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kira-loves0905 · 8 days ago

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talking to his baby (extended ver)

zayne one shot (love and deepspace) – request | from this headcanon ⋆｡° | pairing : doctor!zayne x pregnant!reader ⋆｡° | word count : 1.3k (1,315) ⋆｡° | fluff, protective and soft zayne, mention of cardiac surgery ⋆｡° | autor note : so... someone asked me for this version of the headcanon so i decided to do it because almost all the headcanons are short versions of other things i want to write :3 i've been writing too many things!! (even fanfics, that's why i'm so active) so i hope to catch up with the requests soon likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

you didn't know how much time had passed, but you definitely knew it had been enough to make the book you were reading seem less interesting, and you began to close your eyes but the book remaining open on your chest so you wouldn't lose the page.

since Zayne found out you were pregnant, he'd been the most caring person of all. at first, you thought it was because he was a doctor, but maybe it was mostly because he was a first-time dad. one of the things you'd noticed most was how he tried to talk to the baby after showing you some tests confirming she could already hear from the womb.

you'd woken up one night because you could hear Zayne murmuring. you could still remember it as if it had been last week... because it had been last week.

you stirred, opening your eyes, and a yawn escaped your lips. it took you a few seconds to return to reality and realize what had interrupted your sleep: your husband. your husband murmuring at three in the morning.

"Zayne?" you murmured, confused, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at him. he was leaning against your baby bump, but he stopped completely when you woke up. "what are you doing?"

"talking to the baby," he answered without hesitation, settling back down next to you. "did I wake you up? I'm sorry," he murmured, wrapping his arms around you. you felt him pull you closer to him, to the point where there was no space between you two. you wanted to say something else, but you were too tired, so you just let your head fall back onto the pillow.

the confusion inside you began to be replaced by sleepiness again, and another yawn escaped your lips. your eyes began to feel heavy, and you knew you were going to fall asleep again at any moment. "Zayne, at this point you're going to run out of things to talk to. you don't have to talk to her all the time; I'm sure she knows your voice."

he sighed, kissing your bare shoulder. he knew you were right, but he had been working too hard lately, so in every chance he always talked to the baby. he was afraid she wouldn't recognize his voice.

just as you had predicted the week before: Zayne had run out of things to talk about. he'd been silent for almost ten minutes, trying to remember something he hadn't talked about. you were almost sure he'd told her everything about his life, except for his college years.

"I already talked about that time when you and I..." you interrupted.

"you already told her everything we did when we were kids." you sighed, settling back down on the couch. Zayne was sitting on the floor so your baby bump was almost at his face level. you smiled when you felt his lips brush against your skin. you hadn't said it, and you were a little embarrassed to admit that you loved it when he placed kisses on your bump.

you settled back down more comfortably on the couch, now your head was slightly resting on the couch, and your eyes were closed again. you were exhausted; making a tiny human from scratch was exhausting, it was definitely something you didn't expect from pregnancy. "you know... you don't have to talk to her all the time," you mumbled when you noticed Zayne's thoughtful face after slightly opening your eyes to see his expression and it almost made you giggle but you still tried to pretend to be sleepy.

Zayne looked at you with those eyes that you knew perfectly well meant: he wanted to talk to his baby and he was not going to give up. you sighed, returning your gaze to the book in your hands accepting that you weren't going to fall asleep anytime soon. and seconds later, something finally came to his head and he spoke again. "I remember a surgery that lasted over seven hours. the patient's heart muscle was severely damaged from a previous surgery and—" he stopped when he heard a gasp from you, setting off his alarm bells. Zayne looked at you with his eyes wide open, completely still waiting for you to say something, the book had slipped from your hands and quickly one of your hands went to your belly. "what happened?"

"she's kicking." your eyes widened in surprise. it wasn't the first time you'd felt her kicks, but it wasn't something she did often. Zayne looked at you in surprise and placed his hand right next to yours. "keep talking." Zayne nodded and went back to talking about the surgery... then you felt the little kicks again making you gasp with excitement again. "it can't be... do you think she'll also be a surgeon?"

Zayne smiled, and he didn't know if that made him feel a mixture of excitement and pride or some concern for his poor daughter. "probably." Zayne nodded before settling back into his story about that surgery.

Zayne settled back down, his hands surrounding your bump, and you watched as he leaned in to continue talking. he didn't want to admit that he was excited, nor did he want to admit that his baby—who had been completely calm the whole time—had kicked after hearing one of his medical stories. "it was a very long surgery. the patient previously had spinal surgery, they had to put in some plates, but something went wrong." he paused for a few seconds. you too remained motionless, waiting for some kind of response. another kick from the baby, but nothing came. you looked at Zayne with some concern, thinking it had only been a one-time thing, but he spoke again. "one of the screws ended up in her heart, damaging the cardiac muscle."

then you felt one of the little kicks again, making you smile. "I think she'll definitely be a cardiac surgeon," you sighed, feigning frustration. "another doctor in the family?"

Zayne smiled proudly. he had that small smirk that anyone else would simply look like he was pressing his lips together but not to you. he slid next to you on the couch, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. you felt your back against his chest, and seconds later, his breath hit your cheek. "maybe it was just a coincidence," he murmured, kissing your cheek.

"of course not. she's always so calm that if we didn't go to doctor's appointments, I'd be sure something had happened to her," you admitted, grimacing. "she'll be a carbon copy of you." you frowned, feigning annoyance, although internally, you could picture a tiny baby with huge eyes the same color as Zayne's. the baby was already just as calm as him, and she hadn't even been born yet. and the worst part was that now she seemed excited about heart surgery, not just surgery, not any other specialty. "see, and you were afraid she wouldn't recognize your voice."

"do you think she likes sweets too?"

you snorted, turning your face to look at him. "I think she'll be a little sugar monster if she's just like you." a smile escaped your lips, and a part of you was happy at the thought of a tiny copy of your husband.

a few weeks later, you finally confirmed that those little kicks whenever Zayne talked about surgery weren't just a coincidence, and you forced yourself to mentally prepare for the fact that it was quite possible your daughter had an interest in medicine and was a little sugar monster just like Zayne.

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kira-loves0905 · 8 days ago

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donkeybreaker ...

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kira-loves0905 · 12 days ago

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chefs kiss

“i only know that i feel tired, antiqued; i feel as though i’ve been awake for a long long time”

HOMESICK

synopsis: when the exhaustion of loving finally takes you.

tags: xavier x non!mc, ANGST!!! hurt/ comfort(?)

word count: 4.4k

likes + comments + reblogs appreciated

authors note: xavier’s version of this. let me know if you want versions of the other Lis. also please give me some ideas!!! divider by: @fairytopea

ACT I: VIGIL

Laughter has never been so suffocating.

You watch, not from a distance, but next to MC.

You think it's worse to be this close and to hear everything you're hearing now. In all the years of trials and tribulations of knowing Xavier, have you ever heard him laugh so brightly, smile so widely, or love so loudly?

The quiet, ever aloof prince of Philos—the man you followed, crossing stars, passing meteors, abandoning the place you once called home—beams brighter than his evil.

You think about all the things that built up to this moment.

To you, he was the stars: bright and all-encompassing. His silence—always silent—ever consuming, as you trailed in the shadow he left behind. Throughout the years of companionship and camaraderie, you followed blindly, as you always do, even when you knew what following him meant: an ill-fated destiny you could never rewrite.

You knew MC once before—the same woman who took the world by storm, a hurricane in his life that devoured him whole, leaving nothing for you behind.

Just like the MC you once knew, this MC is just as captivating.

The universe is playing a sick joke. He is your longest companion, the very last of your kind—the last light of your planet, your world, your culture. You left it all behind because, to you, loving him meant more than the comfort of your people and the safety of your planet. Loving him was worth leaving everything behind.

Ironically enough, he thought the same thing.

And despite it all—the friendship, the companionship, the camaraderie—you’re not even a placeholder for the love he holds dear. Nothing but white noise that followed him around, that clung to him at every turn.

A persistent, pathetic, piteous echo.

You are so close, and yet, so far.

Pulled in by the gravity of his very being. You think—thought—that all this time, just being beside him would be enough to soothe the dull ache of your heart, the perpetual pain that roamed your bones, and the exhaustion that swallowed you whole.

Like a dreamer, you think of the ways he could love you in the same capacity he loves her. That if you show up enough times, reach out and fill the silence he leaves behind; that the days of dedicated devotion, the sacrifices made along the way, would surmise to something worthy of being loved.

Worthy of being seen.

You’re left stranded in his orbit, gravity pulling harder the more you think you’ve got a handle on your thoughts. The pain, the agony, the suffering. Thinking that sticking by his side was all you ever needed, that you can’t be greedy—because having him was enough, and having him be yours was pure insanity.

You hear the laughter erupt once again, likely from a silly joke MC made. You pull yourself out from whatever hole you've dug, pull your lips into a smile the best you can, laughing along. It's hearty and very becoming of your character, you think, since MC wraps a secure arm around yours and squeezes with affection.

You allow her, of course—straining your cheeks until they burn, letting out a long-drawn sigh that fills the room.

Despite what others may think, as you converse along luridly, as if the volume of your voice could hide the heavy heart you bear, you've never been so quiet.

…

ACT II: DREAM

You once thought that the convenience of being neighbours was a good thing.

Next door to Xavier—close to him, but never next to him.

Walking to the Hunters Association together, coming home together, eating together. Just being together.

But you could tell Xavier wasn’t ever there—not really.

Despite being with him for so long, his mind was usually elsewhere. Sometimes in dreamland, but mostly—actually, always—drifting to her.

At some point, in between the solo bickering and one-woman conversations, you, too, found yourself wandering.

Like your mind sanctioned itself in your own self-made isolation.

Quieter. Smaller. Dimmer.

You stop talking as vividly—maintaining just enough energy to keep up appearances. Your voice, so used to fading into the background, remained where it was so oftentimes pushed towards—away from everything. Everyone.

You stop tagging along in the mornings, early days, and late nights, save for the obligatory lunch with your co-workers.

You stop leaving your apartment, taking refuge in a bed you’ve grooved your body into, like a coffin awaiting your arrival. An apartment you’ve grown used to, replicating the only home you knew.

And you’re just so tired. Tired of it all. Exhaustion clings to you like chasing breath. Sleep evades you like the plague.

It was your choice to cling to hope—to leave your home and to follow, naively, in hopes that one day, he would look at you the same way you look at him. To experience his love: the soft edges, the warmth, the gentleness. To think quiet, everlasting devotion would get you anywhere—devotion that controlled you, consumed you. Devotion that you thought would be enough, as silly as it sounds, to at least hold a candle next to the sun.

Devotion that instead puts you in the hands of despair.

You’re stupid to still hope, to yearn for a love that was never yours to have. To attempt to go against fate—against an entire lifetime of love.

So really, it was your burden to bear—and bear it alone.

And the funniest thing of it all? Xavier never once visited you. Checked on you. Sought you out. Even the tenant right below you, Charlie, visited, offering warm welcomes of fresh bread and a simple smile.

As you lie on your couch, enveloping yourself in the embrace of your own naivety, forced by Jenna to take a day off, you listen to the familiar silence.

Which is soon broken by the snubbed sound of light that snuffs the room.

It’s the first time in weeks—29 days, 21 hours, 2 minutes—Xavier has stepped foot in your apartment.

You don’t make a move to look at him or say anything like you normally do.

You both reside in the deafening silence. One by choice, one succumbed.

For the first time, Xavier breaks the silence: “You weren’t at work today.”

You could laugh, scream, cry, or all of the above, but you don’t.

Quietness reaps your soul.

Xavier continues. “MC was worried about you.”

A lifetime's worth of companionship, and he wasn’t even here to seek you out.

You truly are stupid.

Xavier isn’t used to the silence—not this kind. Despite being so quiet all the time, this silence was completely foreign. It was heavy and uninviting, almost suffocating.

There’s a moment of unrelenting anticipation as he waits to see you respond.

When you don’t, he steps forward. One step, then two—then he’s at the foot of the couch, peering down at you like a deity summoned—unconsciously shining with that light of his.

Steel blue eyes bore into you, trying to read you.

But you’re too fractured to be read. At least not clearly.

“Are you okay?”

‘Am I okay?’ You want to laugh at the thought, to make fun of the words asked.

Were you ever okay?

You miss it all—your family, your friends, your people, your home.

To think, once there was a time you chose to abandon it all in the name of love—where you thought complacency was where you belonged: beside a man you knew never loved you, maybe never even liked you.

Now you can only sneer at the fact, as you reminisce about a place far and forgotten, only finding a place deep within your memory.

Xavier prompts a different question. “Have you been sleeping?”

And for the first time in a while, you finally speak.

“I’ve been dreaming a lot.”

First, about you. About us. About what could have been. About what never was.

“What about?” His voice holds something softer than you ever thought possible from him. Something reserved only for her, never for you.

It almost makes you break. To confess everything. To finally open up your heart and pour all your pain out. To free yourself from self-made shackles and unwanted thoughts. To hear the very softness you crave—to be held, caressed, embraced.

But you don’t. Because even with that unreadable look in his eye—the same eyes you’ve longed for all this time—you know what they hold.

Obligation

“Home,” you say simply.

For the first time in a while, Xavier looks at you—really looks at you. He’s known you all this time, the image of you ingrained in his brain like second nature. He knows you—you’re his oldest friend, most trusted companion. He's seen all sides of you, but the person he’s looking at looks nothing like the you he remembers.

He looks at you and can’t even recognise you. Cruelly, for a moment, he even wonders if it’s really you.

“I don’t see any changes.” Xavier takes a quick glance around; everything remains stagnant, as it always has.

You don’t correct him—not this time. You hum a noise between affirmation and acknowledgement and drift off to a place once forgotten.

Silence consumes the soul once again, with Xavier wondering when he had become so complacent with it all: with your constant presence, voice to fill the spaces he’s left behind, unrelenting energy, and unwavering spirit.

“You’re right. Nothing has changed.”

…

ACT III: DRIFT

Xavier hasn’t visited since.

Not that you didn’t expect it.

You still see him at work, at lunch with MC, and on the rarest occasion, you bump into him in the hallway of your apartment complex—like strangers.

You do your best to find a new rhythm in this life, as your absence becomes more common and your presence goes with the echo of your voice. You’re seen less and less.

Maybe you were never seen at all—not truly.

You find that it’s easier to deal with heartache in the same way Xavier deals with everything: in silence.

Silence, although not foreign, not even new to you, seeks you out and sticks to you like a foreboding message.

You’ve spent years so bright, a will so strong it held on tight enough to kill you. Your loudness brought you here, away from Philos, so as the bits of your spirit whittle away along with your soul, silence is left to fill in the gaps of an empty shell.

You learn to live without Xavier in your life—as though he isn’t the last thing you have of your home, of the love you once felt, the comfort, the security. You learn to live without Xavier and learn to nurse a pain that has become something of a lover.

You had to learn to live because the world kept spinning—even when you’re lost in a place, unfamiliarly familiar, and can do nothing but live on.

But are you even living at this point? Even a dead girl walking has rights to a life—to living.

You’re leaving for another mission. In spite of Jenna’s protests, you’d rather fight to exhaustion—to blend the pain in your chest with the ache of muscles.

Your face reflects your volition. Eyes pulled down by the weight of your burden, face pale like a dying star. Despite trying, your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes, your laughter isn’t as bright, and your voice isn’t as loud.

You wait for Jenna’s reluctant orders. She’ll be damned if she lets you out on another solo mission—because despite your incredible hunting rates, you too are human.

A voice so familiar pulls your attention, and you look up to see Xavier standing before you—ice blonde hair and steel blue eyes in tow.

How long has he been standing there?

“Jenna assigned me as your partner for the mission.” Your face shows no expression—and not for lack of trying.

You laugh inwardly at the thought.

You're too much like him, in a sense. Loving hard enough to abandon your home, to follow blindly with fate—in spite of your own shortcomings. To silently love, quietly devote, and slowly disappear.

You purse your lips and let out a sigh too heavy for someone like you.

Xavier is almost taken by surprise.

“Let's go.” Xavier can hear it in your tone, and see it in your voice. How truly tired you really are—incomparable to his ever-waking sleepiness.

Your exhaustion runs you dry.

Again, silence befalls the two of you—an unwelcome rhythm that has found a place in the cracks of your relationship.

For the first time, Xavier trails behind you. Watching you. Observing you. And if he didn’t see your face or know your frame, he’d think the person walking in front of him was nothing but a stranger.

This time, Xavier walks in your shadow.

…

ACT IV: SILENCE

You think you’re fading.

The remnants of who you once were have been whittled down to the bone. You’re broken—maybe you always have been. Maybe this was who you were always supposed to be.

You’re so tired, not just emotionally but physically too.

The never-ending stream of wanders is starting to take a toll, even on professionals such as you and Xavier.

Your sword is dull, chipped at the edges, and your wounds scatter across your frame, staining your skin in a dirty shade of red.

Even the almighty knight is struggling to keep up with the demand.

So, as you find refuge in a murky cave, to recuperate the best you can, you find that the full-body ache starts to return.

You lean against a well-placed boulder, breath shallow and your grip loose, as your eyes haze over the fire in front of you.

You feel the warmth reach out for you—gently, creeping through the shell of yourself.

It’s quiet, save for the crackle of the flame.

You feel peaceful for once—the hunt muddling your thoughts so much that you can’t even think straight. Or maybe it’s the exhaustion of not sleeping.

Despite it all, you feel a strange sense of tranquillity. One with the throb in your chest that makes it hard to breathe, but is easier to deal with now that everything aches.

It’s peaceful, you think, as you fade into whatever hole you’ve dug all those years ago. Your mind is muddled, and your soul flickers with the last bits of who you were.

Suddenly, you’re pulled back out—again by the very men who left you there, like a nostalgic toy forgotten all these years.

Your eyes pull away from the fire.

You soak in his gaze. It holds none of the same love you see him give out so freely to MC. It’s hard and stern—years of knighthood sewn into his features. He looks at you like he doesn’t know you at all.

Calloused hand gripping your shoulder—it’s firm enough to shift your attention, your body facing him.

You look at him and try to find the line between succour and obligation. Try to find one thing that says you mattered—even just for a second.

You were foolish to believe that you could remain just his friend, companion, comrade. You were stupid, dumb, idiotic.

You were completely blind to it all—to think that his love could have relieved something burning in you. Something insatiable. Something permanent.

“You’re drifting.” Xavier’s voice cuts through your messy thoughts and heavy heart.

You’ve been drifting.

You don’t make an attempt to joke like you used to—not even a weak smile. You sit back and stare at him like you don’t even know him.

“You’ve been doing that more often.” You take a moment to digest what he says—something he’s noticed entirely on his own, not by MC’s worrywart love.

Once upon a time, you would’ve thought it was normal for him to notice these types of things—the dullness of a close second. But now, you’re surprised. Shocked, even. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“Where are you going?” he prompts, and his voice holds something so intrinsic to the soul. Something you can’t find here. Something like home.

You’re fading, like the light of his evol—dimmer, as you’re pulled into the gravity of your own mind.

You’d like to tell him—if not as a lover, then a friend:

I’m lost. I’m gone. I’m tired. I’m sad. I’m furious. I’m not myself. Not with what’s left of who I am.

I am not home.

You don’t. Despite something inside you telling you you must. That it’s not worth dying on this hill.

You think: How much deeper of a hole can you dig before you vanish? Before you're gone? Forgotten? Never having existed in the first place.

Until you’re not a person, but a memory.

You don’t tell him anything, because that’s not the kind of relationship you have—not anymore.

In the midst of the silence, your voice finally breaks through.

Quiet. Cracked. Almost gone.

“I’m thinking of going home.” There’s finality in your tone. Weak as your voice may be, Xavier hasn’t heard such certainty from you in months.

His eyes knit in confusion, contort in concern.

Maybe you’re just tired. But there’s something to your expression—an unspeakable hollowness that wasn’t there before. Your eyes haze over with something distant.

A body without a soul.

Like he always does, he remains silent. Never reaching out. He’s seen you get through worse, come back stronger. He’s seen everything. He knows you.

Or maybe... he knew you.

All the years of companionship will amount to something. It has to. He’s known you for so long. You stuck by his side even through death. You truly were the one stable thing in his life. Never needing to chase—always there, beside him. With him.

It was always you and him—even as he fights his way through the forgotten memories of MC, you remain.

Though, something claws at him, as his hand gently travels down your arm. To reach. To ask what you meant. To wonder if you meant the apartment beside his, where it reflected the culture of Philos, somehow capturing the stars in every object you bought.

He wants to ask if home is with him.

But he doesn’t.

Silence is there to greet him again—him only, he thinks, because you seem so used to it now.

Unfamiliar territory.

His eyes travel to his hand on yours, afraid to let go for some reason. As if letting go meant never seeing you again.

Your head is slumped motionless against his shoulder. His eyes peer onto your back—and then he sees it.

The blood stains the rock behind you. Your back is adorned with gashes that soak your uniform.

“Y/N,” he calls out, like it’s the only thing he knows. Because it’s the only thing he can do.

He hears no response. Not even a whisper of a shallow breath.

It’s not quiet. Not even small.

It’s silent.

Then he feels it. The way your eyes droop down to the fire. The limpness of your hand on his. The paleness. The coldness.

The death.

His spare hand reaches out.

He shakes you. “Don’t close your eyes.”

But you don’t abide—swaying with the motion of his force.

You could do anything. Do everything. Move mountains. Slay beasts. You were strong. Firm. Confident. He knew you could get through anything.

“Come on, just open your eyes. Can’t you do that?”

“One breath. That’s all I need.”

“Hold me tight, Y/N.”

Xavier cradles your gaunt body as he pulls your head taut to his shoulder. He rocks you like a sleeping child, holding you tight—tighter than he ever has before.

He’s shaking—and not from the cold.

He doesn’t know what comes over him, but suddenly, the silence breaks.

And he hears everything. Sees everything. Feels everything.

And he cries.

Because that’s all he can do.

…

ACT V: LINGER

Xavier likes to think that he notices your absence.

The way people step over the shells of your name, the routes taken to avoid the common spaces you once occupied in the living. The untouched work desk, memorialised by those who remembered her. The vacancy next door — the home she built away from home — now barren, her things sold, thrown away, or forgotten.

MC, who was so loud with her affection, mourned just as passionately. Her heart sewn onto her sleeve as she cried the loss of a friend. Flowers tended on the desk of a fallen soldier, and distance built from the apartment upstairs.

But really, he doesn’t.

The way you’ve faded so naturally out of his life — never moving, never reaching. The walk to and from home is the same. His apartment is the same. His life remains the same. Like you were never there. Like the image of your smile wasn’t something that pushed him through distant times.

Like you never meant anything to him.

Like the years of friendship, companionship, camaraderie — all amounted to a tombstone with your name etched into it.

And he hates himself for it.

For being so complacent. For never seeing you. Never hearing you. Never reaching out. For always thinking you’d remain the same: the loyal, competent pillar in his life. For thinking that his silence meant nothing to you.

Because it did. It meant everything.

He hates how he’s living life like he always did — like you weren’t ever part of him. Regret, guilt, grief — they all settle in his bones, for a person he can’t even remember.

Along with the memory of you, time passed, as it always does. And as time passed, he slowly forgot.

Your goals and aspirations. Your loves, your hates.

Your dreams.

He can barely remember your face. The last time you laughed. Your smile.

He can barely remember you at all.

Only pulled in by the gravity of his grief, where he finds you at the centre of it all.

To think he was so far from you. The irony now is that he can’t ever leave.

Stuck on a cursed image of a woman who meant so much to him.

Who held the moon up so he could shine with the stars.

He sits on his bed, light voided from the room. The pictures from your apartment piled by his bedside, facing the stars, watching — as you always did.

For the first time, he’s not tired at all.

Is this how you felt? How restless you were?

When he showed up that time, too worried about MC and her anxieties. Too quick to solve her issues that he hadn’t noticed how your eye bags sank deep enough to stain your spirit. How you lay, lost, drifting to a place he couldn’t reach.

Dreaming of home.

And just like his home, his culture, his people — you too join the faint memory of Philos.

His phone buzzes, bright. The screen illuminates the room.

Xavier thinks it’s MC again — she doesn’t know the depth of what you and Xavier shared, but she understood the weight of long-term partnership.

At first, he answered every time — to relieve her worries, to silently say he was fine.

But now, everything feels like a farce.

A lie he tells himself as much as he tells the world.

If the absence, the silence, isn’t acknowledged — maybe it’ll keep things still. To stop time from moving.

Because if time doesn’t move, then the memory of you won’t fade.

And you’ve faded enough.

He picks up the phone and waits.

Then he hears it — the soft laughter he longed for. It’s gentle and hearty, so full of life.

Xavier peels the phone from his ear to peer at the screen.

Then he sees it. The light. The brightness of a smile lost to memory, now alone. It’s displayed in front of him — teeth bared, lips stretched wide with a feeling he hasn’t seen in years.

It’s you.

Laughing so freely. Smiling so widely.

You’re alive.

Xavier scrambles upright, leaning forward to see the screen more clearly.

It’s you — in clothes he’s never seen you wear, in a room he’s never seen before, with a face he barely remembers.

But he knows it’s you.

How could he ever forget? Not truly.

So desperately, he calls out. Announcing himself, finally reaching out.

Your eyes perk in surprise as you lean in.

“Holy shit, did he just say my name? That’s crazy!” you giggle, and Xavier is too overcome with emotion to even question the absurdity of your words.

“No wonder people were glazing this game on Twitter!” you laugh before the call cuts.

Xavier’s too stunned to react. He taps rapidly through his phone to check the caller history.

Unknown.

He scrambles to call again.

Anticipation sweating off of him.

He holds his phone tightly and then— You pick up.

Your face: confused.

“Damn, I didn’t even level his affinity up yet and he’s calling already,” you mutter, peering at the screen.

Xavier looks dishevelled, almost destroyed. His hair is a messy heap, and dark circles shadow his eyes. The usual soft glow of his skin— dulled, lifeless.

He’s worn thin. A dead man walking.

“Hey,” Xavier says softly, almost inaudibly.

He watches your face shift — confusion to elation.

“Oh my god, you can even talk! Let me try again.”

And then you speak — not offhand commentary, but to him.

“Hi,” you greet, brightly enough to light up the room.

Xavier is at a loss, and doesn’t reply. But unlike before, you speak again.

“This is so cool. So like, does this count as my daily interaction?” you ask aloud, maybe to yourself, maybe to him— he can’t tell.

“Right, probably not in his programming to answer questions like that,” you mumble, before turning your full attention back to him.

“I’ll see you soon, alright? I hope this mechanic isn’t a glitch.” You grin softly.

And nothing in Xavier’s entire career could’ve prepared him for this.

But he’s not letting this opportunity go. Not when he has another chance to hear you, to see you — and even if he can’t touch you, he’ll never let go.

He’s not letting you slip.

Not now. Not ever. Not again.

“All right... I’ll see you soon,” Xavier replies simply.

Watching your face glow is enough for him.

The way your lips stretch, teeth bare — a face full of life.

Here, he decides: he’ll wait as long as you need.

As long as you want.

He’ll wait until the phone screen glows once again. He’ll wait to see you again.

Close enough to hear you. To see you. But never touch you.

…

ACT VI: ECHO

“Hi Xavier”

The unfair proximity of a dream

#xavier isnt my top fave cause my friend really likes him #but i love this fic arghhhh

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kira-loves0905 · 12 days ago

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Fates Entwined

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kira-loves0905 · 14 days ago

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did you kiss the brick very sweetly before you threw it at me 😔

it’s why I chose to leave without saying goodbye.

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kira-loves0905 · 15 days ago

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"Astra's tools can never fall in love"

Twitter

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kira-loves0905 · 15 days ago

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LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — HE COMES HOME EARLY

ZAYNE

You don’t hear the front door open. Not over the sound of Zayne’s voice looping softly in your ear, pulled from the dozen voice messages you’ve been clinging to for the past two days. The ones where he told you goodnight, where he reminded you to eat, where he whispered he’d be home soon — even though “soon” was supposed to be tomorrow.

You’re curled on his side of the bed, swallowed up by his oversized hoodie, knees tucked into your chest. His cologne still lingers faintly in the fabric, and you’ve been pretending that it’s him. That he’s right here, lying behind you, maybe with an arm thrown around your waist like he used to before work started pulling him away more and more often.

You missed him so much it hurt. But you didn’t want to distract him. You didn’t want to make it harder for him to focus, to do what he needed to do. So you bottled it up. Quietly. You told him you were okay. You told him you were proud.

You didn’t tell him that at night, his absence pressed down like a weight on your chest. That you started playing his voice messages just to fall asleep.

Which is why you don’t notice when he steps into the doorway.

He’s silent, always has been — sharp and composed, the type to carry tension in his shoulders and lock emotions behind a fortress of calm. He wasn’t supposed to be back yet, but he couldn’t shake the feeling all day that something was missing. Something more than the usual tug in his chest. So he wrapped up the meeting early, caught the earlier flight. Didn’t tell you.

Now he’s standing there, staring at the shape of you curled in his bed. His hoodie half-falling off one shoulder. Hair a mess. Lips parted in sleep.

And in your ears: his voice.

He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Just watches you for a long moment as his expression shifts — just barely, but enough. His brow softens. His jaw relaxes. You’d never see it, not unless you were looking.

But you stir.

A sleepy blink. A little inhale as you stretch, confused, because the lights are different, the air is warmer — and then you see him.

You sit up like you’ve been caught in the act. Yanking the earbuds out, panic flashing across your face.

“Zayne?! I — I thought—” You fumble to untangle yourself from the blanket. “You weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow—”

He says nothing. Just crosses the room in a few steady steps. You brace for a lecture. A cold stare. But instead, he kneels in front of you and presses a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing the skin beneath your eye.

“You weren’t sleeping well,” he murmurs. “Were you?”

You shake your head slowly. You can’t lie to him. Not like this. Especially not when he’s looking at you like you’re something fragile, something precious.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you whisper.

His eyes flick to the phone still lying beside you. The screen dimmed but not dark — paused on a message of him saying, “Just one more day, and I’ll be home.”

He takes a breath. Something soft, almost inaudible.

“You can always bother me,” he says.

It’s not something he says often. Not the type to reassure with words. But this — this moment— it carves something new into him. A guilt, maybe, but also a vow.

He leans in and rests his forehead against yours.

“Next time,” he adds, voice lower now, “tell me.”

You nod. The lump in your throat makes it hard to speak.

He climbs into bed beside you, pulling you into him with uncharacteristic ease, like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. And when you fall asleep again — this time with his real heartbeat under your cheek — you don’t need the voice messages anymore.

Because he’s here.

And he’s not leaving.

Not for a while.

XAVIER

You must’ve fallen asleep somewhere between the sixth and seventh voice message.

Xavier’s voice had been the only thing holding you together this week — clipped and careful through the static of bad reception, but still him. Still warm. Still trying, even in the middle of the chaos he never talks about in too much detail.

He’d left four days ago for the mission. He was supposed to be gone for five. You’d counted every hour, every awkwardly recorded “Hey, just checking in” or “Did you eat today?” like they were pieces of him you could tuck into your chest.

You hadn’t expected him to come back early.

You definitely hadn’t expected him to come back to this.

To find you curled up on his bed— his hoodie engulfing you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips, legs tangled in the sheets he hadn’t even had a chance to sleep in since he left. Earbuds in. Playing his voice, over and over.

You don’t hear the door creak open. You don’t hear the soft sound of his duffel hitting the floor. You don’t see the way he freezes in the doorway.

“…Oh,” he breathes, very softly.

Xavier stands there like he’s trying to solve a very delicate math problem.

His ears turn red before anything else. Classic. His brain starts short-circuiting almost immediately, evident in the way he rubs the back of his neck and mouths something that looks like “What do I do?” to no one in particular.

Then his face does this thing — this softening. His lips part slightly like he’s about to say your name, but he doesn’t. He just walks to the edge of the bed, slow and careful like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

And he just looks at you.

His hoodie nearly swallows you whole. You’re hugging his pillow like it’s the only thing keeping you safe. He can hear his own voice, faintly, from the half-displaced earbuds:

“…I miss you too. Just hang in there, alright? I’ll be back before you know it…”

He exhales, shaky. Like all the air just escaped his lungs and took his heart with it.

You stir slightly, probably sensing him there even half-asleep. A soft mumble escapes your lips — his name, barely audible.

Your eyes blink open.

And then widen.

“Xavier?” You sit up too fast, heart leaping. “What—? You weren’t—? I thought you—tomorrow—”

You start yanking the earbuds out like they’re evidence of a crime, cheeks burning. “I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“No, wait, wait — don’t—” Xavier flails a little, hands awkwardly half-raised. “Don’t stop. It’s okay. I just — uh.”

You look at him, eyes searching his face, confusion and embarrassment all over yours. He swallows hard.

“I came back early. I missed you. A lot. Like —kind of a stupid amount. And I just…”

He gestures vaguely to the scene in front of him. You. His hoodie. The voice messages. You.

“…I didn’t know you missed me this much,” he says softly, eyes dipping.

You bury your face in your hands. “I didn’t want to distract you. You were out there doing important stuff.”

Xavier sits beside you on the bed, not quite touching, not yet, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him. “Hey. You’re important stuff too, you know.”

You peek at him through your fingers.

He laughs under his breath — awkward and boyish and so Xavier it hurts.

“Also,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck again, “you look ridiculously good in my clothes, and now I’m never gonna be normal about it again.”

You groan, flopping back into the pillows.

He finally reaches for you then — carefully pulling you into a hug like he’s still not sure if he’s allowed. You melt into him, and he lets out a breath like he’s finally, finally home.

“I’m really glad you were playing my voice,” he mumbles against your hair. “I always worry I’m bad at those. I rehearse them, like, three times before I hit send.”

You laugh into his chest. “They were perfect.”

He hugs you tighter.

And that night, you fall asleep for real — no earbuds, no messages.

Just him.

RAFAYEL

You didn’t mean to fall asleep like this.

Not in his hoodie, not in his bed, not with his voice still playing quietly in your ears like it’s the only lullaby that works anymore.

You were just going to rest for a minute.

Just one more message. Just one more “Goodnight, my love,” and then maybe the ache in your chest would let you sleep.

Just for a little while.

You didn’t know he was coming home early.

Didn’t know Rafayel would walk through the door of the apartment while dusk still painted the windows lavender and gold, his suitcase barely in his hand, his heart pounding louder than the key turning in the lock.

He doesn’t call out. He’s quiet by nature, graceful like his presence is a secret only you are meant to know. He drops his bags in the hallway and moves through the place like a breath — like a man chasing something he already misses.

And then he sees you.

His hoodie hangs loose on you, far too big, the sleeves pulled over your hands. Your face is turned into his pillow, soft in sleep, lashes fluttering against your cheek. And in your ears, still barely audible:

“I know I say it too often, but I really do miss you. I can’t wait to be home, sweetheart.”

Rafayel stops in the doorway, and something in him just… breaks a little.

Softly. Quietly. Like the way a heart swells too fast in the chest and turns every breath into something fragile.

He steps closer, cautiously, as if afraid he’ll wake you. Or worse — afraid he won’t.

He kneels beside the bed, eyes drinking you in, his fingertips brushing the edge of the fabric where your hand curls into his hoodie.

And his voice — when he speaks, it’s almost reverent.

“…You wore my clothes,” he whispers.

You stir, just barely.

His breath catches.

Your eyes flutter open, dazed, and when you see him — when you realize — your whole body jolts like you’re waking from a dream you hadn’t expected to end.

“Rafayel?” you whisper, sitting up fast, tugging the earbuds out. “You’re home—? You weren’t— You said tomorrow—”

“I know,” he says gently, his hand already reaching to steady you. “I finished early. I… needed to come home.”

Your eyes flick down, embarrassed. “I wasn’t trying to be clingy. I just — I missed you. A lot. But I didn’t want to bother you while you were working…”

He exhales. And then he laughs, softly. But there’s no amusement in it — it’s tender. Almost broken.

“Silly girl,” he murmurs, touching his forehead to yours, “you could never be a bother.”

You feel his hands cradle your face, gentle and trembling, like he’s scared he’s not real. Like you might not be.

“I don’t think you understand what you do to me,” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice now. “Hearing my voice in your ears while you slept — you don’t even know how much that means to me. How much I missed you. I thought about you every single night. I replayed your messages too. I needed your voice just to fall asleep.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up and take his hand, holding it against your cheek.

“I didn’t think you’d want to come home to something like this,” you say softly. “Me. In your hoodie. Needing you too much.”

His gaze sharpens, then softens like melting snow.

“This,” he says, “is exactly what I wanted to come home to.”

And then he kisses you — slow and warm and deep, like he’s trying to say everything he couldn’t over a thousand voicemails. Like he’s trying to put the word home back into your mouth.

That night, you fall asleep in his arms, the real thing.

No earbuds. No replays.

Just the rise and fall of his chest.

Just the sound of him whispering “I’m here now. I’ve got you.”

And this time, you believe it.

SYLUS

The door clicks shut behind him with practiced ease.

Sylus steps inside like a man who knows exactly where he belongs.

The trip was supposed to run one more day, but the meetings wrapped early, and the first thing he did — before even grabbing dinner — was book the soonest transport home. He could’ve waited. Should’ve, maybe. But there was a pull in his chest he couldn’t ignore.

That quiet longing that always hums louder when he’s away from you.

He drops his keys into the bowl by the door, toes off his shoes without making a sound, and moves through the apartment like a shadow, soft and sure. Everything feels familiar but different — like the space missed him back.

And then he reaches the bedroom.

You don’t hear him come in. You’re fast asleep, curled under the comforter on his side of the bed. You’re wearing his favorite long-sleeved shirt, the one that swallows you whole and hangs off one shoulder just enough to make his chest ache.

And in your ears — faint, but unmistakable —his voice.

“…I’ll be back before you know it, kitten. Just a couple more days. You’ve got this, alright?”

Sylus’s brows lift just slightly. His lips twitch into a small smile. That calm, sure expression he always wears — like nothing surprises him, but everything matters.

He walks over and crouches by the edge of the bed, one elbow propped on the mattress, hand cradling his chin as he watches you.

You’re breathing softly, lashes casting delicate shadows on your cheeks, your body curled up like you were trying to make yourself smaller without him here. The faint trace of your favorite lotion lingers in the air — but beneath it, unmistakably, is his cologne. Faint. Faded. From the hoodie you stole out of his suitcase the day he left.

Sylus feels something flutter deep in his chest. Not guilt. Not pain.

Just love. That deep, steady kind that fills every quiet space between heartbeats.

“…You missed me that much, huh?” he murmurs with a smile, brushing your hair away from your face.

You stir slowly, a soft little noise escaping your lips as your eyes blink open.

You see him.

And panic flickers across your face. “Wait —Sylus?! I thought — You were supposed to—”

“Tomorrow,” he finishes for you, voice warm. “I know. Got back early.”

You sit up fast, yanking the earbuds out, fumbling for words.

“I wasn’t — I mean, I didn’t want to bother you— You had work—”

He leans forward and kisses your forehead before you can ramble further.

“You think I wouldn’t want to come home to this?” he says, resting his forehead against yours. “You. In my clothes. Listening to my voice just to feel close.”

You open your mouth to apologize again, but he stops you with a gentle finger against your lips.

“Don’t,” he says. “You don’t have to downplay how much you love me.”

You blink. That steady heat rises in your chest. He always says things like that — so smooth, so sure — but never in a way that feels cocky. Always like it’s a truth he’s offering you to keep safe.

“I missed you too, you know,” he adds, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “I had a whole playlist of your old voice notes I’ve been looping when I couldn’t sleep.”

Your eyes widen. “You did?”

He grins. “What, you think you’re the only one who gets soft when we’re apart?”

You let out a breathy laugh, curling into him as he finally climbs into bed. His arms are strong and warm, and they wrap around you like they’ve been missing this exact shape. He pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“You can always need me,” he whispers into your ear. “That’s not a distraction, sweetie. That’s home.”

And as you settle into his chest, the earbuds forgotten, you realize it’s true.

You don’t need recordings anymore.

Not when the real thing is here, heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

Not when Sylus is home — calm, confident, and all yours.

CALEB

Falling asleep here was like second nature to you now.

In Caleb’s bed.

In his hoodie — faded, too big, heavy with the faint, familiar scent of him.

His voice whispering in your ears through the looped voice messages he left you over the past few days. His calm, low tone had been the only thing keeping the ache at bay, even if every word made you miss him more.

“Pipsqueak, I know this is hard. Believe me, I hate being away from you too. But we’ll get through this, like we always do. Just a few more days.”

You hadn’t planned on crying that night. But you did, curled up on his side of the bed with your fists balled into the sleeves of his hoodie. You hadn’t told him how badly you missed him. You didn’t want to pull his focus. He had an entire unit relying on him — he didn’t need one more person leaning on his shoulders.

You didn’t know he was coming home early.

Caleb’s boots are silent on the hardwood when he steps inside the apartment. He doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t flick on the light. He knows where everything is — even in the dark, even tired from the flight and the drive home. He knows his way to you like instinct.

He’s been gone five days. Not his longest mission, but long enough that the ache never left his chest. Long enough that the quiet in every room made him feel too far from something vital.

When he reaches the bedroom, he pauses.

And stares.

You’re asleep. Soft, curled into his pillow, wrapped in the hoodie he forgot he left behind. One of the sleeves is pulled up to your nose. Your face is relaxed in sleep, but your earbuds are still in, faint sounds escaping — his voice.

“Hey. I know you probably won’t play these more than once, but I just… I need you to know I love you, okay? You’re everything I think about at the end of every day. Stay safe. Sleep warm. I’ll be home soon.”

His heart clenches.

Caleb crosses to you like something fragile might break if he moves too fast. When he crouches beside the bed, he sees the slight crease between your brows. You hadn’t been sleeping well, not really. Not without him. Not for days.

He should’ve known. Should’ve checked harder. Asked more.

A wave of guilt crashes into him, thick and silent. This wasn’t just his life anymore. It wasn’t just about what duty demanded.

His hand finds yours, fingers brushing the edge of the hoodie sleeve.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice rough. “God, Pips. I hate that I have to leave you like this.”

You shift slightly, the sound of his real voice blending with the recorded one, and your eyes flutter open — slowly, groggily, like you’re unsure if this is just another dream.

“...Caleb?” you murmur.

He nods, already sliding onto the bed, pulling you carefully into his arms. “I’m here. Came back early.”

Your arms wind around him on instinct, clinging like you’re scared he’ll disappear again. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“I know.” He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to yours. “But I couldn’t stand being away another night. Not when I knew you were… like this.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you whisper, the shame slipping in. “You had enough on your plate.”

His jaw tightens. Then relaxes as he cups your cheek.

“You’re never too much. You’re never a burden. You’re home. You’re the only part of this job that makes coming back worth it.” He swallows hard. “I hate that I keep having to go. I hate what it’s doing to you.”

You shake your head, eyes shining. “I knew what I was signing up for. I just… miss you. A lot.”

“I miss you too. Every damn second.”

You rest your forehead against his chest, breathing him in, finally real. Finally here.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, holding you like a promise. Like an apology he’ll spend the rest of his life making up for.

“I’ll do better,” he whispers. “I don’t know how yet. But I will. You deserve better than voice messages and empty beds.”

You don’t ask him to explain. You just nod. Because he’s here. And for tonight, that’s enough.

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kira-loves0905 · 16 days ago

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[scenario/drabble] You = me?

LIs react to you/MC showing up to a date dressed exactly like them.

(Genre: Fluff; tw: mild suggestiveness)

SYLUS

You stroll in with a suit jacket worn exactly the way he does- draped like a cape, the crow brooch glinting under the dim ambient light of the restaurant. Sylus raises a brow as he takes in your appearance.

"Kitten," he purrs, standing to pull out a chair for you. "Are you mocking me… or tempting me?" His fingers brush the brooch. "Because if it’s the latter, this game ends with that outfit on my floor."

It sends an electrifying heat coiling deep within you, but you refuse to let your composure slip just yet.

You mimic his posture, chin lifted. "I just wanted to see if I could pull off power better than you."

He laughs, low and indulgent. "Oh, you do."

___

XAVIER

Xavier freezes mid-sip when he sees you in his signature hoodie-and-tee combo, the tea hovering in front of his face as he looks, or rather, stares. His cup clinks when he sets it down.

"You're… me."

You wink, copying his serene smile and slipping into the seat opposite him. "Do I look like a fallen star now?"

He reaches out, fingertips grazing the fabric. "No. You look like everything… everything I love,"

Then- rare mischief flashes. “You'd look even better with me. At my place, in my be-”

“Xavier!” You yelp, stopping him from finishing what he had to say.

He beams at you. “I meant, napping in a hoodie is very comfortable. So we should try it together,”

___

ZAYNE

Zayne’s chopsticks pause over his plate when you slide into the booth, dressed in his go-to all-black attire.

His stare lingers on you.

"…You even got the correct height for the rolled sleeves."

You adjust imaginary glasses. "Based on observational data, this was the optimal outfit for unconventional seduction."

A beat. Then- he leans in, his voice a whisper. "Your confidence interval is 100%."

Your heart flutters in your chest at the way a hint of a smirk grazes his lips.

"Let's eat now, otherwise the soup dumplings will get cold." He says lightly to remind you to sit, picking one up with practiced ease and placing it into your bowl.

His gaze for the rest of the evening is weighted with a certain intensity, one that promises more to come, once you return home with him.

___

RAFAYEL

“Hey Rafayel,” you greet, your hand brushing his shoulder lightly as you walk in from behind him. “Sorry I'm late,”

There's a short beat of silence.

Rafayel's butter knife clatters onto the plate. "Is that-? Are you? ME?!"

You do a spin, the white fabric flowing around you. "Who else?"

He springs up, hands fluttering over your hair and outfit. "Oh, Miss Bodyguard you look absolutely stunning- wait, do a pose! Pose like I do!"

You flick your hair and angle your shoulder to pose. His jaw drops.

"I’m OBSESSED! This is art!" He declares.

Then, suddenly, he takes your hands into his. His tone turns serious as he asks you softly. "But you have to tell me. Am I also art to you, Miss Bodyguard?”

You grin at him. “Of course, you're the true embodiment of art itself,”

He preens, bringing your hand up and pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand. Then another, and another, until you almost have to physically sit him back down on his chair and remind him to stop the PDA and eat.

---

CALEB

Caleb chokes on his water when he sees your handmade sweater. He turns away quickly, coughing and spluttering into his elbow before he spews water all over the fancy steak frites on the table.

You make it to the corner table, a small little alcove that has an L-shaped sofa bench against the wall. With him being closer now, you can see that pink tinges the tips of his ears as he clears his throat. "You- you made this? For our date? For me?"

You mimic his shy grin, sliding your bag off your shoulder as you slide into the plush bench, knees touching his. You stretch out your arm so that he can admire your handiwork. "Just a bit of stitching with ready-made items. Had to match my favorite person."

His hands hover, like he’s afraid to wrinkle it. "I… I love it.. And the sweater paws- pipsqueak, that should be illegal,”

“Too cute to handle?” You tease.

He pinches your cheek, then squishes you in a tight hug. “Never, pipsqueak.”

His heartbeat says otherwise.

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kira-loves0905 · 16 days ago

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05/21/25; 12:10am

{ drabbles / headcanons }

[ you get severely injured ]

warnings: blood mention.

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel, caleb

it all happened so fast-

one second, you were simply following sylus from close behind, readying your weapon as you shot at the wanderers that lunged at you.

and the next, there was a sharp pain felt going down your spine and the sensation of blood staining your uniform. it was enough to take your very breath away as you fell to your knees with sylus shouting your name.

the last thing you remember was falling-

being surrounded by his powerful embrace as you succumbed to a dreamless slumber-

one that sylus was terrified of you not waking up from.

so with your unconscious body held tightly within his embrace, sylus barks orders at luke and kieran, telling them to finish off the job with mephisto acting as their eyes.

with you in this state, there was no way the onychinus leader could focus on the mission at hand, let alone steady his gun to even aim properly at the hoard of enemies.

however, due to how he was fueled by rage, he manages to use his evol to disintegrate the wanderer that had attacked you from behind, dealing his revenge while leaving the area with you still in his embrace.

{ … }

your body felt sore, seeming to ache all over when your eyes fluttered open. as your eyes adjust to the intimate lighting of the room, you were dimly aware of a record player playing some soothing music.

was that clair de lune?

you had most likely survived that attack and had been taken to sylus’s main base of operations. sitting up in bed, you gingerly touch at the bandages wrapped on your side (a clear sign that someone had cleaned and cared for your wound).

“you’re finally awake.” you startle slightly at the sound of his voice, his footsteps echoing throughout the room as sylus enters with a tray of food in hand. his expression was unreadable, yet you could see the hint of worry within his crimson gaze.

setting the food off to the side, you felt sylus’s added weight on the bed while he gently lifts you up. his hands kept trembling as they wrapped around your form, unable to hide just how shaken up he was when you lost consciousness.

“how long was i out for?” your voice was hoarse from who knows how long from disuse, with sylus shaking his head while letting out a bitter laugh.

“roughly a week, which is still far too long for my liking.”

you were ready to apologize for making him worry-

for not seeing the enemy in time-

yet when you open your mouth, sylus suddenly surges forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that takes your breath away. no words needed to be spoken when you opened up to him, allowing your lover to explore your taste as he wraps his powerful arms around your body-

and when you manage to embrace him as well, you gave his back a gentle squeeze, reassuring him that you were still alive and would never leave his side.

your mission had gone awry, with you sustaining multiple injuries as you could feel your blood staining at your clothes.

for some odd reason, even as you felt the life draining out of you, you had a compulsion to see zayne again. your feet makes its steady trek toward akso hospital, drawing in the public’s concern as they surrounded you in the lobby.

“what happened?!”

“quick, get a doctor!”

even with all the barrage of voices, you kept repeating a single name over and over again-

zayne zayne zayne zayne-

as if in tune to your cries of his name, you saw a familiar figure dressed in white, his eyes filled with fear as you managed to smile up at him.

finally, zayne…

knowing that you were safe now, you fell to the ground as the cardiac surgeon breaks your fall. he holds you tightly against his chest, calling out so many orders that his throat began to hurt. without wasting another second, zayne takes you into the emergency room, ready to save you at any cost.

{ … }

the first thing that rouses you from your slumber was the incessant beeping of some machine-

the second was the uncomfortably bright lights that were felt burning at your eyelids, making you wince as you moved, only to feel something restraining you.

yet your slight moans and movements did not go unnoticed.

immediately, someone was heard stepping closer to you, hands gently holding yours as a soft voice speaks to you, “no sudden movements, you’re hooked up to an iv right now.”

finally, your eyes manage to flutter open, meeting zayne’s tired eyes and concerned gaze. something akin to relief was seen in his expression as he gently frames at your face with his two hands.

“you finally opened your eyes.” his tone was tinged with reverence as he takes a hold of your hand to press a kiss against the back of it.

despite how dry your throat felt, you managed to tell him, “i’m happy… i got to see you again.” zayne was trembling now, pressing several kisses on your knuckles while you continue to speak, “even when i felt like i was close to dying, all i could think of was seeing you again.”

words could no longer be spoken when zayne manages to capture your lips in a kiss that conveyed how much you meant to him. he delves his fingers into your hair, not once moving away from you as he deepens the kiss-

making you wonder if zayne was actually crying when you tasted what felt like the saltiness of his tears against your lips.

it was supposed to be a normal mission, one that you and xavier had experienced a million of times in the past. yet because of the high influx of wanderers in the area, everything became a blur.

you had taken out a group of wanderers, ready to call out to xavier when the sight of the beast lifting its claw, ready to strike his back makes you act on instinct. shielding xavier from the attack, you felt its claws pierce through the front of your uniform while managing to fire a single shot to its head.

as a sharp, throbbing pain was felt burning across your chest, you were aware of someone screaming your name. blood rushes to your ears, making it more difficult to hear when you fell to the ground-

only to be caught by a pair of comforting arms.

“i refuse to let it end, not like this!”

those were the last words that you heard before falling into an endless abyss.

{ … }

you awaken with a start, recognizing that you were currently in an infirmary at the association. you attempt to sit up, yet felt an intense ache that forces you back down on the bed.

“you shouldn’t have done that.” a low voice heard coming to your left breaks you out of your reveries, and your gaze lands on xavier. he was settled in a chair close to your bed, dark blue eyes appearing solemn, no longer having its usual tranquil, true blue hue.

“i’m sorry, but i didn’t want to see you get hurt-“

“and you figured that i would want to see you get hurt instead?!”

you were taken aback by how fervent his voice became, watching with wide eyes when he shoves aside his seat before coming closer to you. when he frames at your face, you could feel how his hands were trembling so much that they could barely keep still.

without another word, xavier captures your lips in a searing kiss. he moves against you with a desperation, telling you through his actions that he was terrified of losing you. and when you manage to kiss him back, you lift up a hand to delve into his hair, pulling him closer to you as you made an oath to get stronger so that you’ll never have to see the pain in xavier’s eyes ever again.

it was a deep cut on the back of your legs that rendered you unable to walk after a particularly grueling mission. in your throes of pain, you were immediately transferred to a hospital to get your wound treated.

admittedly, you had suffered through worse during past missions, yet your boyfriend of 3 years had other thoughts.

when he realized that you had gotten severely hurt, rafayel wasted no time heading to the hospital you were staying at. his expressive eyes were filled with tears as he remained glued to your side.

“l-listen, if this is to get back at me for pretending to not recognize you when i was a patient, then you’ve already got your revenge!” rafayel playfully whines to you, pressing the side of your face with a plethora of kisses, “don’t ever hurt yourself like that ever again!”

you spent a good amount of time comforting rafayel with your own kisses, reassuring him that you had no intentions of getting back at him for anything and that this was just an accident. yet still, you had to admit that it was quite cute to see rafayel clinging to you like a lost puppy.

it was also nice to see rafayel caring for you as well, even going as far as peeling an apple for you before cutting them into bite-sized pieces, feeding you with a playful smile on his face.

when night had fallen, rafayel manages to convince the medical staff to let him stay overnight with you. and despite how exasperated you felt with his antics, you were actually glad that rafayel was able to stay with you.

as he sleeps while resting his head on your bed, you smile and gently thread your fingers through his hair, rousing him from his slumber. he opens his hazy eyes, meeting your gaze while sleepily calling your name, “nnn, what is it, princess?”

remaining silent, you inch closer to him, capturing his lips in a chaste kiss as he responds eagerly to you. not allowing you to pull away, rafayel ends up deepening the kiss, conveying just how much you meant to him as he kept his lips locked with yours beneath the moonlight.

the rain manages to cover the stench of your blood, with you sustaining a wound on your left side. it was a surprise attack made by a wanderer, and you weren’t sure if you were going to make it.

with unsteady steps, you walk out of the alleyway, taking out your phone from your pockets as you called a single person. he picks up not even two rings later, his cheerful voice calling out your nickname-

yet all you could manage was cough up something bitter and metallic from your mouth.

“caleb…” you wheeze into your phone, coughing even more as your chest clenched in pain. “i’m so sorry… something went wrong with the mission, it hurts… so much-“

“stay on the line! where are you?!”

you detect the desperation in his voice, yet only smiled, “i love you, and i’m so sorry. so so so sorry.”

a sharp cry of your name was the last thing that you heard as you fell over face first in the rain covered street and dropped your phone, completely unaware of how the device was flashing as bold letters that spelled out TRACKING was seen across its screen.

{ … }

you wake up with a start, believing that you were still dreaming when you recognized the scent of caleb’s cologne surrounds you.

there was no way that you were still alive-

that you were actually within the safety of your shared bedroom with your boyfriend-

and there was certainly no way in hell that your boyfriend was glaring down at you at this very minute.

“i’m not dead?” your voice was hoarse, yet when you asked that question, a flash of annoyance was seen across caleb’s face.

“as if i’d ever let you die.” the colonel admits with a scoff, sitting next to you on the bed as he wipes the sweat from your brow. from his expression, it was clear that caleb was still shaken up from your near-death experience.

“what happened…?”

with his eyes flashing with pain, he shakily takes a hold of your hand while keeping it close to his lips, “i… i found you after tracking your phone. when i heard you collapse in the rain, my heart genuinely stopped. i was running on autopilot, rushing to you as i called someone- anyone to come and save you.”

he closes his eyes, taking a moment to breathe as you began putting the pieces together. “you called zayne?”

“he was the only one i could trust with saving your life.” caleb’s eyes were burning now as they met with your own, and you felt him press another lingering kiss against your hand. “and it was a good thing that he came at the right time. i didn’t know what i would do if he didn’t save you in time.”

as caleb thought about how much he owed zayne, he was broken out of his thoughts when you pulled him closer. “when i was out there, bleeding out-“

“don’t.” caleb sharply hisses in response, not wishing to relive the moment he thought he’d actually lost you, yet still, you continued.

“caleb, when i believed that i was about to die, all i could think about was you. i knew that as long as i heard your voice again, then i’d be okay-“

caleb doesn’t allow you to finish your sentence, the thought of losing you sending his mind into a frenzy as he crashes his lips into yours. he swallows the rest of your words and soft moans, tongue delving into your mouth as he tasted you, kissing you as if tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed while tightening his grip around you, swearing to never let you go for as long as he lives.

end notes: the new main story update got me feeling all type of ways, and i had to write a new story based on how everything made me feel 😭 currently unedited, but i’ll make any necessary changes once this is posted ♡

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

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kira-loves0905 · 16 days ago

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favourite position? this

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kira-loves0905 · 16 days ago

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LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — YOU HAVE A BREAKDOWN AND HE’S THERE TO CATCH YOU

a/n: after everything that’s been revealed about mc, she deserves to have a valid crashout. also i’ve made lots of fluff posts recently so it’s time for some delicious hurt/comfort

ZAYNE

You don’t remember pulling the weapon — only the sound of your own breathing, harsh and ragged in your ears, and the way everyone else suddenly froze.

The air is too thin. The world is too loud.

You stand in the center of the room with your hand trembling, knuckles white around the grip. The others have backed away, eyes wide, uncertain whether to speak or run. They're shadows now, irrelevant.

It’s not them you see.

It’s everything else.

Every choice.

Every failure.

Every moment you told yourself it was fine when it wasn’t.

Your vision blurs at the edges, a red haze creeping in, your heart thundering behind your ribs like it’s trying to break out. You can’t tell if you’re furious or terrified. Maybe both.

“Hey.”

His voice cuts through the fog — not sharp, not demanding, but steady.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Zayne.

He doesn’t raise his hands. He doesn’t step back. If anything, he moves a fraction closer, gaze never leaving yours. He’s the only one not afraid of you right now — and somehow that makes it worse.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says softly.

You flinch, eyes flicking to the weapon in your hand as if you’ve only just remembered it’s there. It shouldn’t be there. It was never meant to be.

“They don’t get it,” you whisper. Your voice cracks in the middle. “They don’t know what it’s like. Everything’s on me. Every time. I screw up once, and it all falls apart.”

You grip tighter, muscles locked like a storm is passing through you and trying to tear you in two.

“I know,” Zayne says. “I know it’s too much. But this isn’t you. This — this is the fear talking.”

Your hand shakes harder. Your throat feels like it’s caving in on itself.

“I can’t — Zayne, I can’t breathe. I can’t fix it. I don’t know how.”

He finally takes a slow step forward. You don’t stop him.

“You don’t have to fix everything alone,” he says gently. “Not with me here. Okay?”

His voice is like a balm — low, patient, warm even in the middle of all this wreckage. It presses into the chaos in your head and makes a little space where you can breathe. Just barely.

“I don’t want to be like this,” you whisper

“I know,” he says. “Then let it go.”

Your grip loosens. First your fingers twitch, then uncurl, the weapon slipping from your hand to the floor with a dull clatter that sounds far too loud.

And then — then it all crashes in.

The sob starts in your chest and works its way out like a scream that never makes it past your teeth. You collapse before you can stop yourself, knees hitting the floor. Arms around your stomach like you can hold the broken pieces inside if you squeeze hard enough.

Zayne is there before you can fall all the way.

He catches you, strong arms wrapping around your frame like they were always meant to be there. He doesn’t say anything at first — just holds you, steady and still, while you shatter.

You bury your face in his shoulder, fingers clutching at his shirt, and cry like the world ended.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice warm against your ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And somehow, even in all the wreckage — you believe him.

XAVIER

You don’t mean to aim it.

You’re not even sure when you drew it. All you know is that the weight in your hand feels both alien and familiar, and everyone’s gone still—like time has snapped tight around you and won’t let anyone move until something breaks.

Your breath comes in short, sharp bursts. Cold sweat trickles down your spine.

They're talking, maybe. Someone's trying to reason with you, but their voice is too far away, like it’s muffled through water. Your heart is pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.

You didn’t want to hurt anyone.

You just wanted it all to stop.

“Put it down,” someone says — but not sharply. Not fearfully.

Xavier.

Your eyes snap to him. He’s standing still, calm but alert, his eyes locked on yours — not on the weapon.

He doesn’t flinch.

“You don’t want to do this,” he says, quiet and even. “You’re not this person.”

Your throat tightens, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. You want to scream, to run, to disappear. Anything but this. Anything but them all staring at you like you’re a loaded bomb.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” you choke out.

“I know,” he replies softly. “That’s why I’m here.”

You shake your head, vision blurring, hands trembling. “I keep breaking things. Hurting people. I can’t think straight — I can’t breathe— I can’t—” You bite off the rest before it comes out as a sob.

Xavier doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t rush you. He just looks at you, with that steady, unreadable expression of his — but his eyes… his eyes are soft. Almost sad.

“You’ve been holding yourself together with thread and wire,” he says gently. “And pretending it’s fine because you thought no one would stay if they saw you unravel.”

You say nothing. You can’t.

“But I see you,” he continues, and there’s something deeper in his voice now — low, almost reverent. “Not just the anger. Not just the fear. I see you. Even like this. Especially like this.”

Your hands shake harder. The weapon feels impossibly heavy.

He takes one step closer. Still not reaching. Still giving you the choice.

“You don’t need to keep fighting everyone. You don’t need to fight me.”

You let out a broken, fragile sound that’s not quite a sob, not quite a breath.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Xavier’s voice lowers to a hush, like he’s saying it only for you:

“There is nothing wrong with you that makes you unlovable.”

Something in you cracks. Shatters.

Your fingers uncurl, and the weapon falls with a soft clatter to the floor. A breath rushes out of you like you’ve been holding it for hours, and your knees give out.

He’s there instantly — arms catching you before you hit the ground, pulling you close. You don’t resist. You can’t. The tears come too fast now, hot and silent, soaking into the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face against him.

Xavier says nothing at first. Just holds you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm on your spine like he’s anchoring you to the earth.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs against your temple. “You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again.”

You sob harder at that, clutching him like a lifeline.

“And if the world’s too much,” he adds, brushing his fingers through your hair with exquisite gentleness, “then let me carry some of it with you.”

RAFAYEL

One moment you were arguing — no, begging— to be left alone, and the next, your hand was up, aimed with shaking precision. The room froze. Every voice died. Eyes widened. A collective intake of breath, like the whole world was teetering on a ledge with you.

Someone took a cautious step back.

Another reached slowly for their communicator.

Fear bled into the air.

But not from him.

“Hey,” Rafayel says — and it’s not the voice you expect. Not teasing, not smug. Not flippant. Not him, the way he usually is.

No quips. No grin.

Just… quiet.

Serious.

You flick your gaze to him without moving the weapon. He’s standing a few feet away, arms relaxed at his sides, eyes fixed on yours — not in judgment, not in fear, but something deeper.

Understanding.

“You’re not okay,” he says softly.

The words hit harder than any accusation. Not because they’re harsh, but because they’re true. You feel them like a tremor in your chest.

“I said stay back,” you snap, voice cracking in the middle.

He doesn't move. Doesn’t flinch.

“I know what this looks like,” he says, calm and steady. “But I also know you. And this?” He gestures gently toward the weapon. “This isn’t you. This is what pain looks like when it finally gets too loud to hide.”

Your fingers twitch.

“I wasn’t trying to—” You stop. You can’t even explain it. Not to them. Not to yourself.

Your vision is spinning. Your hands won’t stop trembling.

“Everyone always says ‘you’re strong,’” you mutter, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “But what if I’m not? What if I’ve been lying to them — to me — this whole time?”

For a moment, silence.

And then — Rafayel speaks, and it’s the softest you’ve ever heard him.

“Then you’re human,” he says. “Not weak. Not broken. Just… tired. Tired of carrying too much with too little help.”

You look at him, really look, and for the first time, he’s not wrapped in theatrics or ego. There’s no sparkle in his eye, no dramatic hand on his chest. Just him — open, present, serious in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“I always joke because it’s easier than saying what I really feel,” he says. “But I’m not joking now. I see you. I see what this is. And I’m not afraid of it.”

Tears slip past your lashes.

“I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says gently. “But it’s okay to scare people sometimes if it means someone finally notices you’re hurting.”

The weapon in your hand feels like it’s burning now.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Rafayel continues. “You never did. You just didn’t think anyone would stay if they saw the real you.”

His voice drops to a hush, steady and warm.

“But I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not when it actually matters.”

Your fingers let go. The weapon clatters to the floor like a gavel calling your sentence to an end.

And then it hits you.

The weight. The shame. The grief. The unbearable pressure you’ve carried too long.

You sink to your knees before you even realize it. The sobs come fast and raw, unstoppable, and the air feels too thick to breathe.

Rafayel is there in an instant — no flourish, no bravado. Just him. He kneels beside you and pulls you into his arms, holding you like something fragile and precious all at once.

His hand moves slowly along your back. The other cradles your head as you bury your face in his shoulder and cry like the world cracked open.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, quiet and firm. “I’m not going anywhere. Let it out. I’ll stay until you’re ready to stand again.”

No mask. No performance. Just truth.

Just Rafayel — more real than you’ve ever seen him.

SYLUS

A part of you is outside your body, watching the barrel shake in your grip, watching the way everyone else freezes — afraid, unsure, waiting for someone else to say something.

Your heart’s a war drum in your chest. Your lungs won’t expand. Your fingers are clenched so tight your knuckles scream.

You don’t want to hurt anyone.

You just want it all to stop.

The pressure. The silence. The weight.

They’re talking — too many voices, too many hands hovering, eyes wide and frightened.

And then one voice cuts through all of it like gravel underfoot.

“Enough.”

You whip toward him.

Sylus.

His eyes are locked on yours — sharp, grounded, and not a trace of fear in them. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. He just looks at you, like he’s trying to will you into stillness.

“Put it down,” he says, low and firm.

You shake your head, throat burning. “You don’t get it.”

“I do,” he snaps — not cruel, but sharp enough to slice through the panic clawing at your brain. “I get it more than you think.”

You swallow hard. “It’s too much. I can’t keep holding everything together — I’m trying, but I’m not — I'm not enough.”

Sylus steps forward, slow but deliberate. “Bullshit.”

You blink. “What?”

“You heard me,” he growls. “That voice in your head lying to you? Telling you you’re a problem, a burden, too weak? That’s not truth. That’s fear. And fear’s a goddamn liar.”

You try to keep the weapon steady, but your hand’s shaking now. “Don’t talk to me like you know what I’m—”

“I do know,” he cuts in, voice rough but close now. “I’ve seen you bleed for people who never said thank you. I’ve watched you fight when you had nothing left. Don’t stand there and tell me you’re not enough.”

Your lip trembles. Your chest feels like it’s collapsing inward.

“I’m tired, Sylus,” you whisper. “I don’t know how to keep going.”

And then — he softens. Just barely. A shift in his voice. The steel’s still there, but wrapped in something quieter. Something meant just for you.

“You don’t have to keep going alone,” he says, his voice dropping, steady and real. “You don’t have to carry it all. Not with me here.”

He takes one last step, eyes never leaving yours.

“Put the damn weapon down,” he says gently. “Let someone see you for once.”

You stare at him, chest heaving.

And then you drop it.

The sound it makes as it hits the ground is louder than it should be. Like a final breath being released.

Your knees give out with it.

He catches you before you can fall all the way. His arms are strong and solid, pulling you into him without hesitation, like he was waiting for this — for you — to finally break.

You cry like you haven’t let yourself in years. Ugly, shaking, desperate sobs that tear out of your throat like your body can’t hold them anymore.

And Sylus just holds you.

One hand in your hair, the other around your back, firm and grounding.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear. “Even when you’re a goddamn mess. Especially then.”

You grip his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you on earth.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Tough,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t just get the pretty parts of love. You get the storm too. And I’m not leaving because it’s raining.”

You shudder against him.

He stays. He holds. He doesn’t let go.

CALEB

You hear someone call your name, but it’s distant — muffled, like it’s coming from the other side of glass.

Your hand’s shaking. The weapon’s raised.

You can’t remember drawing it. You don’t even know who you’re pointing it at anymore. Maybe everyone. Maybe no one. Maybe just the noise in your head that won’t shut up.

Too much. Too fast. Too loud.

All of them standing there, watching. Not seeing. Never really seeing.

And then — his voice.

“Pips, please… put it down.”

You don’t turn, but your body goes still. Everything tightens.

Caleb sounds wrecked. Like something in him is breaking just from looking at you.

“I can’t,” you whisper. “I can’t do this anymore.”

You hear his footsteps — slow, cautious, like he’s approaching something wounded. Dangerous.

“I didn’t see it,” he says, his voice rough. “God, I should’ve seen it.”

You glance toward him, just for a second—and your breath catches.

He’s not angry. Not scared.

He looks destroyed.

“I thought I was helping,” he says. “I thought you were okay. I wanted to believe you were okay.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and your grip on the weapon falters for a split second.

“I didn’t want you to know,” you rasp. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” he cuts in, voice cracking. “You are not a burden. You’re—”

He stops himself. Swallows hard. Takes a breath.

“You’re someone I was supposed to protect. And I missed it. I missed you. And now you’re standing there like you’re at the edge of something you can’t come back from.”

You look down at the weapon. Your hands are trembling so hard now it’s nearly slipping from your fingers.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper. “It hurts all the time. And I feel like I’m disappearing and no one even notices.”

“I notice,” Caleb says, voice low and raw. “I see you. I always have. Even when I didn’t know what I was looking at.”

He takes one step forward.

“I know you’re drowning. I know it’s dark. But I’m right here, okay? I’m not letting you go under. Not tonight.”

The tears break loose before you can stop them.

You let the weapon fall. It hits the floor with a soft thud.

Then you’re sinking, knees hitting the ground, sobs tearing out of you like something’s broken loose inside.

Caleb’s there before you can even blink.

He doesn’t say anything at first — just pulls you into his arms, holds you tight to his chest like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I should’ve had you sooner, but I’ve got you now.”

You cling to him, crying hard and silent into his shoulder. And still he holds you, arms strong, steady, warm.

“I’m sorry,” you sob. “I didn’t mean to — I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for hurting,” he whispers. “Just don’t ever think you have to hurt alone.”

His hand cradles the back of your head, his other arm curled around your back like he’s shielding you from the world.

“You’re not too much,” he says. “You’re not too far gone. You’re mine, and I’m staying.”

And with your face buried in his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you finally, finally let yourself fall apart — because this time, someone’s there to hold the pieces.

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kira-loves0905 · 17 days ago

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LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — WHEN HE SNAPS AND REGRETS IT

a/n: this was an old work for a prev fandom that i found while looking through my google doc, so i spruced it up a little to make it fit the lads boys a little more, but most of it is the same! also unpopular opinion, i love the pipsqueak nickname and i love it even more when fic authors shorten it to "pips" IT'S SO CUTE

ZAYNE

The door slams.

That’s your first warning.

You freeze mid-step in the hallway, holding a freshly folded blanket you meant to toss on the couch. Zayne’s keys hit the bowl on the entryway table with more force than usual, his shoes kicked off without care. You can hear his breathing — sharp, uneven — as he moves around the apartment like he doesn’t want to be in it.

You peek around the corner.

He’s still in scrubs, half-wrinkled, stained near the cuffs. His hair’s a mess, and his eyes are dark hollows. There’s something about the way his shoulders are hunched — coiled, like a spring on the verge of snapping.

You swallow your instinct to step back.

Instead, you try your voice.

“Hey,” you say gently, quietly, like a test. “Long day?”

Zayne exhales through his nose, rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Long doesn't begin to cover it.”

You take a slow step forward. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” His tone is curt. Abrupt. You flinch — but stay where you are.

“I made dinner,” you offer, softer this time. “Something light. You haven’t eaten since—”

“God, can you just stop?”

The words are a gunshot. You freeze.

He’s facing you now, eyes sharp and wild with stress.

“Zayne…” you whisper, but your throat’s already tight.

“I walk into this apartment needing one second to breathe, and you’re already asking questions, hovering — offering food, talking about feelings — can you just give me space?”

It hits you harder than it should. Not the words — but the way he says them.

The volume. The edge.

The way your father used to sound just before slamming a door and making you feel smaller than the silence he left behind.

Your hands tremble. The blanket slips from your fingers and lands on the floor with a soft thud. You take a step back, but the walls feel too close, your ribs locked tight around the breath you can’t seem to find.

Zayne notices the shift in you immediately.

Your eyes go glassy. You’re not saying anything. Just… blinking. Holding yourself like your own body might break if you don’t.

He sees the tears before you feel them fall.

“Wait — wait, no,” he says suddenly, voice cracking. “Don’t — no, I didn’t mean—”

But you’re already backing away, hands rising halfway in that half-hearted gesture of surrender.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to help.”

His face falls apart.

“No, no, please don’t apologize,” Zayne says, stepping toward you — but gentler now. He reaches out, and when you flinch ever so slightly, he freezes. “God, I didn’t mean to yell. I never want to raise my voice at you. I didn’t think — I wasn’t thinking.”

You press a sleeve against your cheek, wiping away the tears that won’t stop. “I don’t like yelling. It — messes with my head.”

He breathes out a sound that’s half a sob. “You were just trying to care for me. And I treated you like — like everyone else treats me when I’m tired. Dismissive. Angry. Cold. And you’re not everyone else. You’re you.”

He’s in front of you now, his voice shaking as badly as your hands.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he whispers. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You look up at him, unsure — like any sudden movement might trigger another wave. But he’s nothing but stillness now. Open palms. Broken regret.

“I don’t want to be afraid of you,” you say softly.

“You shouldn’t be.” His voice cracks. “You never should be.”

And then he sinks to his knees in front of you, arms slowly wrapping around your waist, head pressed gently to your stomach like he needs to ground himself in the shape of you. Not demanding forgiveness — just asking to stay.

You don’t speak. You just run your fingers through his hair, slowly, over and over. And when your breathing starts to slow, he holds on tighter.

“You’re my home,” he says into your shirt. “And I hurt it. I’ll never forgive myself for that — not unless you tell me I can try again.”

You look down at him, cheeks tear-streaked. “I want to forgive you.”

His eyes lift, red-rimmed and desperate. “I’ll earn it. Every second. Just — don’t shut me out. Please.”

You sink down beside him on the floor, into the warmth of his arms, into the messy, painful truth of loving someone who sometimes breaks under the weight of his own heart.

“I won’t,” you whisper. “Just don’t forget — I break too.”

He nods, holding you tighter.

“I’ll remember. From now on, I’ll remember.”

XAVIER

The silence in the shuttle feels heavier than it should.

Not the usual quiet that follows the adrenaline of a completed mission, but something strained. Too sharp at the edges. Like neither of you can catch your breath, even though you’re technically safe now.

You sit across from Xavier, hands clasped in your lap, trying not to tremble. The mission was a success — on paper. No casualties. Objective completed. But it was too close. Too close when you were separated. Too close when you lost contact. Too close when you thought for a split second that he might not come back.

You’re trying to hold it together, but the tension inside you is unraveling, thread by thread.

“Xavier…” you say softly, hoping your voice won’t crack. “Can we just— talk? Or just… sit close? I—” You hesitate, then admit, “I still feel like I’m back there.”

He doesn’t even look up from the holo-screen he’s reviewing. His jaw is tight. His fingers tap too fast on the interface. “Now’s not the time.”

Your chest tightens.

“I’m trying to be okay,” you say, more fragile now, barely above a whisper. “I just need you to — be here.”

Xavier sighs. Not tired. Frustrated.

“Why do you need something from me every time things get hard?” His voice comes out sharp, unfiltered. “Can’t you see I’m trying to deal with my own mess right now?”

The words hit harder than they should. They’re not cruel, not really—but they come from him, and that makes them a knife.

You shrink back, eyes widening. “I didn’t mean to burden you. I just… I thought you’d understand.”

“I’m not your emotional anchor,” he snaps, then freezes — because he knows. He sees the exact moment your expression fractures. The flicker of hurt that flashes across your face like a dying star.

You stare at him, lips parting slightly, the burn of rejection rising in your throat before you can swallow it down. “Right. Of course.”

Your hands shake as you unbuckle yourself from the seat, turning away. “Forget I said anything.”

“Wait—” he starts, standing, but you’re already moving down the corridor, desperate for some distance. You need air. You need quiet. You need not to cry in front of him.

But you don’t make it far.

Your knees buckle against the wall just around the corner of the cabin, breath catching, the memory of the mission replaying behind your eyes. The chaos. The gunfire. The feeling of helplessness when the comms went dead. And now this — him — pulling away when all you wanted was him.

You don’t hear him follow, but you feel it.

You don’t answer. You hug your knees tighter to your chest and keep your gaze locked on the floor.

“I didn’t mean that,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

You blink hard. “You said it anyway.”

He crouches beside you, hands trembling just slightly as he reaches out — hesitates — and finally settles one hand on your arm.

“I was scared too,” he confesses. “I didn’t let it show, because I can’t. Not out there. But when we lost contact, when I didn’t know if you were alive… I went into survival mode. And when you needed me just now — I pushed instead of pulled. Because that’s what I’ve always done. But it’s not what you deserve.”

You finally glance at him, eyes damp. “I only ever wanted you to be someone I could lean on. Just for a moment.”

His face crumples. “You can. I was wrong. I was… tired and scared and I took it out on the last person I ever should.”

You breathe shakily, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “You scared me, Xavier.”

“I scare myself sometimes,” he murmurs into your hair. “But I’d never forgive myself if I let you believe that your feelings don’t matter to me. You matter. So much it terrifies me.”

His arms come around you then, warm and firm and anchoring you in a way no mission report ever could. You sit there on the floor of the shuttle, hearts thudding too fast, breaths slowly syncing as the panic begins to fade.

“I need you, too,” he whispers against your temple. “Not just in the fight. Not just in the mission. Here. With me.”

You nod, quietly pressing your forehead into his chest. “Then just… hold me. Don’t let go.”

“Never,” he says, holding you tighter. “Not even if the universe tears apart.”

RAFAYEL

The studio smells like paint and tension.

There’s a new canvas on the easel — half-finished, colors chaotic, brushstrokes angrier than they used to be. Rafayel stands in front of it with his back to you, arms crossed, jaw tight. His palette lies abandoned on the table, streaked with smeared reds and grays.

You hesitate in the doorway, watching him. He's been like this for days — restless, snappish, too quiet until he isn’t. His upcoming solo exhibition has devoured every inch of his attention, leaving little room for anything or anyone else.

Still, you try.

You always try.

“I brought you something to eat,” you say softly, holding up the tray with the kind of food he forgets to want when he’s deep in creation. “It’s not much, just — something warm.”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even shift.

You approach carefully, setting the tray down on the side table with a quiet clink. “You’ve been standing there for hours. I thought maybe —”

“Don’t,” he says, voice sharp like shattered glass.

You blink. “I just—”

“I said don’t,” Rafayel snaps, finally turning toward you with a look that doesn’t belong to him. Not the real him — the one who paints stars in your eyes and kisses laughter into your skin. This version is cold. Fractured. Exhausted. “I don’t need food. I don’t need conversation. I don’t need you hovering over me like I’m some broken thing you’re trying to fix.”

The air goes out of your lungs.

“I wasn’t—” Your voice wavers. “I wasn’t trying to fix anything. I just thought you needed someone.”

“I need space,” he says flatly, wiping his hands on a paint-stained cloth. “Not pity. Not babysitting. Space.”

The word space lodges in your chest like a splinter.

You stare at him, stunned, unsure if you should be angry or just… heartbroken. But the tears are already stinging at the corners of your eyes, traitorous and quiet.

“You think I’m here out of pity?” you whisper.

Rafayel opens his mouth to say something — another line, another deflection — but he sees the tears. And everything in him stops.

“Wait — Cutie, no,” he says quickly, voice cracking. “That’s not what I meant—”

But you’re already backing up, trying to blink the tears away, trying not to let your voice break the way your heart just did.

“I know you’re under pressure. I know this matters to you. But you don’t get to make me feel like I don’t.”

He’s silent.

And then, quietly — brokenly — he says, “You do.”

You turn your head, not trusting yourself to look at him.

“I don’t want space,” you whisper. “I want you. But maybe I was wrong about how much room I take up.”

That’s when you hear the scrape of his stool, the soft thud of his footsteps crossing the room. He stops just behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, but he doesn’t reach out yet. Doesn’t touch.

“I’m scared,” Rafayel says finally, his voice a hushed confession. “This exhibition… It’s the first time I’ve shown the real things. Not what people expect from me. Not the masks. Just — me. And I’m terrified they’ll look at it and see nothing worth keeping.”

You say nothing for a long beat, letting his words sink in. And then, gently, quietly: “That’s how I feel right now.”

He flinches.

And then his arms are around you, pulling you in with more tenderness than you thought he had left. He buries his face in your shoulder like he’s trying to disappear into you, like maybe if he presses hard enough, he can paint over the pain with love.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “I lashed out because I couldn’t control the fear. But I never wanted to hurt you. You’re the only thing that keeps me from getting swallowed whole.”

You don’t answer with words. You just wrap your arms around him and hold tight, letting his heartbeat thump against your own. Letting the silence stretch until it’s no longer a punishment — but a place of peace.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper eventually. “Even when it’s hard. Even when you forget how to let me in.”

His arms tighten, and this time, the tremble in his shoulders isn’t from anger or stress — but relief.

“Then stay,” he says. “Stay. And I’ll learn how to deserve it.”

SYLUS

The storm never shows in Sylus’s voice. It’s in the way his gloves come off more slowly than usual. In the way his coat remains folded across the back of the armchair, untouched. In the way he stands by the window of the apartment, staring into the city’s electric dusk, spine straight, but shoulders taut with the kind of restraint that always precedes a fracture.

You’ve seen Sylus under pressure before. He thrives on control. But tonight, he’s less conductor, more fault line — beautifully composed, dangerously close to collapse.

“They’re probing again,” he says at last, eyes still fixed on the glass. “Tapping surveillance threads, watching Onychinus operatives, cross-referencing movements that were never meant to leave shadows. Someone at Elysium is leaking information — and they’re becoming increasingly adept at masquerading as allies.”

You hesitate in the doorway, hands wringing slightly. “Is there anything I can do?”

That question — your question — snaps something subtle but sharp in him.

“You can stop asking me that,” Sylus says, voice low but laced with something volatile. “Every time something threatens to rupture, you offer comfort as though that alone might cauterize the wound.”

You blink, the sting immediate. “I was just trying to help—”

“And in doing so, you make it abundantly clear how little you understand what’s truly at stake.” He turns toward you now, eyes dark with restrained fury. “This isn’t one of your dreams where hearts and hopes rearrange the world. This is war in whispers. A battle fought in silence. Every misstep is a death sentence waiting for a signature.”

You recoil as if struck.

The words aren’t loud — but they cut with surgical precision.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you say quietly, voice already trembling. “I thought you’d want someone beside you… even if it’s just to listen.”

He doesn’t speak. And the silence feels like exile.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, taking a step back. “I didn’t come here to be in your way.”

And then you feel it: the burn behind your eyes. The ache in your throat. The slow, awful realization that your presence — the thing you thought might ground him — is only another variable he can’t afford.

You try to turn away before the tears fall, but one escapes anyway, sliding hot down your cheek.

That’s when he moves.

Not a sudden rush — Sylus never does anything without precision — but something in him shifts, like glass catching the light before it shatters.

“Wait,” he says, his voice no longer laced with steel, but smoke.

You stop, barely daring to breathe.

“I didn’t mean…” He trails off, then approaches with the solemnity of someone approaching sacred ground. “What I said was unconscionable.”

You don’t meet his gaze. “Then why did you say it?”

“Because I’m afraid,” he says simply. “And I hate being afraid.”

You finally glance at him. His mask has cracked — not the one he wears for Onychinus, not the one he wears in Elysium—but the one he wears when he thinks he must carry the weight alone.

“I don’t know how to shield you from me — from the fate we are forced to carry out,” he continues, quieter now. “And the thought of you being entangled in it — of you having to enact such an impossible decision again — terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.”

You wipe at your cheeks, still shaking a little. “Then don’t push me away. You've never had any qualms about me forging my own path. Let me choose to stay. "

Sylus exhales like the confession has hollowed him out. And then, finally, he closes the distance and gathers you into his arms — not fiercely, but reverently. Like you're something rare. Breakable. Too precious to risk, and too loved to let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “For weaponizing my fear and calling it logic. You are not a burden. You are the only calm I’ve ever known.”

You bury your face into his chest, breathing in the scent of ink and wind and home.

“I want to be here. Even if it’s hard,” you murmur. “Especially then.”

Sylus kisses the crown of your head, and something in him settles. Not the storm. But the eye of it.

CALEB

You find Caleb alone in his office, bent over a glowing tactical display. His gloves are discarded on the table, jacket unfastened at the collar. He hasn’t shaved, and the circles beneath his eyes are darker than the shadows cast by the ceiling lights.

He doesn’t look up when you step in. He probably heard you. He always does.

You take a breath. “You haven’t slept.”

“I don’t have the luxury,” he replies curtly, fingers flicking through holograms of ship placements and intel logs. “One mistake and we lose an entire outpost.”

“I’m not saying to ignore it,” you murmur, moving a little closer. “I’m saying maybe you could just — rest. Even for an hour.”

“I can’t.”

“Caleb, please—”

He slams his palm onto the console, startling you. The holo-map flickers. “Don’t you think I know what I need?!”

You freeze, breath catching in your throat. His voice wasn’t loud, but it burned. Sharp. Rigid. The kind of pain that’s been simmering too long.

He turns, eyes wide with anger — but the moment he sees your face, your stunned expression, your trembling hands, the fire drains from him.

You’re already backing away. “I was just trying to help,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he blurts out, stepping forward. “Wait — Pips, please—”

But you can’t. Not right now. Your vision blurs, and you blink hard, but the tears come anyway.

He looks stricken.

“I didn’t mean to raise my voice,” he says, quieter now, like the guilt is caving in around him. “I didn’t mean to say any of that to you.”

You try to compose yourself, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek, but it only makes the tears sting more. “Why would you yell at me like that?”

“Because I’m falling apart,” he says, barely above a whisper. “And I didn’t want you to see it.”

You look at him — this man who commands fleets and soldiers, who leads without hesitation — and you see the truth. His hands are steady in battle, but they’re shaking now. Not from fear. From pressure. From everything he carries and never lets himself set down.

“I always thought,” you say slowly, “that when things got hard, we’d face it together. That you wouldn’t shut me out.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice thick. “But the moment you came in, the part of me that was trying to stay composed… cracked. And instead of reaching for you, I lashed out. I’m so sorry.”

You watch him — his guarded posture crumbling, his eyes pleading, his voice no longer the Colonel’s, but Caleb’s. Just Caleb.

“You don’t have to be perfect with me,” you say, stepping close again, even though your cheeks are still wet. “I don’t need the soldier. I need you. And I need to know you won’t hurt me when you’re hurting.”

He closes his eyes, regret etched deep in every line of his face.

“I will never — never — forgive myself if I make you feel like that again,” he says. “You mean more to me than any title, any ship, any war. You’re my compass. My peace.”

When he opens his arms, you hesitate — just for a moment. But then you fall into them, and he holds you like he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers. His breath is shaky against your hair. His embrace tighter than it's ever been.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “Even when I forget how to show it. Even when the weight makes me forget how to breathe.”

You don’t speak. You just hold him back, one hand curling in the fabric of his shirt, grounding you both.

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kira-loves0905 · 17 days ago

Text

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — HE’S YOUR EMERGENCY CONTACT

a/n: here’s some raya lore — i’m a cardiac nurse irl and work with cardiothoracic surgeons all the time, so zayne’s story makes me giggle thinking about my surgeons doing this

ZAYNE

You regain consciousness slowly, with the vague sense that something humiliating has occurred. The hospital lights are too bright, the bed is too firm, and the IV in your arm is just... rude, honestly.

"You're awake," comes a voice — cool, low, and very familiar.

Oh no.

You turn your head and find Zayne, still in scrubs, standing at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed and that trademark look of stoic disappointment on his face. You’re not sure if he's judging your vital signs or your life choices.

“I told you not to skip lunch,” he says.

“Did you get called down here?” you ask, voice hoarse.

He lifts an eyebrow. “No. I was already here. In surgery. Where I was paged — in the middle of a triple bypass — because my emergency contact had decided to dramatically pass out in the hospital lobby like a Victorian novel protagonist.”

“Wow. Sounds like they need better lobby snacks.”

He doesn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches slightly — the Zayne equivalent of a full belly laugh.

You shift in bed, suddenly aware of how gross you must look. “Sooo… just to confirm, my very intimidating, brilliant surgeon-boyfriend got pulled out of heart surgery because I skipped breakfast and had a blood sugar tantrum?”

“Yes.” He picks up your chart like it personally insulted him. “And I had to hand my patient off to Dr. Greyson, who, by the way, is now convinced you're either dying or incredibly high-maintenance.”

“Well, I am dating a man who yells at EKG machines.”

“I don’t yell at them,” he says, deadpan. “I encourage them sternly.”

You’re about to tease him again when he steps closer and rests two fingers against your wrist, checking your pulse manually. You both know it’s unnecessary — your vitals are already beeping steadily on the monitor—but he does it anyway, like he needs to feel it for himself.

His eyes soften for a second — just a flicker —then the mask returns.

“I’m fine,” you say gently. “I swear.”

He doesn’t reply. He just exhales through his nose like you’ve personally ruined his whole month and reaches into the pocket of his white coat.

“I brought you juice,” he says flatly, pulling out a little box of apple juice like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You stare. “Wait. You detoured to pediatrics for juice?”

“I’m a surgeon, not a monster.”

You take the juice. He even gives you a bendy straw.

“I love you,” you say, smirking.

“You’re hypoglycemic. Your judgment is impaired.”

You reach for his hand anyway, and he lets you have it, warm and steady and a little calloused from years of holding hearts in his hands.

“You’re lucky I’m not dramatic,” you murmur.

He doesn't blink. “You fainted in the middle of a hospital hallway like an Oscar nominee.”

“Told you. Lobby snacks.”

Zayne exhales, shakes his head once, then gently brushes your hair away from your forehead with the kind of tenderness that could undo an entire cardiac ward.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “eat something. Or I’m putting you on a monitored meal plan.”

“You’re hot when you’re bossy.”

“I’m always bossy.”

“True. Still hot, though.”

Zayne doesn’t smile. But he does sit in the chair next to your bed and take out his tablet, one hand still loosely holding yours.

He doesn’t have to say anything. This is Zayne-speak for I'm not leaving.

And honestly? You’re kind of okay with fainting in public if it gets you this much juice and love from the hospital’s most terrifyingly devoted cardiothoracic surgeon.

XAVIER

You’re lying on the hospital bed, blinking up at the sterile white ceiling, wondering how you managed to turn skipping lunch into a full-on hospital visit. The door opens, and in walks Xavier — your boyfriend and your emergency contact — looking like he just sprinted through a hurricane, but somehow still perfectly put-together.

He spots you immediately, his calm, composed mask cracking just a little. “There you are,” he says, voice steady but with an unmistakable undertone of relief.

You try to sit up, but your head spins a little. “I’m fine. Sort of.”

He crosses the room in two strides, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is gentle, careful, like he’s afraid if he’s too rough you might actually break.

“I got the call while I was in a meeting,” he says quietly, “and I left everything. I didn’t even finish my coffee.”

You smile, appreciating the little sacrifices he makes without complaint.

“You’re my emergency contact,” you remind him playfully. “Kind of your job to freak out a little.”

He lets out a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “I panicked. A bit. But I stayed composed.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it. “You’re doing great.”

His eyes soften, and for a moment the world outside this hospital room disappears. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you, holding you close but steady.

“Promise me you’ll eat something next time,” he says quietly, his breath warm against your temple.

“I promise,” you murmur.

“And no more fainting in public. I don’t want to have to race down hospital hallways to find you again.”

You laugh softly. “Noted. I’ll try to keep you from breaking a sweat.”

His smile is almost shy now, but the way he tightens his hold on your hand says it all.

“You’re my emergency,” he whispers.

You snort. “Let’s not keep it that way.”

You stay like that for a while, just holding onto each other—two perfectly imperfect people, tethered together by something stronger than any emergency call.

RAFAYEL

Your ankle propped is propped up on a pillow, wrapped in bandages, and your pride slightly more bruised than your actual injury. The nurse said it’s just a mild sprain and you’ll live—but not before she tried very hard not to laugh when you explained how it happened.

The door bursts open like a dramatic plot twist.

“Where is she?!” comes the unmistakable voice of Rafayel.

You barely get out a “Hey—” before he’s at your bedside, eyes wild and hair slightly windblown like he’s just escaped a wind tunnel. Which, honestly, might not be far from the truth.

“I got the call and thought, ‘Oh, maybe she’s dehydrated, or tired, or mildly inconvenienced,’” he says, flinging his jacket on the nearest chair like he’s auditioning for a hospital drama. “But no. You injured yourself chasing your lunch?!”

“It was a really good sandwich,” you mutter defensively.

“A sandwich?” he repeats, clutching his heart like you’ve personally wounded him. “You rolled your ankle because a gust of wind stole your sandwich?”

You glare at him. “I was hungry, okay? It was toasted. And warm. It smelled amazing. I panicked.”

He takes a long, theatrical breath like he’s trying to absorb the full weight of your questionable life choices.

“I left in the middle of an event meeting ,” he says, dramatically pulling a chair up to your bedside. “I might have knocked over a cup of coffee on the way out. I think Thomas yelled for me. I don't remember. My soul left my body the moment they said your name.”

Despite his flair for the dramatic, his hand finds yours — gently, carefully, like he’s trying to check for injuries you haven’t mentioned.

“You’re okay, though?” he asks, suddenly quieter, eyes searching yours. “Really okay?”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m fine. Just a little bruised. Physically and emotionally.”

He exhales, visibly relaxing even though he’s trying to pretend like he was never worried in the first place. “Good. Because I wasn’t emotionally prepared to lose you to an airborne panini.”

You burst out laughing. “Technically, it was a ciabatta.”

“Oh, excuse me,” he says with mock offense, but you catch the tiny tremble of relief in his smile.

He straightens up with a newfound sense of duty. “Right. From now on, I am personally supervising all your lunches. If it has lettuce, it’s getting double security.”

You grin. “Are you volunteering to be my food bodyguard?”

“Silly girl— I’m your boyfriend and your emergency contact. Food security is just a natural extension of my role.”

And with that, he dramatically unwraps a protein bar from his bag, holds it out to you like a solemn offering, and adds, “Now eat this. And next time, let the sandwich go.”

You take the bar, still giggling. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And yet, somehow, I’m still the most responsible person in this relationship.”

You nudge him playfully with your elbow. “You ran into a hospital yelling.”

“I entered with urgency. There’s a difference.”

Despite everything, you’re smiling. Because if you’re going to end up in a hospital with a sprained ankle and a lost sandwich, there’s no one else you’d rather have panicking beautifully at your side than Rafayel.

SYLUS

You’re lying in a hospital bed, leg elevated, toe wrapped in what must be 400 layers of gauze for a very minor fracture. Your phone’s dead. You’re mildly embarrassed. And the nurse informed you that your emergency contact has been called.

Great.

Not five minutes later, the door opens with an entirely reasonable amount of urgency, and in walks Sylus. He looks calm, of course. Immaculately put-together. The kind of composed that makes everyone else feel like maybe things aren’t on fire.

“Hey,” you say sheepishly. “Before you ask, I’m not dying.”

He walks straight to your bedside, his steps efficient, quiet. His eyes scan you from head to toe like he’s assessing battlefield injuries, even though the only casualty is your dignity and maybe a toe bone.

“Mm,” he hums, setting down a small bag —because of course he brought things. “The nurse said you broke your toe.”

“Just a tiny fracture. More like a dramatic crack. I stubbed it on the coffee table.”

Sylus sits in the chair beside your bed and raises an eyebrow. “With enough force to require X-rays and emergency contact notification?”

“I was chasing a bug.”

He blinks. “You injured yourself in active combat with a housefly.”

“It was huge.”

He nods slowly, lips twitching, almost smiling. “Understandable.”

You watch him as he leans back slightly in the chair, arms crossed, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s trying to appear relaxed, but you know him. The slight crease between his brows? The way his leg is bouncing, just a little? That’s Sylus-level distress.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

“I’m fine,” he replies smoothly. “You’re the one who got into a full-contact brawl with furniture.”

You grin. “You worried?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Of course.”

“You’re hiding it well.”

“I’m excellent at containment,” he replies, but then — he gently takes your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles with an absent, comforting rhythm.

The silence stretches out, warm and familiar. Finally, you speak.

“You didn’t have to rush over, y’know.”

“I didn’t rush,” he says.

“You’re out of breath.”

“I took the stairs.”

You laugh, and that finally gets him to crack a full smile. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple, brief and grounding.

“Next time,” he says, still soft, “let the bug win.”

“Are you saying that because of my toe, or because you’re secretly pro-bug?”

“I’m saying that because you are not replaceable, and coffee tables are surprisingly effective weapons.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re my favorite emergency contact.”

“I better be.” He raises your hand to his lips. “I have a designated bag for this exact situation.”

You blink. “Wait — what’s in the bag?”

He opens it casually: snacks, a charger, a small first aid kit, and — of course — a mini bottle of lotion “in case hospital soap dries out your hands.”

“You’re terrifyingly prepared,” you murmur.

Sylus smiles calmly, brushing hair from your forehead. “And you are accident-prone. It’s a beautiful match.”

And just like that, everything feels a little less embarrassing, a little less dramatic. Because Sylus is here — collected, calm, worried down to his bones, and still managing to make you feel like the most secure clumsy person in the world.

CALEB

You’re sitting on a gurney with an ice pack strapped to your wrist and a very strong desire to sink into the floor and disappear. It’s a mild sprain. Barely a sprain, really. But policy’s policy, and your emergency contact has been notified.

That would be Caleb.

You don't even get a chance to text him before the door bursts open.

There he is — Caleb in full protective, puffed-up mode — hair messy like he sprinted here without stopping to breathe, hoodie half-zipped, eyes scanning the room like he’s ready to file a lawsuit or carry you out in his arms. Possibly both.

“Oh my god,�� he breathes, rushing over. “Are you okay? What happened? Why didn’t you call me? Did someone push you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “It was a slippery hallway.”

Caleb squints. “Slippery like… sabotage? Who waxes a hallway that much?”

“It’s a hospital, babe.”

“Still suspicious.”

He pulls a chair up to the bed with unnecessary force, plops down beside you, and carefully examines your wrist like he’s about to perform surgery himself.

“They gave you an X-ray, right? And ice? Did they check for nerve damage? Do I need to talk to someone?”

You sigh, smiling. “Yes, yes, no, and absolutely not. It’s a minor sprain.”

“Minor?” he repeats like you just called a plane crash a “minor inconvenience.”

You lean back and watch as he starts rifling through the little hospital drawer for reasons unknown. Possibly looking for answers. Possibly snacks.

“Caleb.”

“Hm?”

“You can breathe. I’m okay.”

He finally pauses, sitting back in his chair. “I know you’re okay. I just need to see you being okay for, like, the next three hours before I stop internally screaming.”

You reach over and lace your fingers with his with your uninjured hand.

“I appreciate your overreaction.”

He huffs dramatically. “This isn’t an overreaction. This is called deep, passionate concern.”

“You accused a hallway of foul play.”

“And I stand by that.”

You chuckle, gently tugging his hand. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”

“I’m always worried. You’re a walking hazard zone.”

You smirk. “Yet you keep dating me.”

“I like living dangerously,” he says, leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead. “But next time? Text me. I want to hear about your wrist injury from you, not a very bored nurse who said, and I quote, ‘Your partner’s fine. Bit dramatic, though.’”

“Wow. She really captured your energy.”

He narrows his eyes. “Okay. I’m limiting your sarcasm until your wrist heals.”

You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

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kira-loves0905 · 17 days ago

Text

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — MAKING HIM THINK HE FORGOT YOUR DATE

a/n: loved this request, i had so much writing it

ZAYNE

You’re not proud of it.

Okay, maybe a little.

Zayne’s always been so composed — calm, cool, collected. The picture of perfect, responsible, annoyingly unflappable maturity. Which is exactly why you’re determined to throw him off his rhythm… just a little.

So at 10:00 AM sharp, you send him a message:

“Don’t forget our reservation at 7 tonight! Dress nice!”

You don’t elaborate. You don’t respond to his inevitable follow-up message. You just wait.

At 12:13 PM, you get your first bite.

Zayne: I’m sorry — did we have plans this evening?

You leave him on read. Cold-blooded.

At 1:46 PM:

Zayne: You said 'reservation.' Did I make it or did you? What kind of place is it? Casual? Formal? Should I cancel my meeting with the TAVR team?

You smile wickedly to yourself and text back:

You’ll figure it out. You always do <3

By 3:30 PM, Zayne’s gone through the five stages of Date Panic:

Denial: “No way I forgot. I never forget.”

Anger: (mild and internal) “Why didn’t she remind me?!”

Bargaining: “Maybe I can move things around... Call the florist...”

Depression: “I probably forgot something important. She’s being so sweet about it. She must be crushed.”

Acceptance: In full formalwear, researching romantic restaurants near Akso.

At 6:45 PM, he shows up at your door.

He’s in a dark suit. Not too formal, not too casual. Sleek. Effortlessly handsome. He’s holding a single rose like he’s walked out of a movie. His tie is the exact color of your eyes.

You almost feel bad.

“Hey,” you say sweetly, leaning on the doorframe. “Right on time.”

“…So I did forget, then?” His brow furrows slightly, and his voice is calm, but there’s a faint crease of concern between his eyes. “I’ve been going through my calendar for the past three years.”

Your face almost breaks into a grin, but you hold it together. Barely.

“Well,” you say, folding your arms. “Do you remember making a reservation?”

“…No.”

“Do you remember discussing it?”

He pauses. “I remember talking about wanting to try that new place near the observatory... but I don’t think we picked a date.”

You finally burst out laughing. “Zayne. We don’t have a reservation. I was messing with you!”

He blinks. Slowly. “You pranked me.”

You nod gleefully. “And it was so easy. You spiraled.”

He lets out a long, slow exhale and then —smiles. That warm, slow-building, almost incredulous smile that makes your heart stutter.

“I canceled a meeting with the TAVR team,” he says mildly.

Your eyes widen. “You what?”

“And rescheduled a conference with the medical board.”

“…Okay, I might’ve gone too far.”

He just laughs, stepping past you and handing you the rose. “Well, I’m already dressed. And technically, I do have reservations. I made them an hour ago just in case.”

Your jaw drops. “Zayne.”

“I take potential dates seriously,” he says, smug now.

You’re too flustered to argue. “I was supposed to win this prank!”

“You did.” He brushes his fingers along your cheek. “You made me believe I’d let you down, and that was the worst part.”

“…Okay, now I feel really bad.”

“Don’t.” He takes your hand. “Just come with me. And next time, I’m the one planning the prank.”

You squint at him suspiciously.

“…You don’t do pranks.”

“I didn’t,” he says, eyes glinting. “Until today.”

Oh no.

You’ve awakened something dangerous.

And you kind of love it.

XAVIER

You don’t usually mess with Xavier.

Mostly because he’s the kind of guy who triple-confirms plans, color-codes mission schedules, and somehow has time to save the galaxy and make perfect pancakes. He’s thoughtful, dependable, borderline scary-efficient.

So naturally, that makes him the perfect target for your newest prank.

At exactly 9:42 AM, you send him a message:

Hey! Can’t wait for our date tonight! You didn’t forget, right?

And then, as the ancient texts of chaos command: you go silent.

10:03 AM

You get your first reply.

Xavier: …Our what now?

Xavier: Hold on.

Xavier: Did we plan something? Did I miss a message? An alert? I’ve checked all my logs.

You stare at your screen, already shaking with laughter.

11:12 AM

You receive a second message. This one is voice. You hesitate for dramatic effect, then hit play.

“Okay, so. Hypothetically,” Xavier begins, and you can hear the fluster in his voice, “if someone were to forget a date — which, to be clear, I don’t make a habit of — but if they did… would it be… better to confess immediately, or to just start planning and pretend they remembered all along?”

There’s a pause.

“I’m asking for a friend.”

By lunchtime, the panic has set in.

He messages you a photo of three outfits on his bed with the caption:

Which one did I say I’d wear? I’m leaning toward blue because it’s our ‘lucky color,’ apparently??

You text back only one thing:

You remembered the color!

Which you absolutely made up just now.

6:45 PM

You’re sitting on your couch in your pajamas, holding a bowl of popcorn, when there’s a knock at your door.

You open it to find Xavier — dressed sharply in a navy blazer, holding a bouquet of slightly chaotic-looking flowers (which are probably from the emergency med-bay garden), and blinking at you with wide, uncertain eyes.

“…So I did forget?” he says softly.

You burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, Xavier — there is no date! I was messing with you!”

His face does a full system reboot: blank stare, blinking, cheeks slowly turning pink, eyes squinting in realization.

“…You pranked me?”

“You should’ve seen your messages,” you snort, stepping aside to let him in. “I’ve never seen you so panicked over something non-explosive.”

He walks in, carefully sets the flowers on your table, and then flops dramatically onto your couch. “I had two monitors open, cross-checking every conversation we’ve ever had in the past two months.”

You flop down beside him, giggling uncontrollably. “Did you really go with the blue because you thought it was our ‘lucky color’?”

“I didn’t know,” he mutters, tugging at his collar.

You grin, scooting closer. “Well, you do look good in blue. Even if it’s not canonically our lucky color.”

He gives you a long-suffering look. “You know I’m going to have to get revenge, right?”

“You’re welcome to try,” you say sweetly. “But I’m not the one who thought he forgot a whole romantic evening.”

He groans into a throw pillow, muffling something like “I checked my planner twice.”

You hand him the popcorn. He takes it with a grumble.

You lean into his shoulder. “To be fair, you were really cute when you were freaking out.”

“…Don’t encourage me.”

“You’re adorable.”

“…Stop.”

You smirk, then whisper, “Lucky color.”

Xavier groans again. And you’re already plotting the next one.

RAFAYEL

It starts with a simple message.

Don’t be late tonight! I’ve been looking forward to this date all week!

You hit send and wait.

You can almost hear Rafayel gasping across the city.

Three minutes later, your comms light up.

Rafayel: My love, my symphony, my light… I have, of course, not forgotten. How could I ever forget something so sacred?

Oh, he’s panicking.

You lean back and sip your tea, smug as a cat.

Rafayel: ...Quick question: what precisely did we plan for this eve of destiny again? Simply so I can relive the joy of it all anew, of course.

Rafayel: Also is there a dress code? Will there be interpretive dancing? Fireworks? Both??

You type slowly:

You’ll figure it out. I trust you <3

And then, naturally, you ghost him.

One hour later —

You receive a string of increasingly unhinged updates.

Rafayel: I am in front of my closet. It’s judging me. I’ve changed outfits four times. Do we feel like an embroidered vest is too much? Or not enough?

Rafayel: I just tried to bribe a restaurant hostess for a reservation I didn’t make. She said no. She was very mean.

Rafayel: There are exactly seventeen establishments that fit our "vibe"—yes, I’ve ranked them. No, I’m not okay.

Rafayel: I’m currently speed-walking through the city with a bouquet, a bottle of sparkling nectar, and no clue where I’m supposed to be. Do I look desperate? Be honest.

You almost drop your drink laughing.

7:05 PM

Your doorbell rings.

You open it to find Rafayel standing there in a velvet jacket, clutching the aforementioned bouquet, a half-melted chocolate sculpture of a heart, and a very large grin that’s about 80% panic and 20% pure drama.

“My love,” he says breathlessly, “forgive me —I’ve scoured every date-worthy destination in the district. Have I passed your test? Or am I moments away from tragic romantic ruin?”

You blink. “You... sprinted across town?”

“I jogged romantically,” he says, offended.

You double over laughing. “Raf, there is no date. I was pranking you.”

His smile freezes. “What.”

You straighten up, wheezing. “There was never a reservation. You didn’t forget anything. I just wanted to see how far you’d go.”

He places a hand on his heart like you’ve mortally wounded him. “You cruel, beautiful creature. You tricked me.”

“I texted you.”

“And I took you seriously! I panicked!”

You dissolve into fresh laughter as he dramatically flops onto your couch.

“I demand recompense,” he says, pointing at you. “You will now go on an actual date with me. Immediately.”

“I’m in pajamas.”

“Perfect. I shall match you.” He begins unbuttoning his vest. “Velvet is overrated.”

“You brought snacks?”

“I brought romance and chaos and a slightly sweaty bouquet. And I will not be leaving without at least one cuddle.”

You raise an eyebrow, sitting beside him. “So you’re saying the prank... worked?”

He sighs, tossing a chocolate heart into your lap. “I was humiliated and flustered and had a mild identity crisis.”

Then he smiles.

“Best fake date of my life.”

SYLUS

Just a reminder for our date tonight! Can’t wait to see what you’ve planned.

You send it at 9:00 AM sharp and sit back like a mastermind watching the first domino fall.

9:02 AM

Sylus: …Oh?

Oh yes.

You say nothing. Silence is power.

9:06 AM

Sylus: Of course I haven’t forgotten. I just… want to make sure I don’t spoil the surprise by saying too much.

You bite your lip, already grinning. Oh, he's bluffing.

10:14 AM

Sylus: Hypothetically, what sort of vibes were you expecting? Classic and romantic, or… spontaneous and thrilling? Asking for planning reasons. Or curiosity. Or both.

You send:

You always get it right ;)

2:39 PM

A message arrives. It’s just a photo.

A table. Two place settings. Candles. Mood lighting. Chocolate-covered strawberries. Suspiciously fancy folded napkins.

Sylus: Trial run. Thoughts?

You nearly drop your phone.

He’s actually preparing.

6:00 PM

You hear the knock on your door right on time. You open it, and there’s Sylus — leaning casually against the frame, bouquet in one hand, that ever-present smirk on his face.

He’s wearing a crisp shirt, blazer unbuttoned, hair slightly tousled in a way that’s definitely on purpose.

“Ready for our mystery date?” he asks smoothly.

You cross your arms, grinning. “Sylus… there is no date. I made the whole thing up.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So you’re saying… you sent me a fake message to make me think I forgot something?”

You nod. “Exactly.”

He tilts his head, thoughtful. “Interesting.”

“…You’re not mad?”

He steps forward, offering the flowers. “I suspected something was up the moment you left me on read. You never leave me on read.”

You blink. “Wait. So you knew?”

“I suspected.” His smirk turns triumphant. “But just in case I was wrong, I still made a backup plan. Which, by the way, includes reservations at a rooftop cafe, your favorite dessert, and a playlist labeled ‘Emergency Romance.’”

“You made a playlist?”

“Of course. You think I’d risk being underprepared?”

You stare at him, half-impressed, half-offended. “You… confidence-bluffed your way through the whole thing.”

“Absolutely.” He loops your arm in his. “I may not have known what was going on, but I refused to lose.”

You laugh as he leads you out the door. “I can’t believe you turned my prank into a real date.”

CALEB

It starts with you lounging on the couch, watching Caleb scramble around the room like he’s ten minutes late to everything — which, to be fair, he probably is.

He’s halfway into his jacket, holding his datapad in one hand and wrestling with the other sleeve like it personally wronged him.

You sip your drink, totally casual. “Don’t forget about tonight.”

Caleb pauses, arm frozen mid-flail. “…Tonight?”

You raise an eyebrow, doing your best impression of offended-but-trying-to-be-cool. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

His eyes widen. “No! Of course not. I totally remembered. Our… uh… date.”

You watch the realization hit him like a space freighter.

“Oh shit, I forgot,” he mumbles under his breath — and then louder, in a tone you recognize as Caleb entering full-blown emergency charming mode—“I didn’t forget! Just confirming! Totally in control!”

He gives you a crooked smile. “You’re testing me, right? Classic relationship banter. I see you.”

You just smile sweetly. “Mmhm. Seven o’clock.”

He salutes — salutes! — and practically trips out the door.

You flop back on the couch, grinning.

This is going to be so good.

10:22 AM

Caleb: Just to be clear, we said formal-ish, right? Or was it cozy-casual with optional sparkle? No reason. Just dressing with INTENTION.

12:37 PM

Caleb: What kind of flowers say “I remembered the whole time” and not “I panicked in a gift shop and picked the first thing that smelled nice”?

3:02 PM

Caleb: I may have triple-booked us at three different places just to be safe. One has mood lighting. One has noodles. One might be a jazz club or a bowling alley.

By the time 6:59 rolls around, you’ve received:

A photo of Caleb in a slightly wrinkled button-up, holding a bouquet of flowers that seem to include a cactus.

A screenshot of a menu that features both fondue and combat karaoke.

A message that just says: “If I don’t survive this night, you have legal rights to all of my possessions.”

Then — knock knock.

You open the door to find Caleb looking like a man who tried everything and is now barely holding it together with pure optimism. His hair’s doing its own thing, there’s a flower tucked behind one ear (not matching the bouquet, by the way), and he’s got that dazzling, boyish smile of someone desperately hoping he passed the test.

“Happy… date night?” he says, holding out the cactus like it’s a precious gem.

You laugh. “You seriously believed me?”

He blinks. “Wait. Wait.”

“There’s no date, Caleb. I made it up.”

He stares at you, stunned. “You — you pranked me?!”

“Yep.”

“I almost took us to a planetarium-themed fondue disco. Do you know how many kinds of cheese they were offering?”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “You looked very prepared.”

He squints at you, mock-serious. “This means war.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Gonna prank me back?”

He leans in, suddenly smug. “Oh no. I’m going to make you fall so hard for a date that doesn’t exist you’ll be the one showing up in heels to a pizza delivery.”

You laugh again. “Deal.”

He grins, offers you the cactus, and says, “Still brought you this, though. Just in case.”

Honestly? Best date night that wasn’t

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