aether-starlight

[aether-starlight]

[aether-starlight]

quiet acts of love that make me cry 🫂

prompt list by @novelbear

always giving the other the first bite of their food

^ or the last bite

gently resting their head on their shoulder when taking a picture/peeking at something

kisses. on. the. tip. of. the. nose.

zipping or buttoning their jacket for them

when they follow the sidewalk rule :(

^ like imagine realizing it as they gently take the other's wrist and guide them to the other side...omg

waiting until they safely reach the front of the door or get inside before driving off

"did you eat today?"

softly dusting crumbs from their cheeks when eating

^ or even better: kissing it off

"wear a jacket, it's cold out."

watching a movie or show that they know they're interested in.

^ not because they asked them to, but to be able to engage in more conversation related to it when they adorably ramble on and on.

doing their makeup for them

"i brought you flowers." "for what?" "there has to be a reason?"

keeping a few of their favorite snacks in the house for when they visit.

opening the door for them or pulling their seat out before they sit down

lifting the shorter one up so they can be seen in photos

absentmindedly playing with their hair at all times

fixing their clothes a little for them when noticing something is off

[aether-starlight]

Gymnopédie - Zayne

Pairing: Zayne x Reader

Warnings: alcohol consumption, innuendos.

Summary: You confuse Zayne’s number with your trusted ride back home. When he insists on picking you up himself, how could you refuse?

Word Count: 1.7 K

The world was spinning, but in a pleasant way, as if gravity no longer affected you. You felt close to floating instead of walking, weightless as the cherry blossom petals that drifted through the air.

You were so light, in fact, that your fingers struggled to exert any pressure on the numbers in your screen, phone nearly slipping out of your hands and crashing into the pavement.

You leaned against Tara, both of you giggling about nothing in particular as you sat by the sidewalk. Her arm was wrapped around your shoulders, the sides of your heads pressed together.

Mojitos had been flowing like water tonight, a celebratory dinner after a mission completed with no casualties, hunter or civilian. 

For a moment, you had been able to let go, put down the weight of grief, fear and uncertainty in favor of comradery, cheers and funny anecdotes from Captain Jenna and the eldest members of UNICORN.

Surrounded by your peers, you knew for sure someone had your back, and they wouldn’t let you fall without falling themselves first.

Pressing your phone to your ear—and almost dropping it again—, you impatiently waited for the other end to pick up.

Absentmindedly, you drew a strand of Tara’s silky hair between your tingling fingers.

“Your hair is soooo pretty,” you hiccuped. 

“Oooooo. Thank you!” Tara pouted, close to tears, redder than ever. You probably looked no better.

“You’re welcome! I need you to give me some tips because ever since that wanderer burnt half of my freaking scalp—“

“Hello?”

You had forgotten you were on the phone.

“Ah, sorry Mister Song, hi~ I don’t see you.”

There were a few seconds of silence, and you almost pulled down your phone to check if Mister Song hadn’t hung up on you.

“It’s Zayne.”

The smile fell off your face, and like a fool, you double checked the contact name, as well as the time.

It was 3 am.

“Goddess, I’m so sorry. I thought—“

He cut you off, voice thick with sleep, not missing an inch of its imposing nature.

“Are you drunk?” 

You winced—that was his admonishment voice, the one he used when your bood tests weren’t within standards, or you had circles under your eyes. 

Like a huge cosmic joke, Tara giggled, leaning closer to slur:

“Is that your Doctor? He does sound as grumpy as you s—” You pressed your free hand to her lips, her whole face burning like a furnace.

The silence was deafening. Unbeknownst to you, Zayne had grimaced on the other side of the line, a half amused twist of his lips.

“I’m good,” you lied through your teeth.

“Sure,” he replied goodnaturedly. “Send me your location.”

Defeated, you hid behind a curtain of your hair. A terrible decision, considering how the world began to spin, even as you closed your eyes.

“Okay.”

By the time Zayne arrived, Tara was snoring, head resting on your shoulder. Meanwhile, you had been sipping on a bottle of water Captain Jenna had kindly given you before leaving.

“Hi,” you greeted once he lowered the passenger’s window, mortified.

His gaze met yours, inscrutable. He looked as awake as ever, had it not been for the slight ruffle of his hair, not quite as perfect as he was used to wearing it.

“Oh, you’re here!” Tara slurred, suddenly awake. “This one wouldn’t shut up about you, you know?”

You shut your eyes tightly. Maybe this was all an alcohol induced fantasy.

A swift pinch to your elbow let you know that sadly, it was not the case.

“I’ll assist you.” Was Zayne’s only reply, door slamming it his wake as he approached to hold onto Jenna’s arm. 

If there was the ghost of a smile curling at the edges of his mouth, you preferred not to acknowledge it.

“Perhaps your friend could share more details on your opinion of me,” he teased over Tara’s head, hematite eyes full of mirth.

Now it was your face burning up. You were going to kill her when she was sober.

“Of course!” Tara hicupped happily. “She said she missed you,” she sing songed, extending the last word to an unnatural degree.

Tara —thank the Goddess— became dead weight as soon as her head hit the inside of Zayne’s ridiculously expensive car. 

Which left you in a somewhat awkward silence. You said somewhat because Zayne seemed as comfortable as ever.

A low melody played from the stereo, something calm and melancholic. He had told you the name once: Gymnopédie No. 1.

Only once Tara was safely back to her parent’s house—her mother hugged you in thanks for taking care of her, making a tight knot grow at the back of your throat— was that Zayne dared to speak.

“This Mister Song, who is he?” He inquired, something flickering through his features much too quick for your dizzy mind to comprehend. His knuckles became pronounced, hands tightening against the wheel.

“My driver?” You replied, confused.

He hummed, eyes on the road.

“A close…friend of yours?”

“Does it matter?” 

He shrugged, but it was far too stiff to be genuine.

“It always matters who you place your trust in.”

Silence reigned after that, nothing but your breathing breaking it.

What he said made sense, but the depth of his frown didn’t. He was driving you crazy. Hot and cold, hot and cold.

It was only once you had replayed the conversation in your head, that realization crashed over you. Something somersaulted in your stomach, filled you with an indescribable emotion.

“Zayne…are you jealous?” 

You bit your lip to keep from smiling, but it was a lost cause, mirth had permeated into your every word.

This was the closest you had seen him to bashful, pale pink blooming on his cheeks, Adam’s apple bobbing as he cleared his throat.

He loosened his hold on the wheel, letting the car come to a stop, as you were now at his place.

Your smile withered a bit at his lack of response, and took the brief silence as an opportunity to admire him. Zayne’s mouth had tilted down in a now sullen mien. 

There wasn’t anything precisely pointing to it, but you could tell he had built a wall, frozen distance even within the warmth of his car.

“You are right. It is none of my concern,” he said, voice icy and impersonal.

Gripping his chin between your fingers, you guided his gaze back to you.

“Mister Song is a seventy year old man. I met him when his taxi was totaled by a Wanderer attack. He’s been my trusted driver ever since.”

He let the information sink in, the jealousy brimming inside him simmering. 

A jealousy he knew he had no right to, which only served to upset him further.

You were not his. 

But he was yours.

And yet, something in the way you looked at him begged to differ. You weren’t his because he couldn’t bring himself to ask, because he was a fool.

“What’s that look for?” You whispered, fingers trailing down his shoulder, basking in the soft fabric of his black shirt.

“What look?” 

You tried to replicate his gesture, brows pulling together, almost making you go cross eyed.

He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. 

“Hey, I’m trying,” you complained, raising your hand to intertwine with the other at the nape of his neck.

“I didn’t comment on it.”

“You didn’t have to.” Your words still had a slurred edge to them.

“There is no winning with you.”

You laughed back.

“Just admit it, you’re obsessed with me.” 

“Who said that?” 

It was only then that a question that had been begging to be asked rose from the back of your mind.

“Why are we at your place?” You tilted your head to the side.

The petal spots in Zayne’s cheeks deepened in color.

“I would like to keep you under my observation, as you are still intoxicated.” He hesitated for a second, a low exhale escaping him. “If I have your permission.”

Your smile tempered into something different. Not upset, but serious. 

As you regarded Zayne, something tightened in your chest. It hurt, but left you wanting. 

Goddess, you wanted, you wanted, you wanted. It was a prayer your body hummed whenever he was close.

“I’d love to, Zayne,” you whispered. brushing a thumb to the edge of his jaw before letting go.

A light dinner, anc copious amounts of water afterwards, you were lying side by side with Zayne, wearing one of his shirts, and joggers that were definitely much to big for you.

The lamps on each side of his bed were on, as you were having a light conversation. He was resting against the headboard, while you had your face shamelessly pressed to the pillow on your side. 

The scent of it soothed you, of lavender and soap.

“I have sent you letters,” he denied, voice rough with sleep.

“If only I could have managed to read them.”

He frowned deeper at your poke at his chicken scratch. Some things were just inescapable in the medical field, you supposed.

You leaned closer, finding his gaze even as he purposefully avoided it, suddenly brimming with affection.

“Aw, was that too mean?” You cupped his face between your hands, and much like the black stray cat you liked to feed, he reluctantly leaned into your touch. 

Boldened by it, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. 

“I did read them, you know?” Your hands cradled the sides of his neck, thumbs resting below his earlobe. “I kept them all.” 

Zayne’s lips twitched, but he managed to remain serious, gray eyes boring into yours.

“I kept your replies too,” he murmured, turning to lay a kiss on your wrist. “Though I was tempted to correct some grammar mistakes.”

You huffed, dropping your hands.

“Rude! For your information, my writing is impeccable.”

“You said perchance an unacceptable amount.” He chided, seeming to mull it over. “I don’t think that word means what you think it does.”

He was probably right.

“Whatever,” you crossed your arms over your chest, leaning back against the head of his bed, setting your eyes forward.

The mattress dipped beside you, hinting at Zayne’s closeness.

“Are you upset?” He asked with an undertone of mirth to his faux concern.

You felt yourself flush deeper, forcing out a sarcastic reply.

“What makes you think that?” 

He pressed his mouth to the shell of your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“As you so eloquently put into words, I’m obsessed with you.”

When you turned your head, your noses brushed.

“Yeah?” You breathed out. “How much?”

“A ridiculous amount,” he admitted, fixated on your lips, minty breaths mingling.

You smiled, pressing closer until your mouth brushed his.

“Good.”

[aether-starlight]

[aether-starlight]

imagine being the first ancient person to realize that the ocean and their tears taste the same. imagine realizing that your sorrow and the waves share a taste. i wouldve gone crazy

[aether-starlight]

going back to fact-check my own fic while in the middle of writing like

[aether-starlight]

Silence - Zayne

Pairing: Zayne x Reader

Warnings: Minor injury, grief, brief mention of addiction.

Summary: After avoiding Zayne for some time, a situation arises where you are left with no choice but to see him.

Word Count: 1.5K

Anyone who knew you for long enough was aware of how much you disliked uncomfortable silences.

You always felt the urge to ease tense atmospheres, to build a bridge between opposing sides.

When Caleb had gone through that rebellious stage most teenagers seemed to experience at some point, you had been the mediator between him and Grandma.

Piercings were allowed after hours of soothing and convincing. Hunter's training had been authorized despite the fear of losing someone precious, accepting their freedom to choose.

Now, as Zayne placed careful stitches on your right cheek, you came to realize that you couldn’t be a person and a bridge at the same time.

He was upset, it was clear in the tense set of his jaw, the closed-off gaze he regarded you with, strictly medical in his evaluation of your injuries.

You know I’ll wait for you, you said the last time you saw him.

And yet, you had rescheduled appointments for later dates and avoided places you knew he’d probably be in.

You had been off social media in case he uploaded one of his rare posts, probably a disappointed restaurant review, or a reminder to his patients.

You had waited for anything he had been willing to give. A text, a call. But none had come, and it made you both furious and heartbroken.

No, you couldn’t be a bridge with Zayne.

You couldn’t stand in the middle. To have his affection but not his trust, a door only opened by halfs.

You would have all of him or nothing at all.

Of course, life, being such a poor comedian, had soon decided otherwise.

That Wanderer had gotten you good.

You had lost focus, too worried about watching over the kid hiding under a desk at your back to dodge long, sharp limbs.

Now your face was colored in shades of purple and blue, with the gash running down your cheek taking the price.

The receptionist knew who your head doctor was, and had almost screamed Zayne’s name into the phone when you accidentally scattered drops of blood at the edge of her desk.

You had been mid-apology when he stormed out of his office, quieting you with a single look.

Now, the atmosphere was certainly uncomfortable as he barely uttered a word beyond instructions of turning your head or how to care for the wound for the following weeks.

Silence had been filled with words that in the end felt hollow.

But now he was done, and his hand was still gently cradling your unharmed cheek, tilting your injured side to the light.

The scent of blood and antiseptic dimmed beneath the freshly washed clothes and lavender, coming from the sleeve of his white coat.

He called your name. You winced lightly at the repetition of your earlier mistake.

Zoning out was a matter of life or death in your daily life, and lately, you had been at odds without it.

“When was the last time you slept through the night?”

“You know I haven’t for a while now,” you replied quietly, gaze downcast.

Nightmares plagued you still. It was hard to disconnect from a job that required you to be in a constant state of alert.

His grip slid to your upper arm, a gentle pressure over your half-singed sleeve. You were lucky. So incredibly lucky to be alive.

“Why didn’t you make an appointment? I could have prescribed you a sleep-inducer.”

Your gaze darted to your lap, hands trembling, with uneven nails and scratched knuckles.

What a mess.

“I have an appointment.”

“A month due,” he chastised. “Do not think I am unaware that you rescheduled it.”

Your hands closed into fists as you finally met his eyes.

“You know why I did that.”

This time he was the one to look away.

“Do you wish for me to refer you?” A muscle twitched in his jaw.

You gritted your teeth, something half grieving-half furious stinging behind your eyes.

“I don’t.”

His hand was still on your arm and you could not figure out for the life of you why that was.

He sighed, weaker the longer he stared into your eyes. He had been told more than once that his evol was perfect for him. Cold as ice.

If he was ice, then you were the sunlight that slowly thawed it, changed it into something warmer, more adaptable.

A light that had come so close to being snuffed out.

Before he knew it, his forehead was pressed to yours, eyes closed as he basked in the darkness your conjoined shapes cast, the scent of you beneath all the grime and blood, of jasmine and warmth.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out.

Your lips pressed together, and your face contracted in that unflattering way it does when one is holding back tears.

“Why would you suggest that?” Your voice was small, betrayed. His sudden closeness surprised you, mostly because of the way your body reacted, pliant as an addict at the hint of temptation.

Zayne leaned back, cupping the back of your neck, running his thumb down the line of your jaw.

The low temperature of his hand soothed your heated skin, carefully pressed to the swollen and bruised areas.

“Perhaps it is because I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

You smiled, but it was humorless, wincing when it pulled at your stitches.

“It’s in the job description, unfortunately.”

Contradicting emotions bloomed within his gaze.

Repentance, relief, open and closed. His heart was a room you liked to peer into before the door slammed shut.

Someone knocked, coming in only to halt at your presence. A male doctor stood by the door. He seemed to be around Zayne’s age.

Surprisingly enough, Zayne didn’t pull away, keeping his hand where it was, now pressing his thumb beneath your ear.

The young doctor—Greyson, guided by his name tag—, gaped at the sutures on your cheek. Or perhaps at the rainbow of bruises marring your face.

You winced, an uncomfortable feeling spreading at the pit of your stomach. It was strange to be seen in such a vulnerable state by a complete stranger.

Noticing your discomfort, Zayne shifted to partially hide you from view.

“Yes?” He asked frigidly.

You often forgot how cold he could be. It was a pleasing contrast to how soft he was only for you; and a painful reminder of everything he had been through.

Getting information about Zayne’s past from his own lips was a challenging task. The few times he shared his experience as a combat medic and missions at Mount Eternal had been in an attempt to comfort you.

Doctor Grayson relayed information concerning a patient’s health improvement, placing a file on Zayne’s desk.

“I’ll see to their discharge,” he said, not turning until Grayson had shut the door behind him.

You felt yourself sag in relief, leaning forward until your forehead was pressed to his shoulder, eyes closed.

Lavender and antiseptic surrounded you, held you in the present, and kept your feet rooted to the Earth.

It was only once you felt the growing dampness on his coat, that you realized you were crying, shoulders shaking beneath his touch.

Zayne let out a low sound from the back of his throat, something sorry and tender.

“Why the tears, sweetheart?”

Pulling back, you roughly ran the back of your hands to your cheeks.

“I don’t know,” you admitted in a croaky voice. “I guess I’m just tired.”

Zayne’s gaze was soft as he grabbed your wrists, pulling them down to wipe your tears himself, with slow swipes of his thumbs.

Unable to meet his eyes, your attention drifted to the movement of his fingers, lithe and steady.

One day you had arrived for a check-up and his hands were littered with scars, a shade lighter than his skin.

You had ran the tips of your fingers over them, traced their rise and fall, felt the echo of his evol against your own, something sorrowful and guarded.

He had let out a derisive comment, something about his hands being no longer useful for anything but surgery.

Now, as they cradled your face so carefully, you couldn’t help but strongly disagree.

“Zayne,” you murmured, finally meeting his gaze.

Beneath your damp lashes, your eyes were red. Your hair could have used a comb, and your clothes were half charred. Not to mention the sorry state of your face.

And yet, to Zayne you had never been so dignified. A hunter in your own right, you were the one he bowed to as you bled. The one he thought of when pondering salvation.

You took the pain meant for others and crafted it into something else, something pure and meaningful.

When he answered, he was half ashamed to admit that his voice came out pliant and quiet.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Your features were open and docile, something he was still too afraid to inspect. It opened the scars of the past, yearned for you to see them, hold them closed between your fingers.

“Can I crash here?”

His eyes darted to the painfully white couch you were meant to lie on if you did, then studied the grime and blood in your hunter uniform.

Lastly, he thought of the pile of clinical notes that awaited him.

He was a weak, weak man.

“Of course. I’ll wake you when I finish.”

The smile you offered him was nothing short of dazzling, even when toned down by your injury.

“Then your place?”

He flicked your chin, oddly playful.

“My place,” he confirmed.

[aether-starlight]

Lovely - Xavier

Pairing: Xavier x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of grief and kitchen fires.

Summary:  After you begin spending more time with Xavier, you strike a deal.

Word Count: 1.6 K

Note: This is my first time writing Xavier, I'm still getting a hold on his personality and voice tbh. Hope this is not too oc.

You liked your job. Loved it, even. 

It was also the main reason why you had very little life outside of hunting. 

When Grandma and Caleb had passed, you had felt incredibly bitter about it. Extra hours, missions outside of the city, late nights studying, the list went on.

It all seemed so insignificant compared to the time you could have spent with them, rather than being a hunter.

Now they were gone, and people seemed to avoid you on principle. Whispers about the connection between your profession and the unfortunate fate of your family followed you, so they preferred to stay away. 

Even fellow hunters remained away, with Tara being a blissful exception.

But there were only so many days off you could hang around with Tara without feeling like an imposition, which led you to hang out with the next person who didn’t seem to be phased by your reputation of a bad luck charm: Xavier.

Your hunter partner.

You really couldn’t escape your job even if you tried.

“Maybe I’m not likable,” you had mumbled to yourself, sitting on Xavier’s snug, worn-out couch. 

It was beige, spotless despite its age, only noticeable in the softened texture and armrests colored in a lighter shade from years of limbs brushing against them.

Xavier laughed, and on anyone else, it might have sounded cruel, but in the gentle baritone of his voice, it felt warm, intimate even.

“Who wouldn’t like you? You’re lovely.”

He said it as if commenting on the weather, something obvious and not embarrassing at all to mention. If you were him, your cheeks would have been aflame before even opening your mouth.

Because you had thought about it. 

He was lovely too. 

His tousled hair and bleary eyes so late in the morning made your heartbeat quicken, something fluttering in your stomach, similar to the feeling when an energy fluctuation surged.

Xavier laughed again, this time coming closer to you, dish in hand as he bent down to look into your eyes.

“Oh my, you’re redder than the tomato sauce I made for you.”

“How do you expect me to react when you say such things so easily?” You complained, unable not to smile back as soon as his lips curled, a flash of perfect teeth.

He had a great smile, you thought, contagious.

“It’s the truth. Now, eat up before it gets cold.”

“Bossy,” you teased, already digging into the tousled eggs with spinach and a delicious homemade sauce on top.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he chided gently, setting his plate at a low table in front of the sofa, sitting by your side. “I’m just looking out for your health.”

“And the integrity of your apartment?” You joked.

It wasn’t the first time you ate together. 

After visiting to find out more about your Aether Core, and then running into each other at The Nest, you had started hanging out outside of work. 

It started with borrowed books, truth or dare, a night watching the stars, then occasional movie nights.

Then your relationship experienced a drastic evolution when you accidentally activated the fire alarm of your whole floor because of a bowl of fried rice gone wrong—on fire—, and he offered for you to cook together. 

At first, you were not sure why he had even proposed it in the first place, but then you realized he was another God of destruction in the kitchen. Turned out that two wrongs could make one right, as incidents decreased considerably once it was both of you cooking.

Now it was a sort of ritual for you, to have breakfast together on your days off. 

“What are you thinking about?” Xavier asked, propping his elbow on the table and resting his cheek against his hand. 

Sunlight burst from his window, half hidden by an ocre curtain, just enough to highlight his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Reflections from the relic he used as a teapot littered the walls, yellow against copper.

Everything about his home felt cozy, warm…safe. 

Meanwhile, there were piles of boxes still unopened in your apartment. 

You had recently moved in when the explosion turned your world upside down. You had been supposed to open them with Caleb that weekend.

Now it didn’t seem of much importance. Not if you couldn’t do it with him.

“How do you make your apartment look so…homely?” 

The question was blurted out of you, and you instantly felt stupid for needing to formulate it in the first place.

Xavier’s eyebrows raised, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, caught off guard. 

“Make it look homely?” He pondered, food lowering back onto his plate.

Another thing you liked about Xavier? 

He was deliberate about things, every detail mattered, and he knew there were answers not worth rushing on. 

“I just…buy things I enjoy. Something that makes me feel happy to look at. That reminds me of…” he trailed off, a crease surging between his eyebrows.

You didn’t push. You had known him long enough to realize that once he shut down it was final, and even if he did answer, it was always elusive and hard to believe.

Instead, your focus drifted back to his initial statements.

You supposed it made sense. His apartment felt like sunlight. All warm and light tones, plush surfaces, and rows of books carefully organized upon oak bookshelves. 

Vintage furniture and artifacts were littered in a way that was both organized and stylish. A forest green vinyl player at the corner of the room, a mysterious wooden chest beside it. 

It was lived in.

The curtains of your apartment were always closed, plunging it into darkness, and the only picture you had kept close to your bed, on your nightstand. It was a photograph of you, Grandma, and Caleb smiling by the beach. 

It had been your first family trip, and even now you could remember it vividly, the rough sand beneath your feet and humid air closing around you, even through your shorts and a t-shirt.

You had an expensive holo-projector that you never used and sofas that you had sat in enough times to be able to count with one hand. 

You had considered getting a cat but then had been deterred by the thought that it would probably feel pretty lonely, considering your frequent missions and late-night arrivals.

When you focused back on Xavier, he was already studying you. 

You imagined your face must have been quite the picture. It was something incredibly frustrating about you: everything showed on your face, from happiness to sadness, to anger. It couldn’t be helped.

“I could help you decorate. If you’d like,” he suggested suddenly, looking as if the proposal had been stuck in his throat for a while now. 

You smiled to yourself, hiding your hands between your thighs, feeling terribly seen.

“Really?”

He nodded, lips curled in that gentle smile of his. 

“Yes. It’ll be fun. Just promise me we’ll host more reunions in your apartment once it’s done.”

A surprised laugh rose from your chest.

“At my place? Why?”

He looked to the side, almost bashful.

“I would like to use your holo-projector.”

It took a second for you to correct your sudden staring. He had never struck you as someone who watched holodramas.  

“Okay. Under one condition.”

Xavier leaned forward, a silent inquiry.

“You let me train with you.” You paused, deep in thought. “At least once a week.”

Somehow, Xavier always managed to wriggle his way out of it, and you were not sure why.

It was almost ridiculous, that you were hunting partners and hadn’t trained together once. What was more ridiculous was how you were turning the situation in your favor, considering he was the one offering you aid.

“You offer a tough bargain.” He huffed, resting his shoulders back on his seat with a slight pout to his lips.  “But sure, I’ll agree under a condition of my own.”

This time it was your turn to be surprised. You pulled back in suspicion.

“I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.”

Xavier was relentless. It never failed to astound you how he could switch from lazy to laser-focused in a heartbeat.

“Show me more of what you write.” His eyes seemed to darken, eyebrows lowering. You didn’t know when he had turned his chair so he was facing you from a closer distance.

Your head shook in automatic.

“That would imply that you have read any of it already.”

“I heard your slam poetry. I liked it, it was good.”

“You’re just buttering me up,” you whined. “And it was an accident, I definitely didn’t intend for you to hear it.”

He tilted his head, finding your gaze like a lost puppy. It seemed that he was pulling out the big guns once decisiveness hadn’t worked.

“Please?” He had leaned forward so you were watching him from above, an aggravating strand of blond hair out of place, the tips of his bangs too close to his lashes.

Before you could think any better of it, you brushed them back, fingers grazing his ear as you set it in place. 

The strands were soft and reminded you of a nighttime story someone used to read to you, about a prince and a fox.

He leaned into your touch, lips parted. 

Your fingers dug into the silky strands, easing out a knot.

He didn’t relent, celestine irises trailing after your movement, and your fingers trembled. It may not have seemed like it, but you were the prey in this scenario.

“Fine,” you breathed out, feeling lightheaded. “It’s a deal.”

He smiled, something playful flickering in his gaze. At that moment he was too pretty for his own good.

“Now, it’s your turn to do the dishes.”

You groaned, your daze broken in favor of dread.

[aether-starlight]

Okay was anyone going to tell me that "Evol" is "Love" backwards or was I supposed to find out by myself that the characters are literally wielding the power of love

[aether-starlight]

[aether-starlight]

Sunrise - Rafayel

Pairing: Rafayel x Reader

Warnings: none.

Summary: You visit Rafayel in your day off, and he asks you to watch the sunrise with him.

Word count: 1k-ish?

It was a warm day, uncharacteristically clear and sunny. There were no energy fluctuations and you were off duty —at the cost of the stitches on your side and a sore back, but you wouldn’t look a gifted horse in the mouth.

It must have been the strangeness of it all that made you visit Rafayel of your own volition, a quick call to let him know before leaving your house.

“Aw, miss me already?” 

“More like missing your absurdly expensive sofa.”

You could hear his smile from the other side of the line.

“What if I sold it? Would you sit on the floor with me?” 

“Maybe. Would you lend me your shoulder to rest my head on?” 

“I would lend you my heart if you asked nicely,” he flirted, playful and infuriatingly charming. 

You laughed, accommodating the take out bags in your free hand.

“Right now I only need your hands to open the door. I come bearing gifts.”

-

Once your bellies were full with Frutti Di Mare and a cup of Rafayel’s wine from half across the world and double the aging, you found yourself sitting by his side on the beach.

He was thankfully wearing a light, white shirt and loose navy pants, hair tousled in a way that felt oddly domestic.

The breeze was kind against your cheeks, and it wasn’t too crowded, nostalgic with the occasional laughter from children over the crashing waves.

“I woke up really early today,” Rafayel commented after a moment of contemplation. “Like, unnaturally early.”

You huffed, still admiring the horizon. It was close to sunset, and the sky was an explosion of yellow, orange, and lilac.

“Congratulations?” 

His following sigh rivaled the one of a martyr, or perhaps a saint bearing the burden of knowledge. 

“What I’m trying to tell you, Miss Antagonistic, is that I awoke just in time with the sunrise. As I opened my eyes, the sky was like a field of fire. 

“Anything could have been hiding there, a dragon whipping through wheat, or a mischievous fox hiding amongst golden bushes.”

Your full attention was fully on him now.

You’d never say it to his face, but you especially liked how he spoke. It was both whimsical and authentic, something rare.

It awakened a reflective side of you, validated questions formulated years and years ago in your childish mind.

He called your name, playful.

“Watch the sunrise with me?” 

You smiled. What a hopeless romantic.

“Mmm,” you tilted your head to the side, observing him from your shoulder. “I don’t know, what’s in it for me?”

“Beyond the pleasure of my company, you mean?” 

“You must have gotten some seawater in your brain if you think that your company is anything but trouble.” 

He pouted. 

“Don't come then, I’ll watch it with Ren.”

“You mean your pet fish?” You laughed.

Contrasting emotions bloomed in Rafayel’s features, his lips were twisting at the edge of a smile, but his brow was furrowed in annoyance.

“You are a bad, bad woman.”

You just kept on laughing, arms pressing into each other as you leaned against him for support. 

Without knowing why, he felt himself beginning to laugh too.

“What’s so funny?” He complained, irritation crumbling halfway as he felt your warmth seep into his side, chased after the creases forming at the sides of your eyes.

“How would you even get Ren to see, anyway? Were you going to bring his aquarium outside?” 

You leaned closer to meet his gaze, holding back your laughter for the sake of his dignity.

Rafayel felt his breath stutter, drunk on the scent of your perfume—the one he gave you. Even then, it still carried something uniquely yours.

He wished you’d only laugh that way with him, that he could hold on to the sound like a secret. He wanted to hide you from the world, so only he could experience the wonder of being with you.

He was selfish like that.

Your pupils were dilated, mirth dimming into something more as you realized just how close you were. He wasn’t wearing perfume today, so he smelled faintly of oil paint and his face lotion, fresh and almost floral.

“I have my ways,” he murmured.

You smiled again, but there was something different about it, unguarded.

“Liar.” 

“Seriously,” he promised, feeling much too out of breath for someone resting. “I could even show you if you’d like.” 

His hand was pressed to the small of your back. Close like this, he could count the flecks of color in your irises, and study the curve of your lips, the dip of your jaw.

With a mind of its own, your hand rose, pressing a finger to a dot of paint on his cheek. Once it faded, you traced a path from his undereye to the crest of his ear.

“It’s so red,” you teased. “Not so cheeky anymore, are you?”

There was a dazed look in your eyes that made something dangerous flutter in Rafayel’s stomach.

He held your chin between his thumb and his index finger.

“Likewise, Miss Bodyguard. I could get a sample of Perylene Red right out of your face.”

“Oh yeah?” You asked, just as out of breath as he was. “What about my lips?”

Rafayel found himself laughing at your boldness.

His eyebrows raised and dipped in a gesture that was uniquely his, both attractive and aggravating.

“I don’t know, I’d need to have a taste.”

Your blush deepened. 

You closed your eyes and tilted your chin—a silent invitation.

The first kiss was nothing but a peck, tentative and surprisingly sweet. 

“Carmine?” He wondered, lips touching yours with every letter. 

He kissed you again without waiting for a response, deeper, more than a hello, your mouths memorizing the shape of each other. 

He had been wrong. Kissing you wasn’t like floating, it felt like sinking. He was slowly diving, until he couldn’t tell up from down, surrounded by you.

Your hand cradled his jaw, your hair swayed with the wind, brushing against his cheek. 

His world had been reduced to every place your bodies met.

Coming to Linkon City had been a matter of perception, he had thought once. That was before getting to know you again, banter around, touch you. 

With his hands buried in your hair, reveling in the stands sliding between his fingers, everywhere he touched you burned. It stung in a way that made him want to come back for more, run the tips of his fingers through every inch until they became numb.

Now, it was a matter of compulsion. 

“Cadmium Red,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, already curled into a smile.

“Ultramarine.” He pressed his lips to your cheek, rounded, heated by sunlight.

“Pthalo Blue.” Your eyelids closed only for him, a quiet trust that he vowed to return.

“Burnt Sienna.” The bridge of your nose.

“Lavender.” Your mouth again.

“Rafayel,” you whined. “Stop teasing me.”

He smiled like a cat who had gotten the canary and its whole family too. Somehow, you had ended up on your back, with his arms framing your face.

Your hair, spread like a halo around you, and the color of the sand created a harmony that made his fingers itch for a paintbrush.

The hue of your skin beneath the sunset was romantic and dreamy.

“Never,” he promised, nosing at your neck.

[aether-starlight]

Those Eyes - Rafayel

Pairing: Rafayel x Reader

Warnings: None.

Summary: Rafayel takes up on your offer to hang out and something of his catches your eye.

Word Count: 1k

For all Rafayel complained about hunter’s lack of refinement, you were quite an avid reader. He watched you get through half of your book in one afternoon, brows creased in concentration.

It was something fantastical, a journey amongst strangers with a common goal who would later become friends.

He supposed that if the core of you could be described by a book, it would be something like that.

Meanwhile, he had been painting —not studying you and following your mannerisms like a total weirdo, not at all. 

Since that time you had realized your face was on his canvas —he underestimated your artistic eye— he had settled for details. Pieces of you he could keep only for himself.

His current work had the expressiveness of your eyes, it swirled in the color of your irises and dipped into your pupils. 

To most, it probably appeared abstract, perhaps sand slipping down or crashing waves, the bark of a tree, a midnight sky.

To him, it was another attempt at unraveling you. He wanted to find the soft center of who you were, brush against your sharp side. 

There was a secret at the edge of your lips and he wanted to hear all about it. 

He imagined that kissing you would feel like drifting at sea, fresh water easing the blazing sun as all earthly burdens dissolved into salt water.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from you, making a total fool of himself. 

“You know, I met the author,” he feigned nonchalance, gesturing at the book cradled between your hands. “Had a nasty habit of interrupting people.”

“As opposed to talking all the time?” You raised an eyebrow, smirking to yourself. You were way too smug about your own jokes.

“You know, there was a time when you were actually polite to me.”

“It wasn’t you, per se. It was AI you.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” He shrugged.

Your gaze drifted from him to the canvas.

“I like your painting,” you praised, uncharacteristically. “I don’t know why, but it feels like longing.”

Rafayel felt the tips of his ears begin to burn. He coughed.

“You think?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, resting your cheek against your hand, draped over his sofa like a lazy cat. “Are you going to auction it?” 

“No.” His reply was visceral and much too quick, enough for you to perk up, and close the book on your lap.

It was his eternal curse; when he wanted you to pay attention to him, you ignored him. When he wanted you to pay him no mind, you were like a hound dog on his trail.

“Why is that?” You feigned to be casual.

“Artistic reasons you wouldn’t begin to understand,” he primly smiled at you.

“Uh huh.” 

You stood from the sofa, stretching a little before coming to sit by his side on the stool. It was a tight fit.

He liked everything about it.

How cozy you looked, out of your hunter’s uniform, barefoot and dressed comfortably. The way sunlight bathed down your hair like a cascade of gold.

Most of all, he enjoyed the openness in your gaze when it met his.

“What if I want to buy it?” You pouted. “Not even a painting for your bodyguard?”

Rafayel felt himself blushing.

“This?” He scoffed. “You have seen nothing yet, Miss Bodyguard. I’ll make you a painting the size of your bedroom wall.”

“I don’t care about the size.”

His eyebrows raised suggestively.

“Dick.” You slapped his arm.

He laughed.

“You make it too easy. Give me a week and I’ll have something for you,” he offered.

“But I want this painting.”

Rafayel was mystified. 

An idea surged.

He smiled beatifically at you. You narrowed your eyes.

“Alright. I’ll give it to you under one condition.” 

“I’m not posing naked for you.”

“Yeesh, what kind of artists have you met before? It’s nothing like that.” 

He felt just a bit scandalized, and if the idea of you posing for someone else made something ugly sprout at his chest, then it was nobody’s business.

“Then what is it?” You pressed, impatience laced into your voice. 

He leaned closer, until you could discern the light freckles grazing his cheeks.

“Tell me why you want it.”

You blushed furiously, sliding away from him in an instant.

“I told you, didn't I? I like it.” 

Rafayel pressed closer, positively glowing at the opportunity to tease you. 

“Why do you like it then?” 

He smelled like a fresh breeze, and every time he was near, you swore you could hear a distant song over crashing waves.

He was driving you insane.

“Fine.” You shifted closer to him, a silent challenge. 

It might have been your imagination, but his pupils seemed to dilate. “I want it because… I know what it is.”

“Oh, yeah?” He asked, openly curious.

His breath brushed your cheek, a reminder of the strawberries he had been eating absentmindedly while working.

You kept your attention nailed to the swirls of color. They harmonized, brought each other to life in a way that was both fantastical and realistic.

“I can recognize my own eyes, Rafayel.”

This time he was the one to blush furiously, quickly stuttering: “Narcissistic much?”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You wish.” 

He choked back another cough. Dressing himself on his flirty bravado.

“And what if it were? Why would you want a painting of your eyes?” 

“I like the way you made them so expressive.” You looked down and mumbled: “How they feel.” 

“About what?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, fish boy.”

“Admit it, you’re just obsessed with me.” 

You scoffed.

“I’m not the one crafting paintings of you.”

Rafayel offered you a look filled with promises of trouble. Beneath the sunlight his irises seemed more rouge than mauve, they were like a sunset reflected over sea water.

“But I bet you fantasize about it.” 

“That made no sense.”

“For someone who wants something from me, you’re being incredibly crass,” he complained. “You’re definitely getting nothing.”

-

The next day he gifted you the painting and refused to let you pay for the delivery.

[aether-starlight]

Auscultation- Zayne

Pairing: Zayne x Reader

Warnings: None. Brief mention of poor eating habits.

Summary: You come to the hospital for a check-up regarding a past shoulder dislocation. 

Word Count: 1k

Note: This is a continuation of Mending, but can be read as a stand-alone.

Zayne was talking. Or at least, his mouth was moving. 

Instead of paying attention, you were being haunted, once again, by the memory of him. The ghost of his hand over your cheek, his perfume, and the tension of his proximity. 

You wondered if he could tell you were distracted, or if he noticed the entranced stare you gave his lips every once in a while. They reminded you of his breath brushing your ear, of his palm pressed over your eyes, cool and steady.

Until an unexpected statement broke through your fixation.

“I will need you to remove your jacket.” 

If you hadn’t known him for such a long time, the tense set of his jaw may have slipped your notice, just like the slight clearing of his throat. 

Was he angry you were distracted?

“Oh,” you breathed out. “Okay.”

It was a quick removal. After all, one of your arms was in a sling, so the leather jacket was only wrapped around your shoulder.

Having supposed something like this would be necessary —this wasn’t your first dislocation, unfortunately—, you had brought a top, which meant the only barrier between your joint and his hands was a menial string. 

And you were not nervous about that. Nope. Not at all.

You stifled a shiver at the low temperature of the room and sat on the stretcher in a swift motion—being a hunter had its perks, it made you agile, even with an injured arm.

“I’m going to examine the area,” Zayne’s voice was soft, almost breathless as his hands hovered over the space where your shoulder met your neck.

You smacked your lips together and felt yourself relax just a little. 

“Okay.” 

His fingers were as cold as the room, startling you when they gently pulled the string of your top out of the way. 

You gasped.

“Forgive me,” he said, avoiding your gaze at all costs. 

His hand hovered over your skin, giving you a second to adjust. 

“It’s fine, Doctor Zayne.” 

You quite liked calling him that, liked the nervous edge to his voice when you did.

“Does this hurt?” He pressed down the pads of his fingers with moderate force.

“Not really,” you hummed. If anything, it felt kind of nice.

Zayne cleared his throat once more, shifting his grip to your forearm. 

Your heart rushed at the slide of his skin over yours, goosebumps rising in its wake.  It reminded you of holding his hand, the way the scars on his knuckles had felt as you brushed your thumb over them.

“Your iron levels were below average in your last check-up. Have you been eating well?” He asked.

Now it was time for you to be nervous.

“Of course,” you lied, lowering your gaze to his tie. 

Like everything concerning him, it was freakishly neat, with an understated geometric pattern in shades of gray. 

He probably measured it with a ruler before buying it. You pictured it: his unforgiving focus, the concentrated tilt of his mouth as he gripped it between lithe fingers. 

Unfortunately, said focus was now drilling a hole into your head.

“Fine, I may have skipped meals, you know I forget to eat sometimes.” 

“I suppose I should be grateful you don’t forget to breathe,” he quipped. 

“You are so prickly, you know that?” 

You played with his stethoscope with your free hand, following the bob of his Adam’s apple with a satisfied smirk. 

“I’m not prickly,” he denied. “I’m serious. Does this hurt?”

He gently rotated your arm, slow in his movement.

“And I’m not? Doesn’t hurt.” 

He gave you a loaded look, resting your hand back on your lap.

You mercilessly stifled the disappointment that rose at the pit of your stomach when he let go.

“Wouldn’t be the first word I used to describe you, no.”

You pressed the stethoscope’s bell to his chest, earpieces already in place. 

“Wow, your heart is beating pretty fast, are you sure you’re not the one with the heart pro—“

“Would you quit that?” He interrupted, sounding somewhere between amused and irritated as he unwrapped your fingers from around the bell. “It’s not a toy.”

“Sorry,” you fidgeted with the tubing before passing it to him.

“What’s with you today?” 

“Can’t help it,” you beamed. “Too much coffee.” 

Zayne tucked a strand of your hair back, stifling a groan of frustration. He was a weak, weak man.

When his palm curled around the shell of your ear, cradling it like something precious, he surely knew abstaining from temptation was a lost cause.

It was now warm, absorbing the heat of your skin. As soon as you left, his hands would probably run back cold. 

Somehow, that thought made something unpleasant unfurl within your chest. It felt malleable and elastic, it wanted to stretch itself and pull him close.

“What am I going to do with you, hm?” He asked, voice low. 

The whole world could be crashing down outside, Wanderers running rampant, and you wouldn’t know.

You let out a stuttered breath.

“What do you want to do with me?” 

It was meant to come across as teasing but crumbled halfway into something nearly hopeful.

The heat in your eyes snapped Zayne out of it, clearing the cloudiness from the hematite and amber in his gaze.

He stepped back, returning to the haven of his desk, where he closed your file with finality.

“Your shoulder seems to be healing well. I recommend you watch it closely and let me know if any discomfort appears.” You had never heard his voice so close to shaking.

“Zayne.” You stood from the examination table, feeling on edge.

“That was unprofessional of me. I’m sorry.” 

“What is it?” You insisted.

There was something between you, a wall that he carefully built. 

It became eroded with every interaction, shortened into something almost letting you peek into the other side, but never quite enough.

Your chest ached and it was ironic because nowadays you couldn’t always tell if it was from emotion or the Protocore fragments in it.

Zayne sunk into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. The room’s temperature dropped, ice spreading against the glass of the window behind him.

“Zayne—” 

Your hand hovered by him, eager to provide any comfort you could offer, but his body language made you doubt. 

He was still hunched over himself, face turned away from you. The hand that wasn’t covering his face was closed in a fist, frost forming over his knuckles.

“Please…” he breathed out your name. “I need time.”

Your mind drifted back to when you fought that wanderer together, the way the whole room had frozen over afterward, his urgent insistence for you to leave.

“Okay,” you gave in, stumbling back. “Whatever it is, you know I’ll wait for you.”

[aether-starlight]

Raven for my weekly challenge (64x64)

[aether-starlight]

❄️Zayne❄️

[aether-starlight]

Mending - Zayne

Pairing: Zayne x Reader

Warnings: None.

Word count: 1k

Summary: Grandma and Caleb’s absence is hard on you. When you find yourself in the emergency ward, Zayne shows up with a helping hand.

Zayne was the one to break the news of Grandma and Caleb’s passing to you.

The memory was a blur, a concentration of words that blended one into the other until they became a whole different language.

You hated to admit that for a moment you had wished you had gone with them. Then you wouldn’t have to feel so alone.

Burying yourself in missions and textbooks had come as easy as breathing afterward. The less time you had to spare, the less you thought about them.

It gave you a sick kind of relief not to have to remember your Grandma’s voice or her delicious cooking. The scent of her home or the wrinkles from smiling that framed her eyes.

Forgetting Caleb’s easy laughter and the weight of his arm draped over your shoulders felt infinitely easier than knowing you wouldn’t have it ever again.

Until the day came when working wasn’t enough. Missing them had become a phantom pain you could not get rid of.

Your poor sleep schedule and foggy mind caught up to you, and it was a little surprise that you ended up in the emergency ward.

It was pure carelessness, the way you had disconnected yourself from your body, how you hadn’t felt the graze of claws until you were slammed into your back.

Now you were bandaged up — with a dislocated shoulder—, and trying to remain focused as a nurse asked you if you had consumed any kind of sedative or psychoactive substance.

“I didn’t.” Your voice managed to crack in between those two words.

The nurse eyed you doubtfully, tracing the dark circles beneath your eyes and the fisted hands tightly pressed to your lap.

“I can take it from here, thank you.” A familiar voice broke through before she could inquire further.

“Zayne,” you called, feeling some of the tension upon your shoulders wane.

He pushed the curtains to your section closed, stepping until his thighs were a breath away from your knees.

Your foolish heart sped up when he leaned down until your eyes were at the same level.

He smelled like usual, something fresh and light, a trace of soap and lavender beneath the hospital’s antiseptic.

“I think I recommended that you rest and maintain good sleep hygiene as you recover.” He paused, assessing your reaction. “I believe I also suggested for you to see a grief counselor before returning to the field.”

You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to not come out as weak as it felt.

“I did. Go to the counselor, that is.”

“What about sleeping?” It was a futile question, for you both knew the answer.

“I can’t help it if it’s hard for me.”

You closed your eyes, furious at how defeated you sounded.

Zayne’s voice became softer, his hand pressing into your uninjured shoulder.

“Nightmares?”

You nodded.

“Look at me.”

When you opened your eyes there was no judgment in his face. You almost would dare say he seemed worried.

“You went through an extremely traumatic experience. No one would blame you for needing help.”

Your eyes stung.

“What help could you give me?” It wasn’t necessarily hostile, if anything, your tone was curious.

Zayne let out a slow breath, pulling back, face clouded with contemplation.

“My shift is over. Come with me.”

At your widened eyes, he hastened to add: “We’ll talk. Have a cup of tea. It will help you regulate your emotions and promote the release of serotonin, necessary for sleep.”

The ghost of a smile pulled at your lips. Zayne had a peculiar way of being sweet without meaning to.

“Okay.”

“I can’t sleep.” You mumbled into the dark.

After hours of talking it had gotten quite late, and given your arm predicament, you were unfit to ride your motorcycle back home.

Zayne had kindly offered for you to sleep in his bed and was now on a futon beside it.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked, patient as usual.

“Things I don’t want to remember.”

The deafening sound of the explosion, the ringing in your ears afterward. Caleb’s last smile to you, and glimpses of your home blazed alight.

You closed your eyes as if that could stop the memories from pouring in.

“Can you come here, please?” You asked, feeling incredibly small. It wasn’t a feeling you cherished.

Zayne sighed lightly, but it wasn’t exactly annoyed.

“Alright.”

He laid carefully beside you, leaving a proper space between your bodies.

Your hand automatically reached forward, intertwining your fingers with his.

His hand was cold, but it felt nice, a break from the heated panic you found yourself in lately.

“Do you want to discuss it?”

“I don’t think I can.” You said honestly, then whispering: “I don’t want to break, Zayne.”

His hand tightened in yours.

“You’re not breaking. You are mending.”

A small smile cracked through your lips.

“Thanks. I hope so.”

A heartbeat passed before Zayne spoke again.

“What if…?”

“What?”

He shifted in place, turning so he was looking at the ceiling instead of you.

“Forget it.”

“Zayne.”

He sighed, knowing you wouldn’t let it go.

“What if we do that mindfulness exercise your yoga teacher taught you? The one you showed me.”

You smiled lightly.

“I’d like that.”

“Alright,” he murmured. “Close your eyes.”

“You’re supposed to cover them with your hand, silly.”

He huffed a small laugh.

“So impatient.”

Any mirth vanished from the air when he shifted closer, until your side was pressed to his chest.

“Are you comfortable with this?” He asked.

You nodded, adding in a quiet: “yes,” for good measure.

Zayne’s lips hovered close to your ear, breath fresh and just a bit cold. The mint of his toothpaste sent a shiver down your spine.

He smelled more of lavender and less of antiseptic now, his pajamas’ shirt soft against your arm.

When his hand covered your eyes, you let out a soft breath.

“We are children and you are coming home from school. We run into each other,” he whispers. “I approach you and treat you to something sweet…”

That night no nightmares come for you.

When you wake up, Zayne’s hand is cradling your cheek.

[aether-starlight]

rafayel: me? blushing? never.

also rafayel whenever MC gets a little to close: