dreamerinthemoonlight

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

— routine

in which your daily routine consists of waking up, setting up your stall to sell fruit, conversing with the locals, packing up the stall, and heading back home. oh. and entertaining that incorrigible grand master.

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 1.6k wc, fluff, yearning, reader runs a fruit stall and tries to not let Feelings™ show (and fails horribly), varka is kinda reminiscent to a puppy, written PRE release but based off of scattered lore we have on him so let's see how off the mark this characterisation is later ;w;

A/N : AFTER 5 LONG YEARS HE IS FINALLY REAL AND OFC HE MAKES ME WRITE MY FIRST GENSHIN FIC IN YEARS WOWEE

Being the owner of a fruit stall in Mondstadt City, selling your fresh produce every day from morning to evening, isn’t as lacklustre as one might think. It's a stable business, something which stems from just how close-knit the community is (how small it is compared to other cities, rather). And you like it that way; the familiarity of it all.

You see the same shop owners who greet you with a chipper “Good morning!” and its counterpart when it's time to pack up and head home.

You see the same old regulars who greet you with familiar warmth, perusing your newly stocked goods to take back for breakfast or midday snacking.

You see the same knights who go on their usual patrols, oftentimes striking up conversation and selling your goods to satiate their hunger.

You see the same children running around with their carefree laughter and twinkling eyes, which somehow shine even brighter when they spot newly imported fruits from other regions amongst your lineup.

And, of course, you see him. The bane of your existence. The reason you wake up grimacing at the prospect of getting out of bed and starting your day. The reason you can never start nor end the day in a moment of peace.

Well, you hear him first before you see him.

“Good morning, my ever so diligent fruit seller!” His voice is something far too spirited in the quiet, early morning. You already know then and there peace is no longer an option. So you close your eyes, take a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the whirlwind about to make a stop at your stall, and exhale.

A shadow hovers over you, the subtle warmth of the early sun dissipating along with it. Flitting your eyes open, you're met with eyes which encompass the blues of a clear sky and the man who is the sun incarnate.

“Good morning to you as well.”

Varka beams — in that ridiculously bright curl of his lips which has you squinting — as though you haven't responded in the same monotone manner each and every time. But he acts as happy as he did the first time you so much as acknowledged his greeting all those years ago.

(Before he was the Grand Master. Before he became something akin to a legend. Before he carried the hopes and wishes of the people into every battle, every act he took to protect his home. Back when he was a bright-eyed knight ready to take on the world while you listened to his rambles, wondering how someone could be so bright.)

A nagging feeling tells you that won't be changing any time soon, and you curse your traitorous heart yearning for it not to.

A crisp crunch! dissolves your thoughts. Blinking, you're unsurprised to see a bright red apple — one of your bright red apples, you note with narrowed eyes — in his mouth. Eyes closed, he contentedly chews the bitten off piece of fruit.

“Ooh, the apples are particularly sweet today,” Varka hums, savouring the taste lingering in his taste buds. It isn't long before his attention swivels back to you, eyes crinkling in mirth. “Not as sweet as you, of course! Haha!”

His mouth really never does stop flapping.

“Flattery won't make me forget about you paying, Grand Master,” comes your deadpan response, demeanour far too used to his sweeping presence. Unfortunately.

With a melodramatic flair only he can pull off, Varka gasps, half-eaten apple in one hand while the other lies solemn atop his heart. “Grand Master? Oh, you wound me! I thought we were at least on first name basis.”

He still hands you the 200 mora amidst his theatrics, fingers brushing gently against your open palm. They linger for a brief moment, that ever familiar warmth curling into your now clenched hand, before it slips back to his side.

You roll your eyes, huffing yet not entirely surprised. “Whatever. Anyway, don't you have duties you should be attending to? You know, as the Grand Master?”

“I'll have you know I am carrying out my duties.” A cheeky grin appears on his visage upon seeing your dubious expression, and you mentally brace yourself for whatever is bound to spill from that insufferable mouth of his. He takes another bite of the apple, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “Checking in on the beloved citizens of Mondstadt is a part of my duties, actually. So naturally I'll be checking up on you every chance I get.”

“Uh-huh. And that entails any time ranging from setting up my stall first thing in the morning, like now, to when I'm about to head home?”

“Of course!” He beams, chipper as ever. “What kind of Grand Master would I be to leave my most beloved citizen bored and lonely without my presence?”

“A better, more competent one,” you drawl, arms crossed and expression undoubtedly unimpressed. “Speaking of, I hope you aren't leaving poor Jean to pick up your slack.”

Another crunch! fills the space. He's polished off the apple, leaving nothing but the pips and the stem. Your nose scrunches; he gives another lopsided grin.

“Jean has it covered. It’s essentially a part of her job description, anyhow. Besides, I’m almost positive that little workaholic enjoys taking on my work and keeping herself busy.”

You sigh, entirely unimpressed yet not surprised in the slightest. Again. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yet you still entertain me,” he says, grin dwindling into something softer, eyes glittering a little brighter. Within a blink, his relaxed posture straightens. “Oh! Right, this is for you.”

Swept up in his presence, you didn’t realise the cecilia so obviously tucked protectively in his pocket up until now. You shouldn’t be so surprised. More often than not, he will bring you a little trinket — sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evenings. Yet seeing him carefully holding the stem, calloused fingers cautious so as to avoid crumpling the leaves or petals, has your skin warming more than the rising sun above you should.

(And so what if Flora gives you that all-knowing grin from within her own stall? So what if you're already mentally preparing for her to idle her way across to your stall during that quiet hour when the streets are less busy to tease you, again, about the Grand Master's blatant favouritism?)

“You sure seem to have a lot of spare time,” you mutter, gently taking the flower from his outstretched hand. It remains in your own for a brief moment, slowly twirling between your pinched fingers before setting it down on the wooden counter.

“Only for you,” he responds just as softly, as though speaking any louder would disrupt the peace settling over you. It’s almost embarrassing how easily the words spill from his lips, how readily he is able to drown you in this saccharine side of him none would expect from a man who birthed legends with his own name and skills.

And so you just grumble, pointedly doing your best to block out the thunderous beats of your wretched heart. “Shouldn’t you get going? Something about the thrill of adventure and action calling your name?”

“So you do remember what I say!”

“Only because you never stop talking. Even forcefully blocking you out doesn’t work.”

Still, he laughs, like you just landed the funniest joke known to man. His hulking frame of muscle and battle-worn scars shake at the boisterous action. That ever so familiar boyish sound which makes you feel both at ease but also forget just how strong he can be when necessary.

Eventually he composes himself, leaning back with his hands perched on his hips. “Save me some fruit for my return!” are his last words to you as he takes a slow step away from your stall; reluctant, almost. His waving is obnoxious, large, swooping movements which could probably render a mitachurl out of commission from the sheer velocity, his cheery grin akin to that of the shining sun.

You merely roll your eyes and give him a half-hearted wave of your own.

It's only when he disappears beyond the towering cobble walls do you allow yourself to turn away. Shining with gentle radiance in the early morning glow sits the cecilia he left for you, its pristine visage a grating contrast to the worn wood of the stall. The petals are soft to the touch, the pads of your thumb and forefinger gently running along its smooth texture.

Chatter slowly floods the city as life blooms amongst the populace, and you swiftly tuck its stem securely in your apron's breast pocket. The regulars come out for their daily peruse and purchase. The guards greet you and stop for idle chats. The children amble towards you eager to hear what new fruits you have in stock this time.

Even as the day goes on and your stock dwindles, you make sure to set aside the freshest fruit you have for when a certain man returns late into the day.

(And when he appears, roughed up from spending the day out in the wilderness yet shining as bright as ever, you act as though the ripe apple and berries were just mere leftovers — produce which never sold. If he notices the still pristine cecilia tucked into your pocket, he doesn't comment on it. He never does. Varka only beams in that manner which always gets your hands clammy, happily holding your empty crates while chattering about today's wilderness expedition, waiting as you finish packing up so he can walk you back home.)

(Like routine; like always.)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

The Sea God Mourns for his Bride

Basically something I've been thinking about for weeks now is that after the end of his 3rd myth, Rafayel probably spends a ton of time griefing. When he's not doing Sea God stuff, he probably spends a bit of time sitting and missing mc. I may redo it when I have more experience with painting oceans and stuff though

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

I said it once and I stand by it

(Minors Please DNI)

Imagine this:

Studying for a test with Alhaitham. Except you’re sitting in his lap and he has several fingers in you while he quizzes you.

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

A reminder, please don't follow my blog if you're a minor. It's fairly clean in here for the most part, but that's not the case *all* the time

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby

summary: the aftermath of what happened in skyhaven with pre-relationship sylus. hurt/comfort, exploring mc’s trauma.

A simultaneous sigh blooms from both of your lungs as the last wanderer crumbles into oblivion. The dust of its essence floated up to the polluted night sky of the N109 zone, painting artificial stars for the pair of victors below. Sylus lifts his gaze to you after he scrapes what’s left of the aftermath from his fingernails. He looks infuriatingly unaffected. You, however…

“You look like shit.” He remarks playfully, his eyes softening as he holds out his hand to help you up. You, like he anticipates, softly slap it away and get up on wobbly legs. “Fuck off.” You retort, still trying to catch your breath, and he simply smiles- striding next to you and subtly offering you his weight to lean on. You tried stubbornly standing on your own, but found yourself surrendering to his quiet help as you walked back to his bike.

“I’m not letting you ride back to Linkon like this.” He huffed, handing you his spare helmet, the one that is practically yours at this point. “Spend the night at the base.” Coming from him, it sounded more of a purring command than a gentle suggestion. “Get some beauty sleep.”

You had felt your muscles tense and your heart clenched as you were rapidly reminded of the last time you stayed over someone else’s place. The sound of doors locking, the pills, the confusion, the breathing man that you still mourned. Before you could refuse, though, a traitorous yawn escaped your throat. You knew he was right, that you were in no shape to travel home, and it’s not like he could exactly traipse into Linkon at the moment to accompany you. Besides, you’ve been fighting alongside him for a while now, and while he has little weaknesses, you’re willing to exploit them if need be. “Alright.” You breathe your surrender as you put the helmet on, bracing yourself for his driving skills.

Luke and Kieran greet you at the door like eager puppies. What happened, boss? Boss lady? Did ya kill something? How many? How bloody? Any guts?

Sylus held out a commanding hand and answered for you, thankfully. “Don’t ambush the poor girl, she’s beat up.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “I’m not beat up-”

“Come.” He holds his arm out for you, and you defeatedly take it, blindly following wherever he deigns to go.

“My head…” You groaned at the harsh overhead kitchen light being flicked on, rubbing your temples. “Does the big bad mob boss happen to have ibuprofen?”

“I’m not headache proof, believe it or not.” He exhaled a small chuckle. “Sit down.” He ushered you to the sofa across from the kitchen table. You obliged, but not because he told you to, of course. You were achey, dirty and exhausted. He held a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other, and you hesitated slightly as you let him give them to you. Turning the pills over in your fingers with a squint of your eyes, you looked for the label etched into the chalky red circles to identify that it was, in fact, ibuprofen.

Sylus noticed. Of course he noticed, he always does. “What?” He tilts his head, confused, but his tone still holds a hint of safe and familiar teasing. “You think I’m slipping you something?”

Swallowing back those nagging memories again along with the medicine, you force a chuckle. “Can never be sure with a lawless scoundrel like you, can I?”

He grinned, one of those rare smiles of his, toothy and reaching for his ruby eyes. “I may be a lawless scoundrel, sweetheart, but I’m not a monster.”

Not a monster, because a monster would do that.

Your best friend in the whole world would do that.

A deep breath left you, ready to be rid of this conversation topic. “Can I take a shower?”

His wide grin melted down to his signature smug smirk once again. “In which wing?”

Sylus’s living situation was fucking ridiculous. Four bathrooms with showers, three of them with tubs. For, what, three people? You shake your head in disbelief as he leads you to a guest room. Just as lavish as the rest of the place, the first thing that stares back at you is the neatly made king sized bed. A leather futon sits across it, right next to an enormous closet. Before you can gawk at any other evidence of luxury in the room, he shuts the door behind you. Your gaze instinctively flies to the knob, the phantom click still ringing in your ears. Your shoulders hunch, posture stilling as you find yourself waiting for it— but the door remains unlocked. If Sylus noticed, he gave you the grace of ignoring it and deciding he teased you enough for now. He opens the closet, unhooking a hanger from inside, draping a plush back bathrobe from it. “This should fit you.” You ran your hands along the fluffy material, unable to stop touching it. “And could I wash my clothes after-“

“I will.” He assures you with an interruption. “Leave them outside the door. I’ll find something laying around for you to change into so you don’t have to wait for them to dry.” You nodded, not expecting this level of consideration from him. It brings an irritating, fond heat to your cheeks. “Right. Thank you.”

“Just being a good host.” He smirks, opening the bathroom door. The bathroom was, of course, also fucking ridiculous. Dark marble walls, spotless black tile floors. A black Japanese bathtub next to the spacious shower stall. Woody, spicy potpourri wafted through the air from a bowl on the sink. He moves to shut the door, and you turn. “Um…” Swallow. “Is it okay to keep the door unlocked?” He frowned in confusion, and you quickly added, “It’s the steam. Too much in an enclosed space, I get a headache and I already have one, so I-“

“Okay.” He simply agrees, leaving you no room to over-explain and lie further. You’re almost taken aback with the ease he’s treating you with, but if you think about it, he’s always just accepted. He may question once or twice, but always nods his head without judgment.

You showered all of the blood and grime off your skin, but the reminder of Skyhaven clung under your fingernails no matter how much you scrubbed. It was something you had been pushing away from the forefront of your mind for weeks, almost a month now.

It’s not what you think it is, you remind yourself as you clench your fist, watching the hot water droplets roll off your knuckles. It’s Caleb. He was trying to protect me…

“No, we’re not doing this right now!” You mumbled aloud to yourself. Think, think, think of something else. You abruptly turned the valve to the wall, the water turning freezing cold. Your breathing seemed to slow down with the ice hitting your veins, and by the time you caught two chills, you stepped out and toweled off. The robe felt nice against your damp skin, the fuzz of it all absorbing the water droplets quickly. Opening the door, you see the clothes Sylus left for you in a neat pile: two items. A black satin button down with an “S” monogrammed into the breast pocket with golden embroidery, and grey basketball shorts. A dry snort found its way out of your nose. What a look.

You swam in them, of course, but in a cozy way. You folded the waistband of the shorts until they would aptly rest on your hips, and you didn’t mind the way the shirt’s sleeves hung past your fingers. The shirt smelled like him. Like his stupidly nice cologne, the familiar scent of spices and leather on the collar.

You let your exhausted body drive you to sleep.

The door is locked.

The eyes you used to seek comfort in refuse to soften.

You blindly take his sleeping pills.

The door is locked.

He pins you down on the sofa, next to a photo of the two of you in a frighteningly similar position, play-fighting and laughing.

He threatens to wrap a collar around your throat.

Your pleas fall on deaf ears.

The man in front of you is breathing, but he is long dead.

The door is locked.

Your heart drops you awake, out of breath and eyes watery.

You are not in your bed.

Where are you?

You push the covers off you before you could even remember, rushing to swing the door open. The force of the mahogany hitting the wall got the attention of your gracious host.

“Sweetie…” A deep voice rumbled up your spine. Sylus.

You’re with Sylus.

The pet name lacked all the familiar playful condescension, more of a brace, a concerned approach to a wild, wounded animal. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer at first, your clouded mind still assessing the situation. Your shoulders relax a fraction as you register your surroundings, Sylus’s base. You spent the night here after a hunt. You’re with Sylus, you want to be here, and the door was unlocked. Your grip on the doorknob loosens. Sylus slowly comes out from behind you and into your field of vision. “Sit.” He ushers you back into the room, sitting on the bed and patting the silk sheets. You slowly obey, perching on the bed with your knees hugged to your chest. A gentle expression paints his face, something you could’ve sworn you’ve never seen before. “I’m going to ask again.” He urges softly, slowly, the brisk command his tone usually carried melted away.

You can lie to anyone in your life. You could have said it was a bug in your blankets. A noise, he thought of an intruder. Even a nightmare about something else. You can lie to anyone in your life, except for the man in front of you who looks worried for the first time you’ve seen it. You can lie to anyone in your life, except for the man who seems to know your very soul despite only knowing you for a handful of months.

You don’t even try, clenching your fists so tight you’re sure your fingernails would draw blood out of the meat of your palm.

“I can’t tell you…” You murmured, holding back the flood. “Because if I do, it becomes real.”

He frowned, his head tilting to the side slightly. He pushed a soft smile out of the corner of his mouth. “I won’t tell reality if you won’t, sweetheart.”

You exhaled out of your nose shortly, an amused puff of air followed by a sniffle. “No, I’m…it’s serious.”

“I know.” He sat back on his elbows, blanketing the atmosphere with a sense of leisure and ease. That was something you had to admit he was good at. “I’ve noticed.”

You turn to him. “What?”

“You checked the pills I gave you.” He started. “I thought that was a one off, maybe you being extra careful, but then you announced you were gonna shower with the door unlocked-“

You scoffed shakily. “Okay, I didn’t announce-“

“The point is…” He interrupted. “You’ve been…off tonight.”

You don’t know how to answer. You know that at this point, if you open your mouth, the tears will start free falling.

“You don’t have to explain.” Fuck him for always reading your mind. “But you just need to tell me you’re alright. No guest feels unsafe under this roof.”

“It’s not you.” You assure shakily, resting your chin on your knees. “It’s…a long story.”

He nodded, accepting again. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Um…” You suck in a breath through your nose. Here we go. The tube of toothpaste is squeezed. Your voice is slow, measured as you continue. “Remember about three weeks ago I went to Skyhaven?”

You began to unload. From the top. He knew of the explosion, the one you wrongfully blamed him for. The reminder of that moment brings a flash of mortified heat to your cheeks, expecting him to bring it up. You pause for it, the tease, the coy ‘Yes, kitten, I’m so bad,’ but it doesn’t come. His eyes just pave a delicate path down your face, waiting for you to continue. You watch them widen slightly when you tell him your childhood best friend survived, and that you found him up there. Your words shake and choke in your throat when you get to the next part, tears pricking the back of your eyes. You squeeze them shut, and feel a feather-light weight on your hand; his covering yours. A soft affirmation, a silent I’ve got you. The action is so tender, it pushes even more tears to your waterline. You purse your trembling lips at the gentleness of it all, the opposite of the force you two exuded over one another when you first met. You shoot him point blank in the chest, and he holds your hand like it’s precious gold.

“Sweetie…” He looks at you as if the sight of your face twisted in tears makes him violently ache. “Don’t cry.”

Which of course, makes you cry more. He closes the distance between you within a second, pulling you into his side. “I’m trying not to.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He whispers gently, rubbing his thumb over your bare shoulder, the collar of his shirt hanging off of you. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

It takes a few minutes to gather the words, because how exactly do you say, I think my best friend held me hostage in his home and slipped me pills but I think it’s not really him based on zero evidence?

His thumb stopped its soothing rhythm. “He what?”

You cringe and stammer. You feel caught, for some irrational reason. “I-I know what it sounds like, but-”

“No.” He shook his head, his tone still soft but firm. “No, you don’t have to protect him.” He has to bite back the snarl in his voice, fight to keep his words gentle. “Not after he does this…” He wipes a tear from your cheek, his fingers lingering on the skin for a moment. “Not after he does this to you.” His voice shakes alongside yours, for different reasons. “You don’t need to tell me anything more, but you don’t protect him, either.”

You look up at him, drawing in a deep breath. It makes you realize that’s exactly what you’ve been doing all this time, refusing to acknowledge it. While he was ruining you, you were protecting his memory. At the same time, though, what you know about the professor and Caleb’s abnormal behavior flipping like a switch makes you doubt it was fully him that did this to you. Even if it wasn’t, it doesn’t mean it didn’t affect you so deeply that you’re crying into the arms of the person you’d least expect. You watch his fists clench. “He didn’t…” A hesitation. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

You vehemently shake your head and you could hear a small breath of relief. “It wasn’t like that.” You go to explain again, to defend him, but stop yourself. “It was so scary.” He breathes a deep sigh, tightening his arms around you.

“I know.” He whispers. “I know, sweet girl, but you were brave.”

You scoff tearfully. “No I wasn’t.”

“You’re here.” He pointed out, brushing his hand through your hair. “Not there. I know your prowess firsthand.”

A pathetic half-laugh exits your chest, followed by more sobs. He holds you even tighter as you cling to his grounding familiarity. He does that for as long as you need it, waiting patiently as he assures you you did the right thing, that you’re safe with him, that he could walk into Linkon and take you home right now, bounty be damned; whatever it is you need to hear.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers into your hair. Your head is atop his chest, laying down now. Your eyes are closed, and he can tell you’ve cried yourself to sleep. “Always have. Always will.”

When your breaths turn steady, he moves slightly to get his phone from his pocket. One hand on your back, the other on the keyboard, he types a message to Luke and Kieran.

Farspace Fleet Colonel. Lives in Skyhaven. Name’s caleb. Need any and all information there is to know ASAP.

Another message.

Boss Lady will not let you hurt him, as much as I am dreaming the different ways I could make him hurt right now. Do not go after him. Just watch.

Two pairs of thumbs up from the twins follow the message, not needing any further instruction or explanation. He locks his phone and leans his head against the pillow, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead. It’s quiet now, the only sound surrounding him are your soft breaths and Mephisto’s caws into the night as he suddenly takes a trip up north.

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

Can I request a Jing yuan with an injured s/o, like a broken foot or arm or something and like how he would help them out and do things for them. I’ve been thinking of that bc I lowkey fractured my foot snd sprained my ankle and times have been tough with crutches and a cast💔💔😔

In the Arms of the General

Summary: After suffering an injury that leaves you struggling with crutches and a cast, you try to push through on your own. However, Jing Yuan refuses to let you bear the burden alone. With his usual lazy charm and surprising tenderness, he insists on taking care of you—whether you like it or not.

Tags: Jing Yuan x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Established Relationship, Injured Reader, Protective, Soft Jing Yuan, Domestic Bliss, Lighthearted Banter.

A/N: I hope you get well soon! 😭🙏

Pain was an unwelcome companion, yet it clung to you like a stubborn shadow. The simple act of moving had turned into an ordeal, each step sending a dull ache up your leg. Your foot—swollen, wrapped tightly in bandages, encased in a cast—was a reminder of the unfortunate misstep that had led you here.

Jing Yuan, ever the observant general, had noticed immediately when you tried to hide your discomfort. You had insisted it was fine, that you could manage, but the weight of his golden gaze told you he wasn’t convinced.

"Must you be so stubborn?" he sighed, arms crossed as he watched you struggle with your crutches. His voice held that familiar lazy drawl, but his eyes—sharp as ever—betrayed his concern.

"I'm not stubborn," you muttered, trying to maneuver onto the couch without making it seem like a battle against gravity. "I just don't want to be a burden."

Jing Yuan chuckled, a low, warm sound. "A burden? My dear, if anything, this is an opportunity."

You blinked. "An opportunity for what?"

He leaned closer, a teasing glint in his eyes. "For me to finally make myself useful to you. You do so much on your own—it’s about time you let someone else take care of you."

Before you could protest, he had already scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you in his arms as if you weighed nothing. Heat crept up your neck. "Jing Yuan—!"

He only hummed in amusement, settling you onto the couch with utmost care. "See? Much easier this way."

You huffed, but the warmth of his touch lingered. His hands, though strong and calloused from years of battle, were incredibly gentle as they adjusted the pillows behind you. The moment you tried to reach for the blanket, he tsked softly and draped it over you himself, making sure you were comfortably tucked in.

"I can—"

"Ah, ah, no arguing," he chided, pressing a single finger to your forehead. "Doctors' orders. And mine."

You sighed in defeat, though you couldn’t hide the fond smile tugging at your lips. "You're really going to fuss over me this much?"

"Absolutely." He knelt beside you, eyes unwavering as he took your injured foot into his hands, adjusting the bandages with practiced ease. "You think I would allow my most precious person to suffer alone?"

Your breath hitched slightly at his words, and he noticed—of course he did. He always noticed.

Jing Yuan chuckled again, softer this time, his fingers brushing over your ankle with care. "Rest, little sparrow. I'll handle everything. Meals, paperwork, anything you need—just leave it to me."

You arched a brow. "Even your own work?"

His expression turned downright mischievous. "Well, I never said I'd be efficient at it."

You laughed despite yourself, the pain momentarily forgotten. Maybe being injured wasn’t entirely terrible—not when it meant being doted on by Jing Yuan.

Maybe, just maybe, you’d let yourself rely on him a little longer.

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

imagine jingyuan, dan heng, and jiaoqiu with a wife who like has insomnia or sm and one night shes finally able to fall asleep, but then at like 3 am there are random noises going on outside. Like people are either fighting or theres a robbery or idk. Char wakes up and notices that reader starts to wake up too, but he tells her to go back to sleep as he goes outside to see what in the world is making so much noise

imagine there is a robbery, but you can change it to something else, and instead of like trying to catch the bad guy or smth hes just like “shut up, my wife is trying to sleep” with that intimidating look lol and yeah

It doesn’tt have to be that exact line cuz in may not be in character for everyone also you can add stuff at the end too ofc

tyy

Let Her Rest

Tags: Jing Yuan x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Female!Reader, Fluff, Established Relationship, Protective Husbands, Soft Domestic Moments, Light Comedy, Comfort & Reassurance, Sleep-Deprived/Insomniac Reader, Overprotective Behavior.

Warnings: Mild Threats/Intimidation, Mentions of Insomnia & Sleep Struggles, Mild Language, Brief Mentions of Alcohol.

For once, you had fallen asleep without struggle. No tossing, no turning—just the rare embrace of peaceful slumber in Jing Yuan’s arms. He had held you close, his warmth easing the usual restlessness that plagued your nights.

But at an ungodly hour, a commotion erupted outside, voices raised, footsteps thundering through the streets of the Luofu.

Jing Yuan’s eyes flickered open. He glanced down at you, feeling the slight shift in your breathing as you stirred. His hand instinctively smoothed over your back, fingers tracing gentle patterns to lull you back into sleep.

“Go back to sleep, my dear,” he murmured, voice a low hum of reassurance.

You barely registered his words, too tired to question him as you melted back into slumber.

Jing Yuan sighed, slipping from the bed with quiet efficiency. He pulled on a robe and stepped outside, his expression calm but carrying an air of unmistakable authority.

Down the street, a group of low-level thugs had surrounded a merchant, attempting a robbery. A bystander shouted, someone else cursed—it was enough noise to wake half the district.

Jing Yuan exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.

“Gentlemen,” he called out lazily. The casual tone belied the dangerous glint in his golden eyes. “You have exactly five seconds to stop before I make you regret waking my wife.”

The group froze. They turned, only to be met with the sight of the Arbiter-General standing in the dim lantern light, his arms crossed, his usually relaxed smile absent.

A heavy silence fell over the street. One of the thugs gulped.

“S-Sir Jing Yuan, we were just—”

Jing Yuan took a slow step forward. “Four seconds.”

They scattered.

With another sigh, he turned back, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a minor inconvenience. He made his way home, slipping back into bed beside you. His arm wrapped around you once more, pulling you into his chest.

You mumbled something in your sleep.

“Just a small disturbance,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Nothing worth losing sleep over.”

And with that, you drifted off again, safe and sound in his embrace.

Dan Heng knew your struggles with sleep all too well. It was why, even as he kept a certain distance from others, he always held you close at night, offering you a quiet comfort you rarely found elsewhere.

Tonight, that comfort had worked. You had fallen asleep against him, your breaths finally steady.

So when the distant sound of shouting reached his ears, followed by a loud crash, his eyes snapped open instantly. He tensed, his grip on you tightening just slightly.

You stirred.

“Dan Heng…?”

“Shh.” His voice was quiet, soothing. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

His fingers brushed over your hair before he carefully shifted away from you, moving with the silent precision of a warrior. He grabbed Cloud-Piercer and slipped out of the room.

Outside, a group of unruly travelers had gotten into a heated argument near the Astral Express station. A cart had been overturned, belongings scattered, voices raised.

Dan Heng observed the scene in silence before stepping into view. His expression was impassive, but the weight of his gaze was enough to make the air grow cold.

“You are being too loud,” he said, his voice calm but edged with quiet authority. “Leave. Now.”

The arguing men turned, irritation flashing in their eyes—until they registered who was speaking.

Dan Heng didn’t raise his weapon. He didn’t need to. The restrained power in his stance, the eerie calm in his tone, the way his grip on Cloud-Piercer barely shifted—it was enough.

One by one, they backed away, muttering apologies before scattering into the night.

Dan Heng exhaled, his fingers tightening briefly around his spear before he turned back inside.

When he returned to bed, you mumbled something sleepily, reaching for him.

He let himself relax, settling beside you once more. “It’s nothing,” he murmured. “Sleep, love.”

And this time, neither of you woke again until morning.

Jiaoqiu was used to watching over you at night. Even when your eyes were closed, he could sense the tension in your body, the struggle to truly rest.

Tonight had been different. Tonight, you had finally let go.

He had let himself relax, his tail curled around your leg, his fingers lazily playing with strands of your hair as he listened to your breathing even out.

And then—

A ruckus outside. Loud voices. The distinct sound of something breaking.

His ears twitched. His irises flashed beneath closed lids.

You shifted slightly.

Jiaoqiu pressed a gentle hand to your back. “Sleep, darling,” he whispered, voice honeyed with warmth. “I’ll take care of it.”

You sighed, already falling back into rest.

Jiaoqiu slipped out of bed, grabbing his feather fan as he padded barefoot to the door.

Outside, a drunk group of Cloud Knight trainees were causing a commotion, clearly having ignored curfew. A few were arguing, and one had managed to knock over a food cart, sending a mess of fruit spilling into the street.

Jiaoqiu sighed through his nose. He tapped his fan against his palm, drawing their attention.

“My, my. Causing such a mess at this hour?” His voice was deceptively soft, his smile sharp. “Do you know how rare it is for my wife to sleep peacefully?”

The soldiers immediately stiffened, sensing the shift in the air.

“I should poison your tea,” Jiaoqiu mused, his golden eyes gleaming, though his smile remained kind. “Nothing fatal. Just enough to ensure you experience a few sleepless nights of your own. Fair, don’t you think?”

A shudder ran through the group.

“We—we’ll clean this up,” one of them stammered.

“Good boys.” Jiaoqiu waved his fan lazily, turning back towards his home. “Keep it down, will you?”

By the time he slipped back into bed, you barely stirred.

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before murmuring, “Sleep well, my love.”

And this time, you did.

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

"If I was a lemurian, what color would my tail be?" I ask randomly.

Rafayel immediately jolted up from his laying position. As if hes thought about this question for years.

"Opal." He answers instantly.

"Opal?" I repeat.

"Opal." He nods.

"The jewel that's mainly white but has like a rainbow type sheen to it?" I ask.

"Yes." He answers. "Opal suits you perfectly. You would be the ocean's jewel. My jewel. And you'd wear pearls and shells. My pearls, of course, you deserve nothing but the best. And you'd glow, iridescent, a rainbow following your every move."

"You couldn't figure out a specific color for me, so you chose every one of them?" I ask with an amused smile.

He scoffs. "There is not one color that suits you better than the other. I've thought of you in every color tail, and you look just as gorgeous as the last. So, of course, that means you deserve them all."

I hum and lay my head on his lap. "Would it even match my skin tone-"

"Of course it would." Rafayel cuts me off. "It's mainly white. White goes with every color. And even then, your veins and blood would change the tone of the colors underneath the white, so the rainbow like sheen would still match your skin tone."

I feel Rafayel's hands start to braid my hair. Or at least attempt to. He's trying his best, and that's what matters.

"If I was a Lemurian, do you think it would've been easier for you to fall for me?" I ask, my mouth moving before I can stop it.

His hands freeze in my hair. "It was easy to fall in love with you now as a human."

"Well, alright. But i meant, would you feel less guilty for loving me if I was a Lemurian?" I try to clarify.

It's known news that Rafayel has a great distaste for humans, especially for what they've done to his people.

Rafayel frowns and cups my cheeks, slouching down a bit closer to my face.

"You think i feel guilty for loving you? And because you're human?" He asks weakly, as if the mere thought pains him.

I instinctively avoid eye contact. Suddenly, very intrigued by the ocean paintings on the wall.

"I... just... think that maybe you dislike that you've fallen for a human. I dont know, it's stupid, please forget-"

"Nono, I won't forget it. I made you believe I feel guilty for loving you." He quickly inturrupts.

His hands leave my face and move underneath my body to lift me up, now sitting me on his lap.

"I have never disliked the idea of loving you. I have never resented you for being human. Nor have I ever wished you were anything other than what you are. The only reason why I've thought about you as a lemurian is because of that one time you told me about how you played mermaids as a kid. That's it." He says seriously. As if trying to replace all negative thoughts with his words in my mind.

"If I ever were to feel guilty for loving you, it'd be because I think you being with me would be of harm to you." Rafayel confesses.

My head immediately flinches back incredulously, making him chuckle.

"It's true. Im not as good as you believe me to be. I'm very selfish and spoiled, I'm used to being adored. I throw out what I dont like and take what I do. And, unfortunately for you, you're what I want the most in this world. Universe even. So even if you don't like it, you're mine. Even on the possibility that yohr love for me might hurt you, i can'thelp but keep you with me."

"I do like it." I scoff. "Never once have i felt trapped with you. If anything, you're expanding my world instead of shrinking it. And, also, I love you, which is why i stay with you willingly."

Rafayel's soft laughter sings in my ears. "And every day im grateful to have been gifted your love. No matter what that might bring."

"You make it sound as if we're doomed." I point out as I poke his forehead.

Rafayel's hands grip my hips. "No, we're not. I'll make sure we have our happy ending. Don't worry."

He kisses my cheek as i huff. "I wasn't worried."

Rafayel finally smiles once more. "Good."

"This time, I'll make sure you live happily."

Masterlist

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

Sylus always held back when sparring with you.

Not because he didn’t think you were strong, no, far from it. He held back because he knew how much a hit at full speed and strength from him could hurt.

It’s taken down grown men his size, knocking them out cold. He’s single handedly destroyed wanderers with these fists, he genuinely fears he’d break your skull.

This time though, he got too into it. The sparring was good, you were on your a-game, and your determination was rubbing off on him. While he held back, you never did. You knew he could take whatever you threw at him.

Sylus would give it to you, most of your hits did hurt. Made him groan, knocked the wind out of him, if he couldn’t heal the way he can, you’d have him covered in black and blues. He fucking loved it, got off on it even.

Well, he was really into it this time, so into it that he miscalculated his movements and his fist landed with a sickening thud on your left cheek.

You yelped, heat and pain blossoming just below your eye, the same eyes that were now swimming with blurry stars and you fought to remain conscious.

Warm hands were cupping your face milliseconds later, a concerned call of your name was heard over the ringing. Sylus’ face swam into view just as the absurdity hit you, a bubbling laugh choking its way out of your mouth.

“Jesus fuck, Sy. You nearly killed me.” But there wasn’t a hint of amusement on his face. No, his expression was schooled into something nearly unreadable. Maybe concern mixed with something else you couldn’t quite put your finger on. “How many fingers—“

But you snorted, attempting to wave him off as the stars finally blinked out of existence. “You didn’t give me a concussion, but the answer is three, and I know where I am and who you are and what we were doing ten seconds ago so I assure you—“ but Sylus only frowned.

“Mephisto, get me an ice pack.”

He’s lifting you up moment later, carrying you over to the bench by the sparring ring like you’re made of fine china. “I’m fine, Sylus.” But he tutted, sitting down and placing you on his lap. “You’re going to have a gnarly bruise.”

“You bruise me all the time.”

“That is very very different.” Mephisto is dropping an ice pack in your lap seconds later, it seems your attempts at lightening the mood would be falling flat. So, you kept your mouth shut, snuggled into his hold, and let him place the ice pack on your slightly swollen cheek bone.

Sylus was silent for two reasons. The first being that he hit you, like really hit you. Albeit unintentionally, but he still left a mark nonetheless. The second? You took the full brunt of his blow and took it like a god damn champ.

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

lovesick

synopsis: a fever isn't the worst thing in the world, not with him by your side warnings: eating and food mentions, general being sick talk but it's not gross pairing: Zayne x fem!reader wc: 2.6k an: idk what this is lol blame laufey and my desire to be taken care of

When you wake up in the morning, the itch in your throat doesn’t mean much. Atleast, it doesn’t at first. It’s faint, like the echo of a bad dream, something easily dismissed. You sit up slowly, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the sheer curtains. The air in the room feels unusually dry. You reach for the bottle of water on your nightstand, fingertips brushing clumsily against it.

You drink. Once. Twice. Three gulps. It’s cold, soothing. But the itch lingers. Worse, actually, it catches at the base of your throat, scratchy and raw. Your stomach sinks.

You swallow again. No change.

Suddenly, you're acutely aware of what this means. And what it will become.

You shift in bed, instinctively reaching a hand toward the other side of the mattress, only to find it empty and cold. The covers are tucked in neatly, the pillow barely indented. Zayne must’ve left hours ago, early shift, like he had warned. Still, you hate waking up without him.

It isn’t just about the warmth of his body beside you, it’s about the quiet comfort of it. The stillness of his presence. The small, tender things he doesn't say, but somehow always conveys. A hand brushing over your waist before getting up, a murmured “sleep in,” the smell of aftershave on his skin when he leans down to kiss your temple.

But this morning, there’s nothing. Just aching limbs, an angry throat, and the silence of a too-big bed.

You drag yourself out of it anyway.

The floor is cold beneath your feet. Your socks are missing again. You don’t bother to search. The light stings your eyes as you shuffle into the bathroom and begin your routine on autopilot, brush teeth, splash water, fumble for your clothes.

You’re clammy by the time you’re half-dressed, skin already burning beneath your sweatshirt. You sit on the edge of the tub for a moment, catching your breath. It’s early still. If you move now, you’ll make it to work on time.

You don’t even consider calling in. The thought flits across your mind like a warning sign, but you bat it away. You’re fine. Just a sore throat. Just a little warm. Nothing serious.

It takes more effort than usual to pull on your boots. By the time you’re outside, the sunlight feels too bright, the noise of the street too sharp. Your head throbs in rhythm with your footsteps. The train ride is a blur.

You last three hours.

Captain Jenna doesn’t even let you finish your shift. She catches sight of you hunched over your desk, eyes glassy, face pale, and just sighs.

“You look like you’ve been microwaved,” she says. “Go home. That’s not a request.”

You’re too exhausted to argue. You nod, mumble something that sounds vaguely like gratitude, and pack your things with trembling fingers. The ride back home is worse. The air is too warm. You don’t remember changing trains. You don’t remember unlocking the front door.

All you remember is the weight of your limbs when you collapse back into bed, clothes still on. The room spins slightly. You close your eyes.

You don’t know how much time passes.

Then: a hand. Cool and steady, pressing against your forehead.

You don’t move right away. For a moment, you wonder if it’s a dream. Your body is heavy, your mouth dry, your thoughts fuzzy. But the touch lingers, soothing and precise.

You let out a small breath, voice like sandpaper. “You’re home.”

A quiet chuckle answers you. The mattress dips beside you, and fingers, gentle, cold, unmistakably Zayne’s, rake slowly through your hair.

“I’m home,” he says, voice low and even. “I heard I’ve been assigned a very important patient.”

You exhale through your nose, the effort of smiling too great. “Who told you?”

Zayne’s thumb brushes your temple. You open your eyes just enough to catch the faint upturn at the corner of his mouth. That elusive, quiet smile he wears when he’s letting himself be a little smug.

“One of your colleagues,” he murmurs. “Called me when you started swaying.”

You groan softly, shifting your face into the pillow. “Snitch.”

He doesn’t reply, but you feel the soft pressure of his lips brushing your hairline. It’s fleeting, careful. A whisper of affection, restrained.

You flinch a little. “Don’t. I don’t want you to get sick. You have…patients.”

He exhales, almost like he’s holding back a sigh. “I’m not worried,” he says simply.

You open your eyes again, just barely. He’s leaning against the headboard now, his hand still moving through your hair with measured strokes. “You always say that.”

“And I’m always right,” he says, voice so flat it’s almost deadpan. But his touch doesn’t stop.

You shift slightly, trying to get comfortable again. “You shouldn’t be this close.”

“You’re not contagious yet,” he lies.

You groan again. “You’re annoying.”

He brushes his knuckles over your temple, cool and steady. “Sleep,” he says quietly. “You’re burning up.”

You want to argue, but your body betrays you. You’re already halfway back under.

And just before you drift off, you hear him exhale again, slow and long, like he’s only just letting himself relax. His hand never leaves your hair.

It’s late in the evening, or at least you think it’s evening, when you open your eyes again. The room is dim, your skin clammy, and every inch of you feels like it’s been steamrolled by fever. But then you catch it.

A smell, drifting up from the hallway. Warm, earthy, savory.

Soup?

You blink sluggishly, the edges of the ceiling blurring as your eyes adjust. A few seconds pass, and then the door creaks open.

Zayne steps in, balancing a tray in one hand. His sleeves are rolled up, collar slightly crooked. He’s already changed out of his work clothes, which means he’s been home a while, long enough to shower, long enough to make whatever’s in that bowl.

His gaze finds you immediately.

“You’re awake,” he says quietly, almost like he’s surprised. “I estimated you’d sleep through the night.”

You shift under the blankets, groaning softly. “Was trying to. But something smells…edible.”

Zayne’s mouth twitches. “That would be your dinner.” He sets the tray down carefully on the nightstand and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, adjusting the bowl slightly. “It’s just soup. Nothing fancy.”

“You cooked?” you rasp, brows raising in faint disbelief.

“Don’t sound so shocked.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, just stirs the contents slowly. “I can follow a recipe.”

“I figured you’d send a drone to deliver takeout with a thermometer taped to the side.”

He lets out a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “I thought about it.”

The bed dips slightly as he turns toward you, pressing the back of his hand gently to your cheek. His skin is cold, always colder than yours, but it feels good against your feverish skin.

“Still warm,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You watch his face as he checks your temperature, as he folds a blanket down near your shoulders. He doesn’t say much, doesn’t fuss, but he’s clearly been keeping an eye on you. There's a small crease between his brows, subtle but there. You know that look. It's his worried one, the one he doesn't let stay on his face too long. With his real patients, he’s an expert at hiding his expressions.

An odd part of you feels a sense of pride to see him like this.

You try to sit up, but the ache behind your eyes pulses too hard. Zayne’s hand finds your arm before you even make a sound.

“Don’t strain,” he says, helping you shift into a more upright position. His grip is steady but careful. “Just lean back.”

“You’re really going to feed me soup?” you mutter, trying to hide behind sarcasm, even as your body feels like it's melting into the pillows.

“No,” he says evenly. “I’m going to hold the spoon. You’re going to drink.”

The corners of your mouth curl tiredly. “That’s what feeding me soup is.”

He exhales again, quiet and almost fond, and lifts the spoon toward your mouth. The edge is warm where it brushes your bottom lip.

You take a sip. It’s good, surprisingly so. Light but rich, with just enough salt to make your dry mouth feel a little more human.

“Wait,” you say after a second. “Is this the soup your mom makes?”

Zayne nods once, barely perceptible. “I called her. She walked me through it.”

You blink slowly. That’s not a small thing. He’s never been culinarily inclined.

“I didn’t know you remembered the recipe.”

“I didn’t,” he says, voice even. “But I remembered the fact you liked it.”

You fall quiet after that. There’s a softness to the silence between you, filled only by the occasional sound of the spoon tapping against the bowl and your quiet sips. Zayne never hovers, never rushes you.

When you slow down, hand drifting weakly toward the bowl like you’re thinking of holding it yourself, Zayne simply shifts and rests the tray on his leg so you don’t have to reach.

“You’ve had enough,” he says after a moment, his voice low. “You’re falling asleep again.”

“I’m not-” you start to protest, but your eyelids are already drooping.

Zayne doesn’t call you out on it. He sets the bowl aside, then gently helps you lie back down. You notice, distantly, that he folds the edge of the blanket up again, neat and careful, tucking it under your arm.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but the next time you surface, the world feels strange.

Your limbs are heavy, and your head pulses with heat, thick and throbbing behind your eyes. The sheets cling uncomfortably to your skin, and every breath tastes like cotton. The room swims in and out of focus. You shift, sluggishly, barely able to roll onto your back.

And then you feel it.

A sharp contrast.

Coolness. Something soft, damp, placed carefully across your forehead.

Your brow twitches. You try to lift a hand to touch it, but your arm feels like it’s moving through wet sand. The cloth stays in place, gentle but firm. A weight you didn’t know you needed.

“Don’t,” a voice says quietly. Calm. Familiar.

Zayne.

You blink slowly, your lashes heavy. The ceiling swims above you. There’s a shape beside the bed, his outline, seated and still. Elbows on his knees, hands probably interlaced like they always are when he’s thinking too much.

“I’m dreaming,” you murmur hoarsely, or maybe you only think you say it.

There’s a pause.

“No,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear. “You’re awake. Just not all the way.”

His hand, as always, is cool. It brushes hair off your damp temple before adjusting the cloth slightly. He doesn't press too hard, just folds it over once, letting the new side rest against your burning skin. You can almost feel the edge of the terry cloth dragging against your cheek.

“Mmnh,” you breathe. It’s not really a word, more of a noise, some mix of gratitude and discomfort.

Zayne exhales slowly. “You were muttering earlier. I couldn’t make out what you were saying.”

“I wasn’t,” you croak.

“You definitely were.”

He sounds composed, but not unaffected. You’ve known him long enough to hear the smallest fractures in his voice, how it gets quieter when he’s worried. More level. Like he’s anchoring himself while you drift.

“I probably said... ‘you’re cold,’” you mumble, your mouth barely forming the words. “Like a lizard.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, so softly, you think you hear a huff of air. It might almost be a laugh.

“Better than being hot enough to cook an egg on your forehead,” he replies evenly.

You blink again. The ceiling shifts, then stills. His fingers slide down briefly to the side of your neck, checking your pulse, not with urgency, but like he’s done it a hundred times before.

You breathe through the warmth rising behind your eyes. The fever is making everything swim, but his presence is so solid it almost hurts.

“You stayed,” you whisper, like it surprises you.

Zayne doesn’t respond immediately. He swaps the cloth again, this time soaking it in the bowl of cool water on the tray beside him. He wrings it out with careful fingers, movements precise. Silent.

Then he lays it across your forehead again. It smells faintly of laundry soap and his hands something grounded and clean.

“Of course I stayed,” he says at last, quiet like a secret. “I’m not going to leave you like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

“I dream about you,” you whisper, delirious. You don’t mean to say it. Not really. “Sometimes.”

He stills.

You feel it. The exact moment he stops adjusting the cloth, the way the air shifts with the tension in his body.

“I know,” he says after a moment.

You think he’s going to pull away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he presses the backs of his fingers briefly to your cheek, then leaves them there.

You lean into it.

Zayne doesn’t say anything more. But he doesn’t go anywhere.

Even when you start mumbling nonsense again, half-dreamed thoughts and disjointed words, he listens. He brushes your hair back, refreshes the cloth every so often, and never once moves far enough for you to lose track of him.

He stands for a second, walking over to your dresser. You think he’s getting another blanket, but instead he returns with the thermometer he must’ve stashed earlier and quietly places it on the nightstand. Then he clicks off the lamp and slides onto the bed beside you, movements slow and deliberate, as if trying not to disturb the already-fragile peace of your body.

His presence radiates calm, not warmth, not in the literal sense, anyway. His hands are still cool, his body lean and quiet against the mattress. He doesn’t pull you close, doesn’t whisper reassurances or promises.

But when your hand, sleep-heavy and clumsy, reaches across the small distance between you, Zayne doesn’t hesitate.

He laces your fingers together gently. Doesn't say a word.

In your haze, it feels like floating. Like he’s the only thing tethering you to the bed.

Later, when you wake in the early hours of the morning, dry-mouthed and aching, you find him exactly where you expect. Eyes closed, breathing slow, hand still curled loosely around yours as he lays beside you.

Even in sleep, he hasn’t let go.

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

LADS boys in band

like orchestra band, not a band ykyk. im talking band kid, nerd shit (ft. clarinet!mc because i play clarinet godammit) anyways these are old hcs i made forever ago for a friend on discord after she got that 1 sea god raf 3 star where hes playing his flute and i went insane

source: im a band kid. hcs under the cut!

Xavier

Trombone

half asleep during every rehearsal but still somehow stupid good,

shit at sight reading, which is the only reason why he's not first chair

literally just a chill guy

got a solo ONCE and immediately tried to pawn it off, but the whole section ganged up so he'd take it

genuinely HEAVENLY playing man's had the audience SAT during the concert.

Zayne

1st chair clarinet

same section as mc (partially because I'm projecting, partially because it would be SO FUNNY because caleb would be pissed)

literally the coolest guy in band, but is convinced no one likes him

strict but fair as a section leader

tunes like a motherfucker because he tends to be flat as HELL (lil evol thing there :] cold air makes instruments flat)

literally never makes mistakes and no one knows how he does it

pinkies of steel

plays on a 4.5 reed and calls mc a baby for playing on a 3.5

Rafayel

2nd chair flute

missed 1st chair by a hair and makes it everyone else's problem

constantly tries to outplay 1st chair and competes for every possible solo

takes things an octave up just to prove he can (it ruins the musicality of a piece like bro just play piccolo atp)

literally so obnoxious, doesn't stfu ever

neurotic abt everyone tuning, but insists he can tune everyone by ear

the whole section was HORRIBLY sharp that day

is no longer allowed to tune. restricted to using a tuner

brought in a tuning fork and complained he couldn't hear it over everyone else warming up

had one of those shitty colored flutes for years and insisted he was cooler because of it until his section leader bullied him into getting a proper flute because of the better tone

Sylus

Tenor sax

knows careless whisper but only plays it around raf so he looks insane when he insists sylus knows it

is an absolute BEAST in jazz band

eats up every solo

probably has like 5 different mouthpieces and rotates them

has a VERY SPECIFIC line of vandoren reeds that he uses. refuses anything else

has custom ordered reeds before and would do it again

Caleb

trumpet

literally only in band because mc joined and he thought it would be fun

almost switches instruments when mc jokes abt hating trumpets

literally seething because Zayne is mc's section leader so he always sees him helping her learn her parts

is good, but never practices, so it gets kicked down a few notches

LOVES MARCHING BAND

this man is the LOUDEST mofo during football games. he knows every cheer and adlib by heart

once sent his mouthpiece flying by snapping into set without properly putting it on

tried to serenade mc with that one captaion america trumpet song

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

AS LONG AS I GOT YOU— LADS!MEN

[♕]: including— fem!reader, tooth rotting fluff [౨ৎ] synopsis: how the lads men take care of you when your tired. [♡₊˚ ♕]: her highness's decree: kinda was sleepy when I wrote this one sorry if it's not as good!

like these jewels? check out --> lads masterlist

SYLUS.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ doesn't let you lift a finger and kisses your skin.

He felt it before you even said anything, the way you let out a soft sigh as you walked in. The tired smile you flashed him, still sweet but less energetic. The way your lids hung with sleepiness. You didn't even have a chance to properly undo your laces before sylus kneeling infront of you.

"Sy, love you didn't have to." You breathed, voice low and frayed with fatigue.

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and impossibly tender. “Hush,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your ankle as he slipped the shoe free.

You felt your chest soften, your weight leaning toward him without meaning to.

Before you could protest further, he was sliding his arms beneath you and lifting you effortlessly, carrying you toward the bathroom. “You’ve done enough today, sweetie,” he whispered against your temple, the low rumble of his voice sending warmth through your chest. “Let me.”

You curled instinctively against him, letting your eyes close for just a moment as he set you gently on the edge of the tub and began to run warm water. Steam curled into the air, the scent of your favorite bath oils filling the room. He hummed low under his breath, stripping away the remnants of your day piece by piece, kissing the slope of your shoulder, the bend of your knee, the curve of your neck as he went. Each followed by sweet words whispered into your skin as you breathed.

Sylus helped you into the bath first, sliding in behind you, his arms wrapping around your tired body as the warm water lapped against your skin. His hands moved in slow circles over your arms, over your legs, as if washing away the world’s weight. Every now and then, his lips found your shoulder, the shell of your ear, the tender space just beneath your jaw.

“You’re so good to me, Sy,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion and exhaustion. He only tightened his hold around you, chin resting on your shoulder. “Always.”

When the water cooled, he helped you out, wrapping you in a soft towel and carrying you back to the bedroom as though you were the most precious thing he’d ever held. He kissed the crown of your head as he set you down gently.

“Go change into something comfy for me,” he said softly, brushing a damp lock of hair behind your ear. “I’ve already ordered your favorite, it’ll be here soon.”

ZAYNE.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ lets rant about your day, and stays up with you until you fall asleep.

Even if you ramble on and on about why he needs sleep the most out of you two, zayne is stubborn as a rock. He'll simply press a kiss to your temple before whispering, "If you think I'd prioritize sleeping of all things, over your wellbeing then you clearly have forgotten who your dating."

His voice is low and soft, carrying that weight of sincerity that makes your chest ache in the best way.

You try again to argue—your lips part, a faint protest on your tongue—but it melts away as soon as his hand finds yours, threading your fingers together. He’s already tugging you gently toward the couch, that determined look in his eyes leaving no room for further debate.

“Come here,” he murmurs, settling first and patting his lap, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows over his sharp features. You hesitate only a moment before curling against him, your head fitting perfectly against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heart is immediate comfort, a lullaby you hadn’t known you needed.

He wraps his arms around you completely, one hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His other hand rises to comb through your hair, fingers brushing against your scalp in a way that makes your lashes flutter heavy.

“Tell me what’s keeping you up,” he says after a few moments of silence. No rush. No judgment. Just that deep, velvet tone that makes you feel safe enough to unravel.

And you do—you let yourself ramble. About the day, the stress, the little worries that have been piling up in your chest. He doesn’t interrupt once, just hums quietly now and then to let you know he’s listening. Every so often, he presses a soft kiss into your hair or your forehead, murmuring a quiet, “You’re doing so well,” or “I’ve got you, angel.”

The clock ticks past midnight, but Zayne doesn’t budge. When your words begin to slur with exhaustion, he shifts you gently, guiding your legs across his lap so he can better cradle you. He drapes the thick throw blanket over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders like he’s sealing you in a cocoon of safety.

“You’re not tired?” you mumble, eyes half-lidded as you tilt your head up to look at him. He’s gazing down at you with that soft, lovesick look that never fails to make your heart skip.

“Of course I am,” he admits with a small smile, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone. “But I’d rather be tired with you than rested without you.”

Your breath catches, warmth flooding your chest. Before you can find words, he leans in and kisses you—slow, tender, a gentle press of lips meant to soothe more than to take. When he pulls back, you can feel his smile against your skin as he rests his forehead against yours.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “I’ll be right here.”

And true to his word, he stays awake long after your breathing evens out, one arm curled protectively around you while the other absentmindedly strokes your hair. He watches over you with a quiet devotion, memorizing the lines of your face in the low light, guarding your rest as though it’s the most sacred thing in the world.

It’s only when the first hints of dawn start to peek through the curtains that Zayne lets himself drift off—still holding you close, still murmuring your name like a promise even in sleep.

XAVIER.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ coaxes you into his lap and unwinds you with his voice and hands.

The apartment was quiet except for the faint buzz of the lamp on the side table. You sat curled on the couch, knees hugged to your chest, staring blankly at some open notes on your laptop that you hadn’t touched in over an hour.

Xavier stepped out of the shower, hair still damp, wearing that worn-in hoodie of his that always made him look a little softer. He paused in the doorway, watching you for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly in that knowing way of his.

“Still at it?” he asked, his voice low, like he didn’t want to startle you.

“I… I have to finish this,” you mumbled, though your shoulders slumped further as you said it.

Xavier crossed the room silently, then closed your laptop with one hand. Your head snapped up to protest, but before you could, he was crouching in front of you, resting his arms on your knees.

“Star,” he said softly, “your eyes are tired. And I hate seeing you like this.”

You opened your mouth, searching for an excuse, but the concern in his gaze melted the words away. He didn’t ask again—he simply slid his hands under your thighs and guided you forward until you were straddling his lap, legs loosely around his waist as he sat back against the couch cushions.

Your breath caught. “Xav… I—”

“Shhh,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’ve done enough for today. Allow yourself to relax.”

One of his hands began to rub slow, lazy circles into your lower back while the other cradled the nape of your neck. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, hear the deep calm in his voice as he started talking—soft nothings, little stories, words meant just to lull you out of your own head.

Bit by bit, your shoulders loosened, your head sinking onto his shoulder. He whispered praise into your ear—quiet, intimate words that no one else ever heard. “You work so hard… you’re so strong, you know that? I’m so proud of you.”

A soft kiss to your cheek. Another to your jaw. Each one unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. Your breathing slowed, your body melting against him. He adjusted just enough to grab the throw blanket draped over the couch, tucking it around your shoulders as if you were the most fragile thing he’d ever held.

“You can sleep if you want,” he whispered, voice deep and hushed. "I won't leave you.”

CALEB.𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ pulls you into his arms and feeds you food

It had been one of those days that left you feeling wrung out and small—too many things piling up at once, too many thoughts buzzing in your head. By the time Caleb got home, you were sitting at the kitchen table, forehead resting on your folded arms, the mug of tea beside you long gone cold.

He didn’t ask questions at first. He just set his keys down quietly, crossed the room, and crouched beside your chair. His hand came to rest over yours, rough thumb brushing soft circles over your knuckles.

“Hey,” his voice was low, warm, steady. “Tough day?”

You hummed faintly in response, eyes half-lidded, not even bothering to lift your head. Caleb’s heart pinched. He stood, slipped his arms under you without a word, and before you could muster any protest, he scooped you right out of the chair with ease.

“Caleb—!” your tired voice cracked into a surprised little laugh as he carried you toward the counter.

“Oh hush,” he murmured, settling you gently on the cool countertop. His big hands steadied you as he leaned close enough to press a quick kiss to your temple. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground again, haven’t you?”

You mumbled something halfhearted, but he was already moving, rummaging through the fridge for leftovers and pulling out the container of pasta he knew you loved. You sat there in a daze, legs dangling off the counter, watching him move around the kitchen—rolling his sleeves up, humming softly under his breath as he reheated the food.

When he returned, fork in hand, he offered it to you. “Open up, pips.”

You tried to wave him off. “Caleb, I can—”

“Let me,” he said, quiet but firm, eyes soft as the corners of his mouth lifted.

So you did. He fed you bite by bite, his other hand occasionally brushing your hair back from your face or squeezing gently at your knee. With each forkful, you felt a little more of the day’s weight slide off your shoulders. He murmured little things between bites—“That’s my girl,” or “See? You deserve a little care too.”

At some point, your head lolled gently against the cupboard behind you, the exhaustion creeping back in now that your stomach was warm and full. Caleb noticed, setting the fork aside and stepping in close, both hands cupping your cheeks as he bent to kiss your forehead.

“You’re falling asleep on me, sweets,” he whispered, voice full of fondness.

You hummed softly, eyes fluttering closed. “Just… resting.”

He chuckled under his breath, low and affectionate, before scooping you back into his arms. You curled into his chest instinctively, fingers curling into his shirt.

“Alright, enough of that,” he said gently as he carried you down the hall. “Bedtime for you.”

You felt the sway of his steps, the steady thud of his heartbeat against your ear, until he eased you down onto the mattress. He tugged a blanket over you, brushing a kiss against your hairline as you sank deeper into the soft haze of sleep.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, thumb stroking your cheek as he lingered at your side. And you believed him, completely.

RAFAYEL. 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ gently coaxes you into the studio with him and paints with you until you relax

You’d been wound up tight all day—your shoulders aching from tension, your thoughts spinning with a dozen unfinished tasks. By the time evening rolled around, you were curled up on the couch in one of Rafayel’s oversized shirts, staring at nothing in particular, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

When Rafayel stepped out of his art room, smudges of paint still on his forearms and a towel over his shoulder, he caught the look on your face instantly. He didn’t say anything at first, just tilted his head, studying you with those deep, thoughtful eyes.

Then he crossed the room, kneeling down in front of you so he was eye‑level, his hands resting lightly on your knees. “Hey, cutie,” his voice was quiet, coaxing, "what’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”

You sighed, trying to find the words, but they felt heavy on your tongue. “It’s… nothing. Just… a lot. Everything feels like too much right now.”

Rafayel hummed low in his chest, that soft sound that always made you feel heard. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering against your temple. “Come with me,” he said after a beat, a spark of mischief dancing in his tone.

“Raf, I’m not—”

“No arguments,” he interrupted gently, standing and offering you his hand. “I know what you need.”

You let him lead you into his studio, warm light spilling over half‑finished canvases and jars of brushes. The air smelled like oil paints and something faintly floral. On the far wall sat a blank canvas, propped and waiting, a chair already set up beside his own.

“Sit,” he murmured, guiding you into the seat. He pressed a paintbrush into your hand, his fingers wrapping around yours briefly, grounding you. “I don’t know how to paint,” you said softly, still caught between exhaustion and disbelief.

“Lucky for you,” he said, settling into his chair beside you with that crooked grin, “I don’t care.”

He dipped his brush into a soft shade of blue and began sweeping color over his own canvas. You followed his lead, hesitantly at first, then more freely as he spoke in that low, steady voice—stories of his day, silly anecdotes that made you laugh under your breath.

When your strokes faltered, he leaned over, his larger hand guiding yours over the canvas, the side of his jaw brushing your temple. “Just like that,” he whispered, his voice a warm balm against the weight in your chest.

Time blurred. The storm in your head softened with each pass of color until you realized you were smiling, your shoulders loose, your breathing slow and even. Rafayel glanced over at you, eyes softening at the sight, and then he leaned in to press a kiss against your paint‑smudged cheek.

“Better?,” he asked, low and tender.

“Much,” you admitted, feeling something in your chest unclench.

When the night wore on and your eyelids began to droop, Rafayel noticed instantly. He set his brush down, carefully wiping your hands clean with a soft cloth, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. Then, without a word, he scooped you up from your chair, holding you close to his chest as if you were something precious.

“Raf, I can walk—”

“You’ve done enough today,” he murmured against your hair, already carrying you out of the studio and toward your shared bedroom. “Let me take you to bed.”

He laid you down gently, tucking you beneath the sheets before sliding in beside you. His arm draped over your waist, drawing you into him, and you felt his lips brush the back of your shoulder as he whispered, "Sweet dreams cutie."

® princessxmin all rights reserved. please to not alter, copy or translate my work !

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

I love your work <3 Could you please write a crybaby, cute MC? The kind of girl who’s super sensitive and doesn’t hesitate to crawl into the LIs’ laps for cuddles and comfort?

She’s crying again.

♡ ft. love and deepspace men x fem!reader ♡ cw: extreme sensitivity, soft comfort, cuddling, overreactions, lap-seeking behavior ♡ a/n: This was a fun idea! i absolutely loved to come up with the ideas and writing it! Thank you for the suggestion!

Xavier

You’d been on edge all week.

First, the joint operation with UNICORN ran two days longer than scheduled. Then came the back-to-back check-ins, debriefs, and weapon calibrations. No sleep. No food you liked. No soft touches. Just hard floors and glowing screens and people who spoke too loud.

And Xavier?

He’d been there. Beside you every step of the way—silent, focused, efficient.

You didn’t blame him.

He wasn’t the problem.

But he also wasn’t the solution.

Not yet.

Not when you needed him to be a little less Hunter and a little more… Xavier. Just Xavier.

The one who wraps you in his coat when the ship gets too cold. The one who lets you hold his hand under the table. The one who doesn't smile often, but always makes it mean something when he does.

You hadn’t touched him once since the mission started. You hadn’t even asked.

You were trying to be strong.

Trying so hard.

And then?

It was something dumb.

You’d finally made it back to your quarters. Kicked your boots off. Flopped on the bed like a body without bones. And when Xavier followed you in—still in uniform, collar slightly wrinkled—he didn’t say anything.

Just stood there.

And blinked.

“Do you want to run diagnostics together?”

You burst into tears.

Real, wet, ugly tears. The kind that crawled up your throat like a betrayal and spilled out without permission.

Your hands curled into the blanket.

Your whole face scrunched.

“No,” you sobbed. “I don’t want to run anything. I want a hug.”

He didn’t move for half a second.

Just stood there with his brow furrowed, processing the unexpected data point that was you, mid-meltdown.

“...You're crying.”

“Obviously,” you sniffled.

“Was it something I did?”

“No!”

“Something I didn’t do?”

“Yes! I mean—no, but also yes—I just—” hiccup “—I’m so tired and I missed you and I didn’t want to distract you and—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Because Xavier crossed the room in two strides and scooped you into his arms.

Not clumsily.

Not awkwardly.

Like it was second nature.

You buried your face in his chest, sobbing like a storm, and he just held you—arms locked around your waist, one hand smoothing over the back of your head like he’d read a manual for this and memorized every step.

“You were holding it in, weren’t you?” he murmured.

You nodded, hiccuping.

“You don’t have to.”

You blinked up at him, eyes red and puffy. “But I didn’t want to be annoying.”

He tilted his head, completely serious.

“You’re not annoying. You’re soft. Soft is good. Soft means you’re still human.”

That broke you again.

So he sat down on the edge of your bed with you in his lap and let you cry it out. Quiet. Gentle. Unmoving.

And when you finally calmed?

He pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered:

“Next time, don’t wait until it hurts.”

Then he added, awkward but earnest:

“You can crawl into my lap any time. I won’t mind.”

He paused.

“Actually, I might hold you hostage. Just a little.”

Zayne

You hadn’t cried all day. Not during the briefing. Not when you got scolded for missing your last health check. Not even when you dropped your favorite pen down the elevator shaft.

You’d held it together.

Barely.

Zayne had checked in earlier—his usual, low-effort affection. A glance across the hall. A muttered “you look like you forgot to sleep again.” A squeeze to your shoulder as he passed you in the lab.

It was enough to keep you going. For a while.

But then you had your appointment.

Your routine appointment. Just a basic follow-up.

And he walked in with that same unreadable expression, reviewing your chart like your stats were the only thing that mattered.

“BP looks low. Sleep irregular. Protein intake’s—what is this—laughable.”

You smiled, weakly. “Sorry. I’ve been off.”

He didn’t look up.

“You think your body runs on caffeine and stubbornness?”

“…Maybe?”

And then, without warning—

You burst into tears.

Zayne looked up sharply. “What—”

You curled your hands in your lap, sniffling hard. “I’m sorry—I'm not trying to be difficult—I just—”

He dropped the tablet.

Didn’t set it down.

Dropped it.

It hit the floor with a heavy thunk as he stepped forward, hands frozen in the air like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch you.

“What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know.”

And that—more than anything—shook him.

Because he couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t bandage it. Couldn’t run a test or prescribe a pill.

He could only watch as your face crumpled, your shoulders hunched, and the tears kept falling.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asked softly, crouching in front of you now.

You hiccuped. “Because it’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“You’re busy.”

“I’m not now.”

“I didn’t want to be dramatic.”

“You’re not.”

“I just—” sniff “—wanted a hug.”

And that’s when Zayne—your too-serious, sharp-tongued, emotionally constipated doctor boyfriend—opened his arms.

No hesitation.

Just a breath. A shift of his shoulders.

And then?

You crawled right into his lap.

He let you.

Held you.

Rested his chin on top of your head and finally, finally let his hands move—one at your back, rubbing slow, steady circles; the other covering your knee, grounding you.

“You should’ve said something,” he whispered. “You don’t have to wait until it breaks you.”

You whimpered. “I don’t like being like this.”

“I do.”

You blinked. “What?”

He kissed your temple.

“I like when you let me take care of you.”

And then, after a beat—

“Next time you feel like crying… tell me. I’ll schedule you in for urgent cuddling.”

You hiccuped a laugh against his chest.

“That’s not real.”

“It is now.”

Rafayel

You’d been having a rough afternoon. The kind where nothing major went wrong… but everything felt like too much.

You’d overslept. Missed a call. Lost a drawing you'd been working on for three days. And to top it all off?

The tailor messed up the sleeves on the outfit Rafayel had commissioned for you—and you hated how it fit. You were supposed to wear it to his gallery opening tomorrow.

You didn’t want to seem ungrateful. You didn’t want to ruin his vibe.

So you smiled through it. Even giggled a little.

Until he walked into the room, holding one of your sketchbooks that had fallen behind the shelf.

“This yours?” he asked, flipping it open. “Ooh. A whole page of me with devil horns. How flattering—wait, is that me in a crop top?”

You were already crying.

It happened too fast to stop it. Too sudden to explain.

One second, you were standing there, trying to keep your voice steady.

The next?

Tears.

Big, shimmering, silent tears.

Rafayel blinked. “Wait—wait, are you—are you crying?”

You sniffled. Looked down. Nodded miserably.

He panicked. “Why?! Was it the crop top? I thought it was funny—oh my god, do you hate me—?”

You shook your head.

He dropped the sketchbook like it burned.

“Sweetheart. Babe. My muse. My soul. What happened.”

You mumbled something about the dress and the drawings and the day being stupid and—

“No, no, no. Come here.”

He dragged you into his arms like he was the one falling apart.

You collapsed into him instantly.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffled. “I’m being dramatic—”

“You’re being adorable,” he said into your hair. “Also pathetic. But mostly adorable.”

You laughed through the sob.

“See? You’re already recovering.”

He picked you up. Just—picked you up.

Carried you over to the couch like a precious sobbing sack of flour and sat down with you in his lap.

“You wanna cry on me? Go for it. I’m waterproof.”

“You’re not.”

“Figuratively waterproof.”

He wiped your cheeks with his sleeve. Kissed your forehead. Whispered something about how “your tears taste expensive” and “you’re ruining my aesthetic in the best possible way.”

And when your breathing finally calmed?

He pulled a tiny marker from his pocket, flipped your sketchbook open, and under the drawing of him in a crop top wrote:

“She cried. I panicked. We’re in love.”

Sylus

You were unraveling.

Quietly.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t sob. But everything felt wrong.

Your comms were glitching. A Wanderer nearly caught your blindside. You’d spilled tea on a datapad, misplaced your jacket, and stubbed your toe in front of two UNICORN officers who didn’t even look at you—just kept walking.

It wasn’t the worst day you’d ever had.

But it was the day that tipped the scale.

So when you walked into Sylus’s room—unannounced, barely breathing—you didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

He was already looking up from his desk, one hand stilling over a datapad, eyes narrowing in that clinical, calculating way he always did when things felt off.

“What happened?”

You shook your head.

“Speak.”

You opened your mouth.

And instead—

You crawled into his lap.

No warning. No lead-up. Just walked over, dropped to your knees beside his chair, and climbed into the space between his legs like your whole body belonged there.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move.

Just watched—intently, almost startled—as you tucked your knees to your chest and folded into him, face against his collarbone, arms around his waist like you were anchoring yourself there.

“You’re crying,” he said, voice lower now.

You sniffled. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

His hand hovered for a second.

Then it landed at the base of your spine. Firm. Warm. A little unsure.

He didn’t say it’s okay. He didn’t ask you to talk.

He just let you sit there.

Wrapped in silence. Wrapped in him.

You felt his thumb move slowly—back and forth. A careful stroke across your lower back. Not to soothe. Not to control. Just to let you know he was still there.

After a few minutes, he finally murmured:

“Is this what you needed?”

You nodded into his chest.

He nodded once, like he understood something unspoken. Then:

“You can stay as long as you want. I’ll work around you.”

And he did.

For the next hour, he kept one arm around you and the other on his datapad, typing one-handed, entirely unfazed.

Until he realized you’d fallen asleep.

Then?

He shut the tablet.

Wrapped both arms around you.

And whispered, “Mine,” like a promise he didn’t know he was allowed to make until now.

Caleb

It was barely a bad day.

You told yourself that over and over.

Nobody yelled. Nothing exploded. You got your tasks done. You smiled at the right people and didn’t flinch when they looked through you.

But it still felt like you were being slowly hollowed out. A thousand tiny paper cuts. No single moment bad enough to cry over. But together? Crushing.

So when you made it back to his place, you didn’t say anything.

You walked straight to where he sat on the couch, black flight jacket half-zipped, sleeves pushed to his elbows, reading reports on his tablet with that low, focused furrow in his brow.

And you dropped your datapad.

And you crawled into his lap.

No words. No warnings.

Just the soft sound of your breath hitching as your knees met the cushion and your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You climbed into his lap like you belonged there. Like you were trying to make yourself smaller. And safer.

And Caleb?

He froze.

Just for a second.

Then the tablet hit the floor.

And his arms wrapped around you so hard you gasped.

“You’re crying.”

He said it like an accusation.

You pressed your face into his neck.

“I didn’t want to. I just—everything felt wrong. And I didn’t know where else to—”

“No.” “No, you don’t get to finish that sentence.”

His voice was low. Shaking. Not with anger.

With fury.

Protective. Obsessive. Feral.

“You come to me. Always. I don’t care if the sky is falling—I don’t care if the world forgets your name—you do not cry alone. Not when I’m yours.”

Your fingers fisted in his shirt. “I didn’t want to bother you—”

“Bother me?” he growled. “Baby, I would stop breathing if it meant you wouldn’t cry again.”

His hand slid up your back. Into your hair. The other arm curled under your thighs—pulling you fully into him, like closer still wasn’t close enough.

He kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your temple. Again. And again. And again.

“Let them look through you. I’ll burn their names off the stars,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You need comfort? I’m yours. You need worship? You already have it. You want the world to get on its knees for you? Tell me where to start.”

You whimpered.

And that broke him.

He shifted with you still in his lap, pressing you back into the couch—his body over yours, shielding, cradling, reverent.

“Stay here. Right here. Let me hold the weight for a while.”

You nodded.

You didn’t have to ask him not to leave. He’d already sworn it—every kiss, every word, every breath.

“You’re everything,” he murmured, brushing his thumb beneath your eye. “And I’ll remind you every time you forget.”

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

How’s The Heart?

Rafayel x Reader

Hurt/comfort

After being summoned to Rafayel’s home by a distressing call, you find him in a state of despair and endeavor to bring the light back to his eyes

CW: blood, trauma, heavy grief

Inspired by Banquet Ablaze

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆ ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

Even for someone with as lucrative of a career as a hunter, chores weren’t something that could be escaped. But you’d been neglecting the upkeep of your apartment for weeks at that point, often too tired to bother after a hard shift at the Association. As things slowly came together, though, you began to feel much better. It truly was amazing what a clean space could do for your mental health, it was just too bad you hated the process of it. You vowed to yourself, for the millionth time, that you would never let it get cluttered again.

It was in a moment of brief respite, admiring your work, when your phone buzzed on the counter. You stood and stretched, retrieving it to see who was calling. A fond smile spread on your face when you saw Rafayel’s name on the screen.

“Hey you,” you said after accepting the call. You were met with silence on his end. Drawing your brows down in confusion, you held the phone away from your ear to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. Pocket dialing wasn’t unusual for him either, though it was quite late in the evening for his usual pocket time. Still not hearing anything, you shrugged and ended the call.

Only for him to call back immediately.

“Rafayel?” You questioned. “Everything okay?”

And that’s when you heard him. The tiniest of shuddered breaths coming through the speaker. The sound set you on edge.

“Raf? Talk to me,” you plead. Something was wrong, but you had no idea what it could be. Still no words came over the line, just another shaky breath that was filled with barely repressed emotion.

“Stay where you are, love, I’m on my way,” you say before ending the call. He didn’t call back this time, and you checked the shared location service to see he was at his villa.

In no time, you were on your bike and weaving through traffic to get to him as quickly as you could. Clouds rolled in the closer you got, rain and lightning falling from the sky in waves. But you didn’t let it slow you down. Your helmet was discarded on the front lawn, and you burst into the studio, drenched and breathless.

At first you couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the dimly lit room. Then a flash of lightning brightly lit the space, and you saw him slumped on the floor. He was leaning heavily against the front of the sofa, his phone in his limp hand at his side. A dark liquid that looked suspiciously like blood trailed in intermittent spatters from the door to where he sat.

You stepped gingerly around the trail of red, falling to your knees beside him. You reached out your hand, cupping his cheek and coaxing his face towards you. The light in his eyes, the mischievous glint, was gone, replaced by roiling despair. A streak of blood slashed across his face, smearing further with your touch. And he was cold, so cold.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you breathe. He looked at you without seeing you, lost to whatever was going on in his head. Your hands roamed him, checking for injuries. Although he was covered in blood, you were confident none of it was his. The white shirt he wore had a terrible bloom of it, but you could see the pattern of trajectory matched the streak across his face. It all seemed to originate from his right hand, almost as if he’d ripped into someone or something. You didn’t have time to dwell on it, though.

You left his side only for a moment to retrieve a bowl of warm water and a cloth. Dipping the cloth in the water, you gently wiped away the blood on his face. The whole time, his gaze was locked on you, assessing whether you were real or not. The water quickly ran red, and it made cleaning him up all the harder, but you managed to get the worst of it off of his face.

“I’m sorry,” you hear from him, voice small and distant.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you tell him, cupping his cheek again. He closed his eyes and turned into your touch, his chest heaving a breath. As if the weight of whatever fears he held bit into him, as if the emotion he desperately tried to keep locked away threatened to break free.

“Come on, lets get you cleaned up,” you tell him softly, standing with his hands in yours. He let you tug him to his feet, let you lead him to the bathroom. He stood with his gaze to the ground while you started the shower. When you returned to him to strip him of his soiled clothes, he obeyed your soft direction. You tossed the clothes aside, leading him to the hot spray and stepped back. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything.

It terrified you to see him like this, to see him in such a catatonic state. You quickly stripped out of your own clothes and joined him. The last remnants of blood streamed from his face, and you took a cloth to help wipe it away. He closed his eyes at your touch, leaning into your hand with each pass. Once his body was cleansed of the blood, you worked at slathering soap into his hair. The deep purple of it hid the blood well, but when your hands came away with suds tinged red, you knew you’d made the right call. You guided him under the water, rinsing away the last of the evidence of his arguably deadly activities.

You stayed with him under the spray until the water ran clear and warmth seeped bak into him. He remained facing you, watching you as you traced the features of his face in an attempt to ground him. When he reached up to brush knuckles against you cheek, you gave him a small smile.

“You’re really here,” he murmured, the pad of his thumb tracing the soft ridge of your cheekbone. You took his hand, trapping it between yours and your cheek. He was still cold, but the icy bite subsided the longer you stayed with him in the hot water.

“Yeah, I’m here,” you say to him. His chest heaved again and he clenched his eyes closed, resting his forehead against yours. You took his hand, placing it against your chest, coaxing him to breathe deeply with you until his shuddering breaths evened out.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered, so softly that you almost missed it over the running shower. You look into his face, noting the hard clench of his jaw, how he closed his eyes tightly with brows drawn down.

“Afraid?” You prod gently. He was silent for a moment, gathering his fractured thoughts.

“It gets harder to come back every time I-“ he cut himself off, but you knew what he meant without the words. With every act of revenge for his people, he lost another part of himself. He was so certain a monster lurked beneath the surface, but you knew better.

You reached up, placing hands on either side of his face to make him look you in the eye, stroking his cheeks with your thumbs. “No matter how far you go, I will always be by your side to call you back to me.”

With your reassurance, he slumped heavily against you, as though the weight of what he carried suddenly fled from him. He buried his face in your neck, wrapping his arms tightly around you.

You held him tight, even as he trembled in your hold. Even as his tears mingled with the water cascading down your back, as he tried to quiet the sobs wracking him. You wordlessly stroked his hair and his back in silent companionship while he released whatever torment he needed. And when he was through, you held him still. Until the tremble in his shoulders eased, until he breathed easier, until the water began to cool.

With a great heaving sigh, he pulled back to place a lingering kiss on your lips. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he already looked so much lighter than when you first arrived. You tenderly pushed a strand of hair off his forehead, and he returned your smile with a small one of his own.

With the water shut off, he wrapped you in a fluffy robe before doing the same for himself. He was never far from your touch, leaning into you any moment he could. Even when you sat him down in front of a vanity mirror with a blow dryer turned towards him, he made things complicated by wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You didn’t mind though, instead finding his clinginess rather cute.

After he insisted on also drying your hair, you took him by the hand and lead him to his room. Once atop the mattress, he curled into your embrace with head resting against your chest to hear your heartbeat. Limbs intertwined, you could only hope he was finally at peace. You stroked your fingers through his hair, earning a hum of appreciation from him. Questions burned through you, but you gave voice to only one.

“Did they get their proper sendoff?” Rafayel stiffened for a moment, clutching you to him more firmly before he relaxed his hold and nuzzled into your chest. He knew your question wasn’t borne of malice, and the concern you showed for the return of his desecrated people touched something deep in him.

“Yes.” That one word answer was a whisper of many emotions combined; rage, grief, and- most of all- guilt.

You accepted the answer by way of leaning down and kissing the crown of his head. Then you returned to stroking through his hair, down his neck, and across his shoulders with feather soft touches, humming softly to him until sleep finally took him.

You meant the words you said to him. No amount of darkness that he displayed would ever make you recoil from him. Instead, these moments only made you want to hold him closer, to guide him through his grief and ground him so he wouldn’t lose himself.

And after tonight, you hoped he would never be afraid to call you again.

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

"Almost done."

Your breathing comes steady through your nose, jaw clenched so tightly you fear your teeth may crack under the pressure. You knew you could be a little vulnerable around Sylus - especially since the white hot pain radiating from your leg was nearly blinding.

Yet? You chose to bite your tongue and bear it. Not because you were ashamed of feeling pain, but because you were petrified of scaring Sylus. You, scared of scaring the leader of Onychinus. How laughable could that be? Sylus was always calm and collected, level headed...

But you could feel his fingers trembling as he disinfected and sealed the wound. A slight yet unmistakable tremor, pale fingers moving with precision but if they lingered too long they'd vibrate.

Your injury, being in pain, losing blood, it all seemed to affect Sylus more than it was effecting you. Pain aside, all you could do was stare at you lover with heavy eyelids and pinched brows. "Sweetie?" You blinked, nails biting into your palms as you forced out a hum.

"Are you alright? Does it hurt?" Like a bitch, so bad you wanted to scream at the top of your lungs. You swallowed the urge instead. "It's not too b-bad." You needed ice, you needed your entire leg submerged in a bath of ice water. The heat radiating from the gash was enough to have you sweating. "Liar."

Sylus looked pale, eyes switching between your nearly mended wound and his phone. He looked at the device as if he could summon the message he needed through sheer will power alone. The twins would be here soon, they'd be able to get you proper help.

"Y-yeah okay, it hurts so bad I could puke b-but that doesn't help anyone right now. I'll live, I just gotta suffer a little first."

A million emotions flared across those crimson eyes, as if he couldn't believe you'd utter such a thing. You've suffered more than your mind was willing to let you remember. "The wanderer probably had some sort of venom... don't worry about it right now. I've got you, and I'm going to fix you. I promise." He never promised something he couldn't follow through on. Despite everything, you felt at ease knowing that Sylus had you. He'd always have you.

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

sylus can sense you as soon as he steps into the base. he knows you’re not far, knows you’re just a few steps away. but he doesn’t know why.

today is a wednesday. no breaks or holidays upcoming on your schedule (which he familiarized himself with). so… maybe an off-day? a sick leave? his stomach curls at the thought of you being ill. but simultaneously melts at the thought of you coming to him to recover.

he finds you curled up on his softest couch in the living area. caressed by an eerie warm light. wrapped in a blanket, eyes far away despite the book in your hand. he starts to worry when you barely notice him come closer. he waves a palm before you to draw your attention to him.

you blink, tired eyes finding the concerned gaze of your beloved. each line on his face asking, begging you to tell him what’s wrong.

“hi.” you murmur as he tilts you forward. he slides his leg between you and the backrest, his other plants itself on the ground, his arms drape over your shoulders, he leans against the armrest and he pulls you with him back into his chest. urging you to sink into him, let him carry the weight that makes your shoulders slump and your eyes lose their light.

his lips trail over the crown of your head, the shell of your ear, the plump of your cheek and finally the gasp from your lips. his timbre low and thoughtful, “how was your day?”

there is a clog in your throat that makes you swallow. a burning between and behind your eyes. a set in your jaw at his question that tells him more than words can convey.

“bad.” he concludes in a murmur, pulling back to cradle the softness of your face and turn it towards his. crystalline eyes confirm his suspicions.

“tell me?” he tries, thumb gliding back and forth over your warm skin. heated cheeks beneath his ministrations are doused with droplets of saltwater.

and so you cry, you hiccup and sob, you try your best to speak, to tell him— but how do you put it in words? how fed up you are? how much you feel you’re stuck in a loop? how far behind you feel? how no matter how hard you run, which route you take, you feel like you will end up nowhere?

how do you tell him you want to win when you have no idea how to play? that you want to breathe but your lungs are filled with smoke? that you are tired. so, so incredibly tired that nothing means anything anymore?

it’s a mess out your lips. stuttered syllables and tumbling words. and yet he nods like you are speaking clearly. he squeezes your hands like he understands.

he presses his forehead to your cheek as if he bears the pain with you too— and he does, not entirely, but the ache in your chest resonates into his own like an awful symphony.

and he will take it time and time again if it made even the slightest difference to you. if it made you feel less alone.

and you will never be alone. not while he breathes.

he does not speak when you ramble. his eyes may wander to check on your body for any injury or pain, but his attention is solely on you. he is taking notes in his mind on what made you snap, who made you upset, at which point was it all too much— while nuzzling his face into your neck.

and when you falter, your voice ceases to a whisper and then nothing at the thought that he might not be listening. that he might not want to listen to you drone on and on about your miserable week; be a weeping victim of your own circumstances, he hums something patient into your shoulder. “keep going.”

“i’m saying too much.” you sigh. your nails run over his scalp, your attention abruptly shifting to his needs and not your own. “how was your day?”

“good.” he simply says, reveling at the trickling needles down his spine at your touch. “keep going.”

you do, you trail your nails over his head, down the nape of his neck, and under his chin. and when you don’t say anything, he kisses your palm, whispering. “keep talking, beloved.”

taken aback at his request, you frown. “it’s really just… you don’t want to hear it.”

gentle. so achingly gentle, he breathes. “but i do.”

“it’s not important.”

“no.” he rasps, coming up again to peer down at you. to make sure you know, you understand— that everything you say is important to him. everything you are is important. your everything— your thoughts, your stories, your opinions, your experiences— is everything to him.

“no,” he says again, slow and raw and genuine. he brushes strands of hair away from your scarlet rimmed eyes and brushes his lips over each one. “it’s you.”

and you will always be important.

his arms are a solace to the world that feels endless. his presence is salvation to your rupturing soul. and he feels like an end worth running towards.

your awful day ends. tomorrow, the world will ask you to try again. and you will. but for now you are here, and so is he, and you rest knowing he always will be.