another guest drifted over, catching only the tail end. "So this is her?" His eyes swept you top to bottom. "I didn't imagine Mr. Sylus would date a Black woman."

The words just hung there. Nobody corrected him. Nobody so much as flinched. They watched you instead, waiting to see how you'd react — like your reaction was the whole point of the evening.

"I don't see what my race has to do with my relationship," you said, voice tight.

"We're simply surprised," the first woman said, sweet as poison. "You can't expect people not to notice."

"I expect people to have manners."

Her smile slipped. "There it is."

"What?"

"The attitude."

"They always turn aggressive eventually," someone laughed.

Aggressive. Again. You let out a short, humourless laugh. "I've been polite to every single one of you all night."

"You've been defensive."

"I've been defending myself." Something in you finally snapped loose. "You mistook me for staff. You asked if my hair was real. You asked where I'm 'really' from. I'm from Linkon City. And somehow all of you have convinced yourselves you've been perfectly polite this whole time."

Silence. Then, quietly, devastatingly: "...So emotional."

That one landed the hardest. Because no matter what you said, you'd become exactly what they'd already decided about you before you'd opened your mouth. The aggressive Black woman. Right on cue.

You turned to leave — and stopped.

Sylus was already there, a few feet away, close enough that you hadn't even heard him approach. The whole ballroom had gone quiet around him without anyone quite noticing when.

He wasn't looking at anyone but you. His crimson eyes catalogued everything — the stiffness in your shoulders, the tight set of your jaw, the way your hand trembled faintly around the stem of your glass.

Then, slowly, his gaze moved to the circle around you. One face at a time. His expression didn't change. If anything, it went emptier, which was somehow worse than anger.

He crossed to you without hurrying, took the glass gently from your hand — his fingers brushing yours — and set it on a passing tray.

"...You're shaking."

You hadn't even noticed.

He took both your hands in his. They were freezing. His jaw ticked, just barely.

"Who started it?"

You hesitated. "It's okay."

"No," he said, quiet and absolute. "It isn't."

"I didn't want to interrupt your meeting."

Something flickered across his face, gone as fast as it came. "You think my meeting mattered more than you?"

You didn't answer.

"It never will," he said, and then, finally, he looked at the group. His posture shifted — shoulders squared, chin lifted, warmth draining out of his eyes like a light switching off. The temperature in the room seemed to actually drop.

"So." One word. Silence answered him.

"You mistook my partner for staff." Nothing.

"You questioned her intelligence." Nothing.

"You commented on her hair." The woman's hand twitched toward her own without meaning to.

"You questioned where she 'really' belonged."

The businessman looked away.

"You implied she was beneath me — because she's Black."

"Mr. Sylus, that's not what we meant—"

He looked at the man. That was all it took. The man went silent immediately.

Sylus took one slow, deliberate step forward. No raised voice. No sudden movement. Every single person in that circle stepped back anyway, like their bodies knew something their pride hadn't caught up to yet.

His fingers stayed laced through yours the entire time — grounding himself as much as you.

"I've spent years cultivating relationships in this room," he said, voice smooth, almost pleasant. "And yet I find myself wondering why." He looked around at them, unhurried. "Because if this is Linkon City's elite, your standards are embarrassingly low."

He drew out his phone, typed one message, and put it away without a word of explanation.

"...What was that?" the businessman asked, unable to help himself.

Sylus smiled. Cold. Beautiful. Genuinely frightening. "Nothing that concerns you." His gaze swept the group one last time. "I hope you enjoyed your evening. Tomorrow will be considerably less pleasant."

No threats. No shouting. Just certainty, delivered like a weather report.

He slid an arm around your waist. "We're leaving."

Neither of you looked back.

-

The drive home was silent at first, the car's leather interior smelling faintly of cedar and rain, the dashboard's soft blue light the only glow between you. Rain finally broke as the city thinned out behind you, tapping gently against the windshield, then harder, streetlights smearing gold and red across the wet glass as Linkon City blurred past in long, watery streaks. The wipers kept a slow, steady rhythm, the only sound besides the hum of the engine. You stared out the window until you couldn't hold it in anymore.

"I'm sorry," you said.

Sylus glanced at you immediately. "For what?"

"I ruined your evening."

"You think that's what I'm upset about?"

"I should have handled it better."

He pulled the car over, killed the engine, and turned fully to face you.

"You handled it with more grace than they deserved."

Your eyes stung. "I just—" Your voice cracked. "I'm so tired."

Those four words did something to him you could see happen in real time.

"It's stupid," you said, laughing weakly, except it came out more like a sob. "I keep thinking maybe one day it'll stop. But it never does. I walk into a room and people decide who I am before I even open my mouth. They think they can touch me. Ask where I'm really from. Treat my hair like it's public property." Another broken laugh. "And the worst part is I wasn't even surprised."

He didn't say anything. He just reached across the console and pulled you into him, one hand cradling the back of your head as you buried your face against his chest, and held you like he could physically shield you from every cruel thing the world had ever aimed at you.

"You said something back there," he murmured into your hair. "'I'm used to it.'"

You nodded against him.

"I know." His arms tightened. "And that's exactly what breaks my heart."

He kissed your forehead. "You shouldn't have to be used to being treated like that." Another kiss. "You should never have to wonder if you belong in a room." His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. "You belong anywhere you choose to stand."

For the first time all evening, real anger crept into his voice. "And if anyone ever makes you question that again, they won't be comfortable enough to try it twice."

You pulled back to look at him. "You really meant all of that back there?"

His expression softened completely. "I've never meant anything more."

He rested his forehead against yours. "They looked at you and saw someone to judge." A small, private smile. "I look at you and see the woman I intend to spend the rest of my life protecting."

For the first time that night, you smiled, and it wasn't forced at all.

--

Caleb

A new mission, a new cover. This time, you were sent in as a cadet with the Farspace Fleet to find out whether the base was quietly manipulating protocores to push further into the deepspace tunnel than anyone was supposed to. You and a handful of other hunters had been sent to investigate.

It was a brutal, grinding winter. The Farspace uniform clung to your skin, useless against the cold, as you stood in a line of cadets on the training field — some huffing and complaining under their breath about the captain taking his time, others standing perfectly still, falling in line with everyone around them.

And you. Just watching. Eyes moving from face to face, working out the shape of the place before you had to move through it. Caleb didn't know the details of your mission — you hadn't told him, hadn't wanted him treating you any differently from the other cadets. He only knew you'd be here, training, same as everyone else.

The captain stepped out, and the whole field went silent except for the rustle of people straightening their spines.

"Cadets." His voice boomed out, loud, condescending, carrying easily over the wind. He paced the length of the stage, looking over the new intake like he already knew exactly what he thought of every one of them. "I'm Captain Jennings, and I'll be overseeing you lot."

He kept pacing, authority radiating off him with every step. "This isn't going to be easy, cadets." Then his eyes landed on you and stopped there — a beat too long, a small, unreadable smirk pulling at his mouth — before he carried on with his speech about commitment and what it took to make it under him.

You filed it away as strange. Wondered, for one uneasy second, if your cover was already blown`. Then the cadets were dismissed to their dorms, and the thought got buried under the business of settling in.

--

The weeks that followed were brutal — up at five every morning, ten laps around the building before an actual workout, all of it a near-perfect echo of your old hunter training, which meant you handled it easily where half your cohort struggled. You caught Caleb occasionally, pulled into empty storage rooms and supply closets where the two of you melted into each other for a few stolen minutes before duty called you both back. Outside of that, the days blurred into routine.

Then a letter reached you from another hunter stationed at the base — quick, careful, unsigned. A warning. *Watch yourself around Captain Jennings. He has a documented history of treating people who don't look like him very differently. Be careful.*

It clicked something into place — the stare on day one, the smirk that had lingered a beat too long.

You didn't dwell on it. Kept up the routine — laps, deepspace tunnel theory, combat drills, the slow work of tracing the protocore experiments back to their source. Your body had adjusted to the early mornings well enough that you started waking an hour before everyone else, using the quiet time to move through the base unnoticed, gathering what you could and passing it along to another hunter who'd been embedded there far longer than you. She warned you about Jennings too, in almost the same words as the letter, like it was common knowledge nobody said out loud.

Then came the announcement: Captain Jennings would be taking a more hands-on role in training this cohort. More personal. More involved. He gave some polished excuse about being passionate about cadet development, about wanting to set a good example — and the room ate it up.

That was the beginning of it.

It was subtle, at first. Your form corrected in front of the group when it had been perfect. Other cadets quietly encouraged to go harder on you in combat drills than anyone else, because — in his words, murmured just loud enough for you to hear — "your kind can handle it." Small things, easy to second-guess, easy to tell yourself you'd misread.

It stopped being subtle at lunch one day.

Jennings held court near the front of the line, cadets gathered around him soaking up another one of his deepspace stories, laughing on cue, hanging off every word. He was well-liked — practically worshipped, if the night before was anything to go by, cadets falling over themselves to praise his work ethic, his leadership, even his looks, which you'd had to bite back a laugh at.

Then you heard your name.

"Cadet L/N." Condescending, pitched to carry. "Go fetch some water."

You didn't refuse. Couldn't afford to, not with the mission on the line, not with every eye already halfway to you. You swallowed the look on your face and went.

On your way back, you heard him laughing to the group — loud, easy, delighted with himself.

"Ahh, you know Blacks are only good for one thing, and that's being slaves. I don't get why they ever stopped it."

The laughter that followed was uneasy, scattered, people who clearly didn't want to laugh but were too afraid of what it'd cost them if they didn't. You kept your head down and pushed through it, water in hand, saying nothing.

It got worse from there. He started steering other cadets into stripping you down to nothing but your underwear during drills and leaving you out in the cold while they laughed, mocked you, said things about you that you didn't let yourself repeat even in your own head afterward.

He stopped using your name entirely. *Slave* was the only thing he called you now, in front of everyone, like he was daring someone to correct him.

You tried to endure it quietly. Tried to keep it contained, compartmentalized, something you could carry alone until the mission was done. But it wasn't sustainable, and it wasn't you — not really.

You didn't tell Caleb.

You'd repeat it to yourself on the walk home each night, like a mantra: *I can handle this. I fought too hard to get here to let one bitter man make me small.* So you kept your head down. Did the extra laps in the rain until your boots filled with water. Scrubbed the gear until your knuckles split. Told Caleb you were just tired when he noticed you'd gone quiet over dinner, when you stopped talking about training the way you used to, when you started flinching at the buzz of your comms.

He didn't believe you. Not for long.

He noticed you flinch at Jennings' name lighting up your screen. Noticed how you'd go still, just for a second, when his hand landed on your shoulder or your waist the way it always had — a flinch you tried to smooth over too quickly for it to be nothing. Noticed the shadows deepening under your eyes a little more each time he saw you, like sleep wasn't doing what it used to. Noticed the way you'd sit on the edge of the bed after a shift, boots still on, just staring at the wall like you were bracing for something that had already happened. Noticed the new stillness in you, like you were holding your breath through your own life.

One night he found you like that — sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark, still in uniform, hands folded so tightly in your lap your knuckles had gone pale. He didn't turn on the light. He just knelt down in front of you, took your cold hands in his, and waited.

"Talk to me," he said, voice low, steady. "Whatever it is. I'm not going anywhere until you do."

And something in you finally gave out.

You told him everything. The names. The extra punishments dressed up as discipline. The way Jennings' face would light up with something ugly and satisfied every time he found a new way to grind you down. You hadn't realized how much you were carrying until it was spilling out of you in the dark, your voice cracking on words you'd swallowed for weeks.

Caleb didn't interrupt. That was what frightened you a little — how quiet he went. How still. His jaw worked, tight and controlled, and his thumb kept moving slowly over the back of your hand the entire time, like he needed the contact as much as you did.

When you finally ran out of words, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with the look that had settled behind his eyes.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Don't worry about him anymore."

You should have known that wasn't the end of it. Caleb's voice had a particular calm he only used when he'd already decided something couldn't be argued with.

--

The room he chose had no windows the base ever used anymore — an old storage block in the east wing, thick-walled, soundproofed more by neglect than design. A single barred window near the ceiling let in the storm: thunder rolling low over the base, lightning strobing white through the bars at long, uneven intervals, throwing the room into brief, stark relief before swallowing it back into dark.

Caleb sat on the edge of the desk in the corner, one boot braced on the floor, the other swinging idly. A knife turned slow circles between his fingers, catching what little light there was — flash, gone, flash, gone — while he hummed, low and unhurried, a tune only you would have recognized. Something you'd sung around the apartment a hundred times without thinking. He'd apparently been thinking about it more than you realized.

In front of him, Captain Jennings knelt bound on the concrete, wrists lashed behind his back, a strip of fabric cinched tight over his mouth. Tear tracks cut clean lines through the dust on his face. His eyes — wide, wet, uncomprehending — followed Caleb's every small movement like a man trying to read a language he'd never bothered to learn.

Lightning cracked. For one white-lit second, all Jennings could see was the shape of Caleb rising from the desk, unhurried, and then the dark swallowed him again, and the only warning of how close he'd gotten was the sound of boots on concrete.

Caleb crouched down in front of him, slow, deliberate, until they were eye to eye. Whatever calm he wore around you had been left outside this room. What was left in his expression didn't look entirely sane.

"I should just cut his tongue out," he mused, almost to himself, tilting his head like he was working through a math problem. The muffled sound behind the gag spiked, frantic, pleading.

"Wasn't talking to you." Caleb rose again, towering over him, and Jennings flinched hard enough to rock back on his knees.

Caleb drifted back to the desk, propping himself against the edge again, knife spinning idly between his fingers as he resumed talking — not to Jennings now, just thinking out loud, the way you'd sometimes catch him doing over paperwork.

"To think this thing actually believed it deserved to keep breathing." He scoffed, eyes flicking up, knife tilting lazily in Jennings' direction. "After everything he said to her. Called her a slave. Told her — in front of an entire cohort — that her existence was insignificant." His jaw tightened, just slightly, the only real crack in the composure. "Among other things I'd rather not repeat."

He pushed off the desk.

"You know what's better than making someone disappear quietly?" His voice had dropped, quiet and even, somehow worse than shouting. "An eye for an eye."

He started walking. Jennings scrambled backward on his knees, graceless, desperate, until his shoulders hit the wall and there was nowhere left to go. Caleb followed at the same unhurried pace the entire way, like the outcome had never been in question.

He crouched again, level with him, and drew the flat of the blade in one slow line down the side of Jennings' face — light enough that it left no mark at all, just the promise of what it could do. Jennings went rigid, breath coming fast and ragged through his nose. Then, almost gently, Caleb hooked the knife under the edge of the gag and cut it free.

"Please — Captain, I didn't mean it, I swear, I'll do anything, please—" The words tumbled out fast, slurred with panic, his composure gone entirely, a dark stain spreading across his fatigues as his voice cracked into full sobbing.

"So you didn't mean it," Caleb said, and his face didn't change at all, "when you told one of your cadets she was worthless. That her whole existence was an inconvenience to you. And worse." He caught Jennings' chin between gloved fingers, black leather turning the man's face up to his, gentle in a way that made it so much worse. The knife drifted upward, unhurried, toward his mouth.

Jennings tried to twist away. It didn't matter. Caleb's grip didn't so much as shift.

What followed, you were grateful — later, always — that you never had to witness. Only the sound reached anyone outside that room, and even that was swallowed fast by the next roll of thunder, a scream cut short and wet, and then nothing at all but the storm.

Caleb straightened afterward, wiping the blade clean with a small, disgusted flick of his wrist, like he'd handled something merely unpleasant rather than done what he'd just done.

"There," he said, to no one who could answer him anymore. "Now you can't spout nonsense anymore."

That wasn't the end of it, either. What came after stretched over days — quiet, methodical, relentless — long after any reasonable person would have called it finished. Caleb didn't believe in finished. Not for this.

And when it was over, when there was nothing left of Captain Jennings worth calling a threat, Caleb simply pulled the strings that needed pulling and had him quietly, officially, unglamorously fired.

--

You never found out the details. Only the aftermath, arriving in pieces over the following days.

Jennings stopped showing up to command briefings. His name was quietly struck from the roster boards like it had never been there. When you finally worked up the nerve to ask Caleb what happened, he didn't even look up from what he was doing.

"He resigned," he said. "Personal reasons."

You didn't believe him. Not fully. There was something in the set of his shoulders, something careful and deliberate in how he avoided your eyes, that told you the truth was a great deal uglier than a resignation letter.

You noticed other things, too, in the days that followed. The way every officer in your division suddenly went out of their way to be scrupulously, almost nervously fair with you. Overcorrected, even — like an unspoken memo had circulated through the entire command structure, one nobody had actually seen but everybody somehow understood down to the letter. Nobody looked at you sideways anymore. Nobody "forgot" to put your name on the roster. People who used to avoid eye contact now went out of their way to greet you.

You never asked Caleb again what happened to Jennings. Some things you already understood the shape of, even without being told the specifics — and some part of you, quieter than you liked to admit, was grateful not to know exactly how far he'd gone to make sure it never happened again.

That night, wrapped up against his chest with the window cracked and the city humming outside, you finally let yourself exhale properly for the first time in weeks.

"You didn't have to do anything," you murmured against his skin.

"I know." His arms tightened around you, deliberate, absolute. "I wanted to pips."

A pause, his voice dropping lower, quieter, more dangerous than you'd ever heard it directed at you.

"Nobody touches what's mine and gets to walk away clean."

You didn't ask him to explain that. You didn't need to.

Valko

Valko’s company didn't hire people who couldn't keep up — that was the whole premise of the place, gleaming glass and merciless standards stacked forty floors above the city. You were Head of R&D, the youngest in company history to hold the title, and you'd earned every square inch of the corner office with sleepless nights, a mind sharper than half the department combined, and a stubborn refusal to let anyone tell you otherwise.

Not that everyone in the building had gotten that memo.

The new research assistant — Priya, hired last month on Marcus's recommendation, all polish and no substance as far as you could tell — made her opinion of you clear during a project review, in front of the entire team.

"I just think it's interesting," she said, voice pitched to carry, sugar-sweet and razor-edged, "how someone gets to head an entire department without... I don't know. The usual credentials."

The room went very quiet. Someone's pen stopped scratching against their notepad.

"I have the credentials," you said, evenly, not looking up from your tablet.

"Do you, though?" She smiled, tilting her head. "Or did you just spell your way into the position. Diversity hire and all that."

A ripple went through the room — a few sharp inhales, someone shifting uncomfortably in their seat — but nobody said a word. Nobody corrected her. You kept your expression neutral, your spine straight, because you'd had a lot of practice at exactly this.

"I earned this position," you said, quiet and precise, "same as everyone else in this building."

"Sure," she said, unconvinced, already turning back to her tablet like the matter was settled. "Sure you did."

You didn't dignify it with anything more. You finished running the review, delivered your notes on the prototype timeline without a single crack in your voice, and walked out of the conference room like nothing had happened at all.

You didn't think about it again — or told yourself you didn't — until Valko called you into his office that evening.

--

His office took up the entire top floor, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city gone gold and orange with sunset, the kind of view that cost more than most people's annual salary. He was standing at the window when you walked in, jacket off, sleeves rolled, backlit by the dying light. He didn't ask how your day was. He already knew — Priya's comment had reached him within the hour, because very little happened in that building without eventually reaching him.

"Sit," he said, and you did, lowering yourself into the chair across from his desk with more composure than you felt.

He studied you for a long moment, the kind of look that always made you feel like he could see straight through whatever careful face you'd put on.

"You're not upset."

"I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked away, toward the window, toward the city lights starting to flicker on below. "I've heard worse. I'm used to it."

Something shifted across his face — not quite anger, something colder and far more controlled than that, the kind of stillness that came right before he made someone's professional life very difficult.

"You shouldn't have to be," he said. "Used to it."

"Valko—"

"I built this company on the idea that talent doesn't come with a face attached to it." He came around the desk, closing the distance between you, and leaned back against it directly in front of your chair. "You are the best hire I have ever made. Not despite anything about you. Because of everything you are."

You didn't trust your voice not to crack, so you said nothing.

He was quiet for a moment, gaze drifting toward the window, toward the last of the light dying out over the skyline. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its usual polish.

"You know what I am," he said. Not a question. Half-wolf, half-human — something the company's glossy profiles never mentioned, something the board had fought him on for years before he'd simply stopped asking their permission to exist the way he did. "When I was starting out, nobody in that boardroom wanted my signature on anything. Didn't matter what I brought to the table. All they saw was what I was mixed with. Heard people use the word *feral* in meetings like I couldn't hear them from across the table." A humorless huff of breath. "Learned very early that being twice as good only bought me the right to be resented twice as hard."

You blinked at him, something in your chest twisting. He so rarely talked about that part of himself — usually kept it folded away behind tailored suits and boardroom composure, like the parts of him that weren't fully human were a liability to be managed rather than lived with.

"I didn't know that," you said quietly.

"Most people don't. I don't advertise it." His jaw tightened, gaze sharpening back onto you. "But it's exactly why I won't sit here and let someone talk to you the way Priya did. I know precisely what that sounds like from the inside. I know exactly how long it sits with you after the room's gone quiet."

He crouched slightly, bringing himself level with you, and tipped your chin up with two fingers until you had no choice but to meet his eyes — gold-flecked, sharper than they had any right to be in this light.

"Next time," he said, quiet, absolute, "you come straight to me. I don't care if it's a comment in a meeting or someone at the front desk who doesn't like the way you walk into a room like you own it. You tell me. Immediately."

"You have better things to do than deal with—"

"I don't," he said, cutting you off without raising his voice. "There is nothing in this building more important to me than making sure you never have to swallow something like that again. Not while I have any say over what happens under this roof."

--

By the following morning, Priya's badge no longer worked on the elevator. It didn't work on the front doors either. Security had already boxed up her desk by the time the department arrived.

Nobody asked why out loud. Nobody needed to — you watched the news travel through the office in hushed, wide-eyed conversations by the coffee machine, in glances exchanged over the tops of monitors. Valko hadn't made an announcement. He never did. He simply made sure, in the quiet, surgical way he handled everything, that the entire company understood exactly where he stood without a single memo being sent.

You found out later, from Marcus of all people, that Valko had personally sat in on the termination meeting. Reviewed the incident himself. Made absolutely certain Priya understood, in explicit and uncomfortable detail, precisely why she wasn't welcome back — and precisely what would happen to any reference check that came across his desk.

When you thanked him for it that evening, he brushed it off entirely, sliding an arm around your waist as the two of you looked out over the same golden skyline from earlier, now gone dark and glittering.

"Don't thank me for doing the bare minimum," he murmured against your hair.

"This was the bare minimum?"

"Baby." His mouth curved against your temple, something wicked and warm in it. "I haven't even started."

***

“Have you ever thought about switching partners?” It didn’t matter who was asking—it simply mattered that the question was being propositioned to you at all.

“Oh! Um…no, not particularly. Xav and I—”

The hunter interrupts you, “Or, at least, going on missions with other hunters? You know, it’s good for us to—”

Suddenly, a cool, calculated and discerning—yet eerily calm—voice breaks the tension, “It’s good for us to what?”

“Oh, uh! You know...work with everyone in the field…”

Xavier’s eyelids flatten, utterly unamused, “Mhm, right—sure.”

“Um, yeah…so, anyway…” The hunter looks back toward you, “Just think about it, hm?”

As the hunter turns away, you notice Xavier take a step forward so you instinctively grab the cuff of his uniform, stopping him by his wrist. When he looks back at you, his bright eyes are steely, focused into a slight squint. You return to him an overtly pleading look—keeping your relationship a secret at work is already hard enough as is.

This was just one of today’s frustrating scenarios... Eventually, you could practically see the steam boiling out from his ears—eyes twitching with irritation.

***

Leaving the association, after the elevator dings and the doors open completely, Xavier is shoving you inside with one nice, firm push between your shoulder blades with his fingertips. Not hard, but not soft, either. “In, Starlight.”

You feel a steady throb between your legs. His avid tendency toward jealousy shouldn’t have this effect on you, but... “Xav—”

“Quiet.”

When the doors close, he’s immediately pressing you against the back wall of the elevator, his chest against your back. His voice is full of grit, “What don’t you understand about the words, ‘You’re mine’?” You’re already stuttering, trembling with fear and excitement within his grasp. He drives his hips into your ass when he gets no response, “Hm?”

Feeling hot, you stutter, “I d-do understand.”

“I don’t think you do.” Slowly, he brings your hair to one side of your neck, whispering in your ear, “Don’t. Move.” He lets you go, turns, and hits the emergency stop on the elevator with his fist. You don’t dare move.

When you hear him step back to you, “X-Xav—”

He’s expeditious in his interruption, “Ah, ah. I clearly need to show you...” With his palm against the back of your head, he grips lightly and turns your head to the side, pressing your cheek against the cool metal of the elevator wall, “I need to put you in check, hm? Remind you who you belong to.”

Instinctively, you press your hips back, your ass flush against his groin, “Ngh—mmhm—”

“Good. Now, be quiet and be a good girl for me, yeah?” You nod the small extent you’re able considering the pressure from his hand and his body.

Finally letting you go, he yanks all the material at your hips down to your ankles as hard and as fast as he can. The act rips a whine out of your throat.

He’s quick to stand back up to the sound of your needy whine, shucking off his own pants just enough to grip his hard cock. With his free hand, he pushes against your shoulder, your hips naturally going out and back even further as your chest flattens against the wall. Lining himself up with you, “God, you just love pissing me off, don’t you, Star?”

He didn’t mean it—well, maybe about the Lumiere comments... Regardless, the suspension of disbelief made the air thicker—and you both knew it...needed it.

***

The walk back to your shared apartment complex is quiet, small murmurs—near whimpers—falling from your lips to the feeling of his cum dripping out of you and into your panties. He’s noticeably smug, but still obviously upset. His jealousy does have its bounds, if one could believe it—but today was particularly frustrating. More than one proposition from other hunters, as well as Lumiere this...Lumiere that. He had enough.

When you enter your apartment together, the silence only feels louder. Setting your things down, he starts to strip himself of the outer layers of his uniform. “You can’t still be—” You stop yourself, and with a hint of humor in your tone, “…Are you pretending to be mad, Xavier?”

Grabbing your wrist, he pulls you into his chest, using his other hand to swoop a finger under your chin and cock your head up to meet his hard gaze, “I only ever pretend not to be.”

Trying to fight a sly smile, you let your index finger of your free hand not gripped by his press into his chest firmly, “I thought you were the type to calm down quickly, no?”

His chin lifts slightly as he peers down at you. “That depends…” his finger under your chin is joined by his thumb, enacting a tight grip, “on who I’m with...” Your lips part when his thumb tugs on the space between your bottom lip and chin, “It also depends on how I want to calm myself down...” The flat look in his eyes sends a shiver down your spine, and all you’re left able to provide him with is a short nod.

He leans in slowly, his lips hovering near yours, “Can’t you tell?” His voice is quiet and composed, “I won’t be easily satisfied tonight...” His grip on your chin tightens further with a pressured squeeze, “So, are you going to help me calm down?”

Driving his anger further—on purpose, “I thought I already did, hm?”

He huffs, nearly smirking, “Not even close.” After speaking, he lets you go, and without warning, he drops to his knees in front of you, his fingers hooking into both your pants and panties simultaneously, “Let’s take a look, though, to see how far you got, shall we?”

***

Having stripped one another in a tumble down the hall, you’re both completely bare in your bed. He’s staked his claim by mounting you, trapping you with his weight, his cock its full extent inside you. You’re beyond breathless, flushed and panting, “Xavier—”

After all this time, his voice is still composed despite the juxtaposing sound of skin on skin smacking together with each jealousy fueled thrust into your already filled once cunt, “Go on, tell me.”

Each time the head of his cock slams against your G-spot, your eyes flutter, “O-oh my god—”

Full of a lustful grit, “Tell me, Star.”

Your sharp nails bite into the skin of his shoulders and he hardly reacts, perhaps only a slight clench of his jaw, “S-shit—!”

“Me?” Suddenly, his hips work faster, “Or Lumiere?”

“F-fuck—y-you’re s-so—nngh!”

“The longer you don’t answer—” the slapping of skin only gets louder, and you’re well aware that the bottoms of your thighs and the low curve of your ass just have to be turning a bright red, “the harder I’ll go.” His words are an ensured—enticing—threat.

This is a threat he keeps—and keeps quickly—when you fail in your confirmation being fast enough for his liking. “Ah! Hah, nngh! Y-you—you!”

He shakes his head lightly, his voice hoarse—but the torque of his hips doesn’t slow…not one bit, “I don’t—mm—believe you.”

“You, y-you—ngh—I swear—!” It doesn’t matter what you say, each thrust is harder and faster—more vicious…more lewd into your already spent and dripping cunt, “S-shit!”

“Say it.” Without the ability to process anything beyond the feeling of his cock stretching and pounding you into a dazed state, one of his hands leaves the space beside your head, moving to meticulously peel one of your legs off from around his waist.

“F-fuck, fuck! Oh m-my—!”

His voice is almost vitriolic, a level of commanding you’re not quite sure you’ve heard from him before, “Say. It.” Dizzy, eyes rolling, you also can’t process him taking the same steps with your opposite leg, “Say my name.”

You gasp loudly when he forcefully pins your knees beside your head, working your hamstrings to their full ability, continuing to slam shamelessly into your cunt—claiming it, “Ah! F-fuck, X-Xavier—!”

With his palms pressed against the back of your knees, his fingers squeeze tighter against your skin, “Good. Again.”

“Xavier—p-please—!” You mewl, drooling once you feel the head of his cock tap your cervix as a result of the new angle, a mix of pleasure and pain shooting through each inch of you—from each inch of him, “Ah! Mmph!”

Completely untempered, his voice near a growl, “More.” Gasping, you struggle to take in the appearance of his furrowed brows, jaw slack and panting as he drives into you with all the force he can muster.

“Xav—f-fuck! Right t-there, right—oh m-my—m’gonna cum—!”

With intentional gravel in his tone, “Good.” His hands tighten their grip yet again, a vice reminding you that there’s nowhere to go but here, “Scream my name when you cum for me.”

“X-Xav—Xavier—! H-holy fuck—mmph!” When you release an utterly desperate, erotic shriek, his name falling from your lips over and over—and over again—he finally cracks the smallest grin. Said grin is devilish—proud. However, he can’t hold the expression long—the sight of you is just too damn pretty not to groan to.

Not even close to recovered, your walls still convulsing around his length, he still doesn’t let up, “W-wait—mmm—f-fucking h-hell‚ Xav! Slow d-down—mm!”

“No.”

“Xav! Ngh!”

Between wicked, powerful thrusts, “I want...you...to cum...again.”

“Oh my god—fuck, fuck, f-fuck—!”

Xavier Seems unfazed but his eye has been twitching for a week LMAO. Quietly and privately losing his whole damn mind. Any mission you go on during this time he’s INTENSELY refraining from ripping your clothes off and going crazy town riGHT THERE. He can’t focus on plotting against you because his STAR is too fucking pretty, cute, an angel and he can’t stop thinking about pinning your knees beside your head—making you scream his name. HOWEVER…eventually…once at least a FRACTION of the horny dissipates, he starts plotting. Rather than use himself against you, he’ll use your own desires that he knows ALL too well against you. (Yes, yes, they’re HIS desires, too, but you get the point.) Randomly, sitting on the couch, he’ll grip the hair at the nape of your neck/your neck itself and pull you into his chest, giving a soft kiss to your forehead, he’ll squeeze your thighs, rub small circles into your palm, kiss your cheek (slowly, TOO fuckin’ slow…), and for the kicker, he’ll randomly nuzzle into your neck with soft hums, that is until he’s licking a slow stripe up your neck, “X-Xav—h-hey—!” “Don’t you miss the feeling of my tongue, Starlight?” “I know I miss the feeling of you under my tongue…” You’re weak as fuck for this man RIP. When he starts to actually kiss your neck, you’re already panting, chest heaving. With a small bite on your neck, he grabs your hand and guides it toward his lap, mumbling into your skin, “Feel just how much, Star…” COOKED. You’re cooked. Good luck ig.

Rafayel On his knees begging screaming crying hiccuping gasping PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE…okay, jokes aside…bro is losing his mind if you put him on a sex ban. For a hot minute, he can’t even think of revenge or teasing you because he’s DYING. Not even necessarily because of no sex, he’s DYING because it means less touch/contact/closeness with his beautiful bride in general. When he finALLY can (SORT OF) lock in, he’s determined to be as EVIL as possible. Painting in his studio shirtless, wiping excessive paint off and onto his abs, constantly visiting you straight out of the shower with a towel low on his hips, tracing small circles on your thighs and back when sitting on the couch together, keeping his voice consistently in that lower pitch just to fuck with you… “Come on, cutie. I know you miss me, hm?”

Zayne EVIL…evil, evil, evil, SO EVIL…absolutely locked in. Determined to get you to break your ban rather than he beg in any way. Gotta tame the brat, yk? Halfway through you’re like UH-OH…I fear…I’ve made a mistake... My repressed horny king is 100% going on extra runs because a) seeing him panting and sweaty fucks your whole day up, b) it helps reduce his burning lust. The little smile he wears when he walks in and sees your face is just U G H. He ENJOYS watching you regret your decision, but eventually his determination only increases yours and you play right back into the situation, persistent in doing the things you know drive him crazy. Swiping his cheek/bottom lip with your thumb (teehee when he gets a sweet treat on his lips and you wipe it off/lick your own thumb), touch his chest any time you can...and one day after a long shift, without a word you rub his shoulders, sliding down to his chest and loosening his tie, quickly noticing the tent he’s pitching. Despite reaching lower and lower, you ignore it, only to slide back up to his chest, the tips of your fingers grazing his nipples—DETERMINED to get this man to AT LEAST utter the word 'please', “Sweetheart…I-I—” “Hm?” “Please…” SUCCESS!!! “Please, what?” “Darling…” “Please, what?” “I’ve missed you…” You stay silent—smug, and he sighs deeply while you continue to massage his traps, “Please…touch me.” Learning a thing or two from him, “Not yet, handsome. Let me hear you beg first.” The groan that would sound from his throat would send me inTO ORBIT WOWIEEE!!!

Sylus OH MY GOD. Also e v i l like Zayne—cute about it, though. He would act like hmph, no biggie—because honestly, it isn’t. He doesn’t need sex per se, he just needs to be with you. Bro is so beyond devoted he doesn’t care and is just waiting for you to crack because he thinks it’s cUTE. He makes this ban of yours AWFUL by just constantly being a snarky ass about it/always bringing it up/making sly comments. “You seem tense, kitten. Is there anything I can do to help?” Wrapping his arms around you from behind, “Awh, sweetie, you feel like you’re burning up. What about a cold shower, hm? We could take one together.” When you shove him off to grumble and walk away he laughs that DELICIOUS laugh. He does not have to actively try to get you to break, he knows you’ll do it on your own. REE!!! Lying down for the night, you toss and turn, unable to sleep—you know he’s awake considering his bizarre schedule, but he’s always more than happy to just lie by your side. Without warning, you’re quickly flipping over and crawling into his lap, pressing your lips to his, “Hmph—mmm—giving up, are you, kitten?” “Ngh—shut up—” You tug at his briefs, “Help me—” “Yes, Miss Hunter. As you wish…” His smirk is DEVIOUS, but…he’s losing it when you’re the one to grip his cock and sink down onto him—loving when you take control. (Still has to be an ass, “S'needy, kitten. Remind me why you did this again?” AAHHH!!!)

Caleb Also like Raf, BEGGING NO NO NO PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE…but also has his lock in moment. When he does, he’s a sICK BASTARD FUCK OH MY GOD. Ultimately though, in a really funny jokey way that’s hot but also too goofy not to giggle at. Randomly drops to the ground to do push-ups in front of you. (I’M GONNA SIT ON HIM AND MAKE HIM COUNT THEM OUT.) Works out extra, sweaty/shirtless, teasing you by threatening you with a bear hug so he can rub his sweat all over you. (Kill me.) Okay...stick with me…I feel like he’s working out in those tiny workout shorts (AAHHH, no shirt obviously) (has NO underwear on) and is coming to find you ASAP, plopping down next to you on the couch, “Caleb! Off! You’re sweaty, don’t you—!” He puts an arm around your shoulders with a smile, “What?” His smile only grows when you stare at his slick with sweat chest/abs. THEN...when your eyes drop to his lap he uses his free hand to stroke his already hard dick through his shorts, your eyes practically bulging out of your head when he grips the base and shakes lightly, “Don’t you miss me?” (Actually send me to an asylum please and thank you.)

Valko Simialr strategy to Caleb, get shirtless, sweaty, and look HOT. If bro is in a rut/heat though, he’s getting on his knees and begging you to let him mating press you IMMEDIATELY. (I’m folding.) Aside from that, he’s doing his best to play it c o o l. Big bad wolf has it under control, totally. He’s not even tRYINg to tease you with his hard dick, he just can’t NOT be hard next to you on the couch, your scent filling his senses. He’s nuzzling your neck, trying to control the buck of his hips toward you, “Pup…” “Mm, puppy…” Just whining random nonsense and pet names into your neck, “Baby…you know how bad I want you. I know you want me, too. Whaddya say, hm?” His voice is so smooth you’re beYOND tempted to crack but hold firm anyway, the whining almost too enjoyable. In a playful way (with just a tiNGE of meanness), “When you finally give this up, I hope you know I’m going to make sure you can’t walk...” The next morning, off to work reluctantly, he dawns your FAVORITE suit of his, the one that hugs each of his muscles JUST RIGHT, “Pup, I won’t be back until later.” Eyes wide you’re ready to invite him straight back into bed, and he can see that—CAN SENSE IT. So, just to fuck with you, “I love you, pancake. Don’t wait up, hm?” (Once he’s gone, you text him the most heinous offer you can think of, pics attached, and bro is RUSHING to get back inside the house ASAP. He keeps his promise of ensuring you can’t walk.)