#I like to think he and Caleb retire there
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sldlovescartoons · 1 year ago
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Hi, I’d like to get back on my bullshit for a second.
My Essek Food bullshit, specifically.
Because I remembered Rumblecusp. And I had been enlightened.
Essek would be so excited to eat dinosaurs and whatever else fucked up bullshit lurks on that island. I’m so serious.
The Nein go on dinosaur hunts for old times sake and Essek is just listing fancy ass dishes to try and make because he is noble born elf fancy ass- so. The Nein are like, butchering this T-Rex and he’s just floating there, asking if they think they could make a roulade with that flank? Discussing fillings and sauces and being otherwise unhelpful.
He and Yasha would have the time of their lives hunting and munching on the crazy, huge, carnivorous bugs that live on that island. Like, they are in The Tower, and on one end of the table are most of the Nein with regular food with like exotic fruits they foraged that day and on the other end Yasha and Essek are having those pillbugs from The Emperor’s New Grove going on.
Essek might be treacherous heretic (Jester made him a tunic with it written across the Chester and everything), but he’s having a ‘sloppy Joe’ (will the wonders of the neins naming ever cease?) made with Ankylosaur meat. Suck it, Umavi.
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dollyswishingwell · 27 days ago
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ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Obsessed
𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ flufffff, can you tell i love obsessive men. a very long ramble so get a snack and buckle up. not proof read ( ._. )""
> ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ 5 Things the boys do that reveals how much they adore their wife
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𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:・
ೃ⁀➷ He Paints you Into Everything. Every canvas in his private studio, landscapes, abstract storms, seashell mosaics, contains you likeness or silhouette, whether in bold strokes or hidden in the texture. He claims he doesn’t mean to. He always means to.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You slip into his studio barefoot, the silk hem of your robe whispering around your ankles. The scent of oils and saltwater hangs in the air, heady, familiar, a little intoxicating. Sunlight pours through the high windows, casting glints across half-finished canvases and glass jars filled with crushed shells and pigment powders.
At first glance, you think it’s another seascape. Rafayel only paints landscapes. He’s said it dozens of times, lips curled in that soft, mocking smile: “Humans are too noisy to trap in stillness.”
But as you step closer, your breath catches.
It’s you.
Floating in a dreamy, underwater world, suspended in a swirl of iridescent blues and pearlescent whites. Your figure is draped in silk, hair drifting like sea grass, your eyes gently closed as if in some impossible, peaceful dream. Jellyfish coil in the background like soft lanterns. Coral blooms behind you like a crown.
You blink slowly. “Raffy… is that me?”
He doesn’t answer at first.
But then you feel him, bare feet silent on the floor, arms sliding around your waist. He presses himself to your back, resting his chin on your shoulder. His skin is warm, his breath tickling the side of your throat.
“You know I don’t paint people,” he murmurs.
You nod, still staring.
He exhales, and it’s almost a sigh. “But I can’t stop painting you.”
His fingers, still faintly stained with lilac and sea-glass green, tighten around your waist, slow and protective.
“You’re not for sale,” he adds, so quietly it barely registers. “They ask me what it’s worth. I tell them it’s mine.”
Your heart stutters.
And in the silence, you suddenly notice: every canvas in this room, every abstract tide, every storm, every island, holds the faintest shape of a woman. Of you. Not always clearly. Sometimes only a curve, or a silhouette, or the ghost of your profile in the reef.
He’s never stopped. And he never will.
ೃ⁀➷ He Forgets Everything But You. Rafayel vanishes for a major press event he was supposed to attend, again. When Thomas demands an explanation, he only says, “She made grilled prawns. What did you expect me to do, miss dinner with my wife?”
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
The doorbell rings during lunch. You glance up from your plate of crisp prawn tempura, and Rafayel doesn’t even flinch. He’s busy balancing another piece between his chopsticks, lips slightly pouty as he leans over the table.
You sigh and rise to answer, robe fluttering open just enough to remind you how little effort you put into dressing. The moment the door creaks open, you’re face-to-face with a whole delegation, his sponsors, dressed in business formal, holding tablets and tight smiles.
“Is Rafayel here?” one asks.
You hesitate. Behind you, his voice rings out lazily from the kitchen. “Tell them I’ve retired.”
You turn your head, startled. He’s lounging back in his seat now, bare feet on the chair beside him, eyes half-lidded and lazy.
“Tell them my wife made tempura,” he adds, like that explains everything. “I’m very busy being adored.”
There’s silence at the door. The delegation stares. You just smile, gently close it on them, and pad back to your seat.
ೃ⁀➷ He Gets Jealous of Everything. Seashells you picks up? He polishes and stores them in glass boxes labeled with the date and what you were wearing. A stranger who compliments you? He smiles politely, then later throws the guy’s business card into the sea.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You’re scrolling through your messages on the terrace, legs tucked under you, when Rafayel crawls into the lounge chair beside you like a cat. He’s shirtless, damp from a swim, hair a little tangled. You offer him a bite of your snack. He ignores it.
Instead, he leans over your shoulder.
“Who’s this guy in your comments?” he asks, his voice light but his eyes too sharp. You glance. Just an old acquaintance from when you were a hunter, dropping a harmless “Looking gorgeous as always.”
You shrug. “Just someone I used to work with. It’s nothing.”
Rafayel says nothing for a moment. Then he nuzzles your temple, the scent of sea salt in his hair. “Mm. Nothing, huh?”
You don’t think much of it—until the next day, when you go to reply and realize the account has blocked you. And the comment’s gone. You glance up at Rafayel, who’s lounging in the sun, sunglasses on and humming.
He never admits anything. He doesn’t need to.
ೃ⁀➷ He Makes You Kiss His Paintings. He used to sign his name in paint. Now, every finished canvas is sealed with a kiss—yours, pressed into the corner using the exact lipstick you wore the day you inspired it. Collectors call it iconic. Rafayel just shrugs. “My wife touched it. That’s what made it valuable.”
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You find him in the sunroom with the windows cracked open, paint drying slow and fragrant in the humid afternoon air. He’s crouched barefoot over a massive canvas, white shirt riding up his back, sleeves rolled high and streaked with the dreamy colors of ocean light, pearl blue, soft coral, the shimmer of crushed shell.
You approach quietly, knowing he’s in that delicate space between obsession and completion. He doesn’t turn. Not until you say gently, “Is it finished, Raffy?”
Rafayel leans back on his heels, pushing a wavy strand of lavender hair behind his ear. His blue-pink eyes lift to meet yours, and in them: pride. Possession. A hint of something dangerous.
“It was missing one thing,” he murmurs. “But now you’re here.”
You watch as he walks over to the table, picks up a sleek gold lipstick tube, and returns. It’s your favorite shade, sheer cherry, the one he never lets you throw away even when it wears to a nub.
He uncaps it and offers it to you.
You blink. “You want me to…?”
He nods. “Right here.” He taps the corner of the canvas with two fingers. “Your kiss. Just one.”
Your lips part to protest, this is a multimillion-dollar piece. It’ll be in some sealed climate-controlled vault, studied and auctioned and critiqued to death. But Rafayel just tilts his head, smile lazy, voice velvet.
“It’s not real until you touch it.”
So you give in. You always do.
You swipe on the lipstick, lean in close, and press your mouth to the edge of the painting. Soft. Careful. You feel his eyes on you the whole time.
When you pull back, he doesn’t say a word.
He just steps forward, kisses you slow, slow enough to taste the pigment, and then turns back to the canvas like he’s finished a prayer.
“You know they’d pay triple just for that,” he says absently.
You glance at him. “Why?”
He smiles. “Because you’re iconic, darling.”
ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Your Things Close. He steals your perfume, your hair clips, even a used teacup you left on the balcony. Says it’s for “inspiration,” but really, he just likes the idea of your scent lingering while he works (or sulks).
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You’re looking for a clean brush in his studio, muttering to yourself as you open one drawer, then another.
Then you pause.
Inside the drawer is a strange little hoard, your old lip balm, a few bobby pins, one of your silk ribbons, even a used teacup you left on the balcony last week. You pick it up slowly, squinting. There’s even a candy wrapper tucked between some pigment jars.
“Rafayel,” you call out, turning to face him.
He’s lounging in the window seat, sketchpad on his knees, not even pretending to look guilty.
“What?” he says innocently.
You hold up the teacup. “This? Seriously?”
He grins. “It still smells like you.”
You raise an eyebrow. “So you’re just keeping…trash now?”
He laughs and sets the sketchpad aside, moving toward you.
“It’s not trash,” he whispers as he corners you. “It’s you. I collect you. It makes me feel better when you’re not here.”
And then he plucks the ribbon from your hand and ties it loosely around your wrist, like he’s tagging his favorite possession.
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𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆
ೃ⁀➷ He Tracks Your Health Like a Patient File. Zayne keeps a private log of your vitals, moods, and sleep patterns. You think he’s just observant, but he’s cross-referencing it with medical journals at 3 a.m.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You find the notebook by accident.
Tucked beneath his copy of Advanced Cardiac Interventions, bound in clean black leather and edged in silver, it looks like one of his clinical logs. You flip it open, expecting complicated sketches of vascular stents or surgical outcomes.
Instead, you see this:
7:42 a.m.
Slept poorly. Rolled to left side more than usual. Possible muscle strain? Check pillow firmness.
8:10 a.m.
Drank only half of tea. Appetite lower than yesterday. Monitor.
8:47 a.m.
Smiled during hair brushing. Slight color return to cheeks. Good.
Your name appears at the top of every page.
You stare at it, stunned. Pages and pages of you, your moods, sleep cycles, appetite, temperature tolerance. Every headache, every restless night. The week you had a sore throat, he recorded it down to the hour. On the morning you cried watching a commercial, he’d written: Stress response? Hormonal? Monitor quietly. Do not press.
You turn another page. This one has no timestamp. Just a scribbled line:
If she ever shows signs of cardiac fatigue, run full scan. No delays. Assume responsibility.
The door clicks open behind you.
“Zaynie—” you start, holding the notebook.
He doesn’t even look surprised. Just walks forward, expression unreadable, loosens his tie. “It’s not a diagnosis log. It’s a care record.”
“You track me like a patient.”
“No.” He takes it gently from your hands, tucks it away without shame. “I track you like someone I can’t afford to lose.”
You go quiet.
He tilts your chin up with two fingers, eyes steady behind his silver-framed glasses. “You’re the only case I won’t let worsen. Not even for a moment.”
ೃ⁀➷ He Clears His Schedule Around Your Routine. He’s performed emergency surgeries on four hours of sleep, but will never miss tea time at 4 p.m. with you. His assistants think it’s a personal ritual. It’s not. It’s yours.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You’re half-asleep on the velvet couch when you hear the front door click open.
It’s early. You glance at the clock: 3:52 p.m.
Zayne shouldn’t be home for another two hours, he had two consultations and a surgical debrief on the calendar. You even teased him about it this morning, telling him to stop looking at the clock during breakfast like he was counting down.
But there he is.
Stoic as ever, undoing his cuffs and shrugging off his coat with that meticulous grace. He doesn’t say anything as he walks in, just places his briefcase down, rolls his sleeves to the elbow, and starts making your tea.
You blink at him from the couch. “Zaynie. Your schedule—”
“Pushed the debrief to next week,” he says calmly. “The consults can wait.”
You sit up. “You left the hospital for tea?”
He glances over his shoulder as he lifts the kettle. “It’s 4 p.m. I always make your tea at 4 p.m.”
You shake your head, a laugh in your throat. “You’re going to get scolded by the board again.”
He hums, unbothered. “They can manage. You can’t be replaced.”
You watch as he takes out the tea set, the one with the delicate gold rims you picked out for no reason except that it made you feel pretty when he poured from it.
He sets your cup down first, always yours first, then his. Sits beside you and taps your wrist softly, like clockwork.
“You haven’t taken your supplements today.”
You scowl, pouting as you reach for the bottle. “What are you, my doctor?”
He raises a brow. “You married a surgeon. What did you expect?”
You expect a lot of things. But not this, Zayne cutting through a lineup of executives, board members, and patients to be here at 4 p.m. sharp. Not this ritual that feels more sacred than professional.
“I’m not a meeting,” you murmur, sipping the tea.
“No,” he says, leaning back with one arm behind you. “You’re a priority.”
ೃ⁀➷ He Hates When You’re Cold.Zayne keeps your home slightly warmer than normal, always brings your coat before you asks, and has custom-heated floors installed in your dressing room without telling you.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
The mansion is warm.
Not just comfortable, warm. The kind of heat that wraps around your ankles and wrists like a cashmere hug. You never thought twice about it, not until guests started pointing it out.
“Is it always this cozy in here?” someone had asked once, tugging at their collar. “You could grow citrus trees indoors.”
Zayne just adjusted the thermostat two degrees higher and said nothing.
You only notice now because you’re in the dressing room, barefoot on the plush floors, rifling through your jewelry when you feel it, radiant heat rising from the floorboards. Not the artificial kind, but the quiet, engineered warmth that takes someone weeks to plan and hours to install.
You drop your earrings into the tray and call out, “Zaynie?”
He appears in the doorway like a shadow, black slacks, dress shirt still tucked in from work, silver glasses slightly fogged from the change in temperature.
“Yes?”
“Did you… get the floors changed?”
A slow blink. “You’ve been cold lately.”
“I wasn’t complaining—”
“You shivered twice last week. I counted.”
You stare at him. “You installed radiant heating just because I shivered twice?”
He steps forward, gently brushing a lock of hair from your cheek, then taps your nose once with a gloved finger. “Three times, if we’re being honest.”
Your protest is swallowed when he pulls a soft wrap from behind his back, a designer one, neutral-toned and heavy with warmth, and drapes it around your shoulders like a cloak.
“I also replaced the coat hooks by the door. Yours are lower now. So you don’t have to stretch.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m observant,” he corrects, dipping to press a kiss against the top of your head. “And I don’t like it when my wife is uncomfortable. Even a little.”
You want to say something, something sweet or teasing, but his arms slide around your waist, anchoring you there.
And the truth is… you’re not cold anymore.
ೃ⁀➷ He Has a Room No One’s Allowed to Enter. It’s not a secret. Everyone at the hospital knows: third-floor office, east wing, always locked. Inside? Dozens of framed photos of you. Candid shots. your school ID. A painting you made in childhood. Everything.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
The east wing of the hospital is always quiet. Too quiet, even for a place filled with polished tile and pressed coats and the sterile smell of antiseptic. You walk past the administrative offices, nod to a few nurses who smile at you knowingly, and stop in front of the door with no label.
Just a number etched into frosted glass: 3-E.
No one else ever enters this room. You know because you’ve asked, and because when you tried to open it once without him, it was locked. Always locked.
Until Zayne’s on shift.
Today, as always, he’s already waiting inside.
He doesn’t say anything when you enter. Just looks up from the chair by the window, glasses pushed slightly down his nose, and gives you that rare, quiet smile that no one else gets. The one he never makes in operating rooms or at board meetings.
“This isn’t your office,” you say, teasing lightly as you close the door behind you.
“No.” He stands, crosses the room, kisses your cheek. “It’s ours.”
You glance around. The room is dimly lit, untouched by hospital whites. The shelves are filled with little things: your high school award ribbon, a clay heart you made when you were kids, framed photos of you asleep on the couch, smiling with a pastry, reading at the garden table.
One wall is just… you.
Dozens of images. Not just posed photos, but candid shots from over the years, captured quietly, some even a little blurred. One from your university entrance ceremony. Another of you holding a stray kitten. One where you’re dancing barefoot in the kitchen, clearly unaware of the lens.
“They’d say this is unprofessional,” you whisper, half in awe.
Zayne follows your gaze. “They don’t enter this room. They don’t even know what it’s for.”
“Doesn’t the hospital need the space?”
He turns to you, brow slightly raised. “They can build another wing.”
You laugh. But he’s serious. He always is.
You sit on the leather couch, brought in just for this room, and lean into his side when he joins you. It smells like clean books and cologne, like safety.
“They think I’m taking breaks here,” he murmurs against your hair. “And I am. You’re the only thing that resets me.”
You press your hand over his, steady and warm on your thigh. “Even on days when you’re operating for ten hours straight?”
He answers without pause. “Especially then.”
You smile.
Because no one else is allowed in here. Not nurses. Not doctors. Not directors or surgeons or donors. No one.
Only you.
ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Your Wedding Ring on During Surgery. Strictly against protocol. But Zayne wears a thin chain beneath his scrub top with your ring on it, always close to his heart. He kisses it once before every surgery.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
It’s early.
Too early for visitors, but the surgical wing lets you through anyway. They always do. You’ve become a familiar sight, soft sweater, low heels, a thermos of tea in one hand and a warm roll tucked into foil in the other. Someone even tried calling you “Doctor’s Wife” once in passing.
You didn’t correct them.
You find him in the prep room, silent and steady, already halfway into his scrubs. His surgical coat is neatly folded beside him. Monitors glow soft green and blue around the edges of the room.
He doesn’t look up when you enter, but only because he doesn’t need to.
“You’re early,” he says, voice low, hands gloved as he ties the final knot at the back of his scrub top.
“I made you tea.”
He finally turns to face you.
For a second, all the tension in his shoulders melts. “You always do.”
You cross the room, careful not to disrupt the sterility, and hand him the thermos. His fingers brush yours, a small, practiced touch, but his gaze lingers longer.
And then you see it.
Around his neck, tucked beneath the high collar of his scrubs, a silver chain glints against his skin. Hanging from it, almost modestly, is the wedding ring.
Your breath catches. “Zayne…”
“It’s safer this way during surgery,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the chain once. “Can’t risk tearing a glove or contaminating the field.”
“You could leave it in a locker.”
“I don’t take it off,” he replies, eyes locking with yours. “It stays on me. Always.”
You stare at him, chest aching.
He steps closer, lifts your hand to his lips, and kisses your knuckles through the gloves. “If something goes wrong in the OR… I want it to be the last thing touching me.”
You don’t speak. Can’t.
He gently taps the ring where it rests against his heart. “This isn’t for display. It’s a promise. And I don’t break promises.”
The intercom chimes, calling his name.
He gives your hand one last squeeze before slipping past you toward the surgical theater, every step calm, every movement exact. As if the ring resting against his heart is the most sacred tool he’ll carry in with him.
And maybe it is.
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𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Journal Only You’re Allowed to Read. Each night, Xavier writes in a private, leather-bound journal filled only with thoughts of you. His quiet observations, sketches, and memories line the pages, everything from what color you wore that day to how you smelled when you hugged him goodnight. No one else knows it exists.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
Xavier has always been quiet, unreadable to nearly everyone. But buried in the locked drawer beside his bed, tucked beneath mission reports and sleek silver weapons, is a worn, soft-covered notebook.
He writes in it every night.
No one else knows it exists. It doesn’t contain mission details or philosophical musings.
It’s about you.
Each entry is a fragment of a day with you: what you wore, what you smiled at, the exact phrasing of something you whispered in your sleep. He documents it with a near-clinical focus, until the margins start to fill with drawings of your earrings, your hand, the way your lashes curl when you cry.
You once caught him writing.
He froze, half-leaning over the desk, hand hovering above the page.
“I’ll stop,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.
You asked, “Why would you stop?”
He finally looked up. “Because I wouldn’t want it to scare you.”
You took the journal, read the last line he’d written:
She brought me a piece of cake and fell asleep in my lap. The frosting was on her cheek. I hope she does it again.
You kissed his temple and handed it back.
Now, when he finishes writing for the night, he sets it beside your pillow.
No lock anymore.
Because only you are allowed to read it.
ೃ⁀➷ He Memorizes the Sound of Your Footsteps. Xavier claims it’s for safety reasons, but he can tell it’s you coming from down the hall before anyone else, no matter how quiet. If someone else walks like you? He’ll tilt his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Not her,” he murmurs.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
The doors of the Deepspace hunter association HQ hiss open behind him.
Xavier doesn’t turn.
His fingers glide over the interface of the tactical screen, scanning alerts from Sector 9. Silence, for a moment. Then he pauses, his body still, attention snapping to the faint echo of steps approaching.
He listens.
One beat. Two. Click. Tap. Click. Tap.
Too fast. Too light.
“Wrong rhythm,” he murmurs to no one in particular.
The new hunter at the entrance freezes. “Sir?”
Xavier finally turns. His blue eyes narrow ever so slightly. “You walk like someone trying to be unnoticed. My wife doesn’t.”
The hunter stammers something about relaying a message.
“Leave it on the console,” Xavier says, returning to the screen. But the data means nothing now. Not until he hears the right steps.
Twenty minutes later, he hears them, high heels, soft, wrapped in the familiar click of your star anklet charm, and for the first time that day, he breathes properly.
ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Falling Asleep in Your Lap, No Matter Where. Floor of the observatory? Mid tea time? Wrapped in a blanket on the rooftop terrace? If you’re there, he’s instantly more relaxed, and unconscious. Only you can wake him. Gently. With a kiss.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You find him curled up on the reading room floor, halfway under the desk, using your folded cardigan as a pillow.
Again.
You huff softly and crouch beside him, brushing a bit of silver hair from his cheek. “Xavi…”
“Shhh,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “You make good shadows.”
“You’re not even on me this time.”
He shifts, arms snaking out lazily until he finds your lap. Without a second thought, he lays his head there and sighs. “Better.”
You blink. “This is the sixth time this week you’ve passed out in a random room.”
“I don’t pass out,” he says sleepily. “I regenerate. You’re my recharge station.”
You roll your eyes. But your fingers are already stroking through his hair, and he’s already asleep
ೃ⁀➷ He Wears Your Hairpin in missions. He found it on the bathroom counter once, small, simple, glinting with a faint lavender shine. Now he tucks it into his uniform, inside his coat, just over his chest. No one else sees it. But it’s always there. And he always comes back alive.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
The black undershirt of his uniform is half-unzipped, hung up beside his jacket after a long mission. You notice it only when helping him undress, right there, tucked just inside the lining near his chest.
Your lavender hairpin.
“Xavier.” You hold it up. “What is this doing in here?”
He looks at it, expression unreadable. “It was on the bathroom counter.”
“Yes, last week.”
He tilts his head slightly. “You left it. It looked like protection.”
“You wore it into the no hunt zone?”
He meets your eyes and finally says, softer, “I always come back when I wear it.”
Your heart stutters.
He doesn’t ask for it back. You tuck it into the pocket of his coat yourself the next morning.
ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Jar of Your Perfume in His Jacket Pocket. He claims it’s to mask foreign pheromone readings during missions. But when he thinks you’re not looking, he opens the jar just to breathe you in. Even mid-fight.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
He’s supposed to be on a stealth mission.
But you find him crouched on the balcony at 3AM, jacket over his shoulders, gloved fingers toying with the tiny glass jar he keeps in his pocket.
You know what it is. Your perfume, mixed into a custom oil he once bottled by hand. Just enough to carry your scent with him.
He doesn’t see you approach until you sit beside him.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmur.
“No.” He doesn’t look at you—but his fingers still on the jar. “This is the part of the mission where I start wondering if I’ll get back.”
You press a hand to his thigh. “You always do.”
He finally turns to you, eyes darker in the moonlight. “Because you’re waiting.”
He opens the jar and breathes in. Then leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your neck, just under your ear.
“You smell like home,” he says quietly.
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𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚。𓅨⋆。°✩
ೃ⁀➷ He Brands His Territory. With Elegance. Every dress, every pair of heels, every piece of jewelry you wear at public events is custom-designed and crafted with a hidden signature: a red crow seal pressed somewhere only he knows to look. You belong to him, and everyone important knows it.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
The gala hall is filled with powerful men and women, each dressed like royalty. Your gown glimmers, slit high, heels sharper than your stare. Still, you fidget. You feel them watching.
Then Sylus appears.
He leans close, voice low against your ear, lips brushing your skin. “You feel them staring, don’t you?”
You nod, uneasy.
He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t growl.
He smirks. “Let them. None of them are brave enough to ask what the red crow seal means.”
You blink. “Seal?”
He runs a gloved finger along the back of your dress—stopping just above the zipper. You feel it now: a faint embossed sigil, stitched in blood-red silk.
“They’ll see it eventually,” he hums. “And they’ll know: you’re already taken. Stamped. Sealed. Mine.”
ೃ⁀➷ He Secretly Monitors Every Room You Walk Into. His tech teams set up discreet surveillance in every public space you frequent, not to spy, but to react instantly if you’re ever in trouble. He doesn’t trust the world with you. Only himself.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You had thought it was coincidence, the same man, twice in the café, once again outside the plaza. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t approached. Just… lingered.
When you mention it offhandedly during dinner, Sylus stills mid-sip of his wine.
His eyes glow faint red.
“Describe him.”
You do.
He doesn’t ask for clarification.
The next morning, the man is gone. Not dead. Not harmed. But scrubbed from every system, persona, and file. As if he’d never existed.
You ask Sylus about it.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you think I built surveillance in your world for decoration? I see what you don’t, darling. And I remove it before it gets close enough to blink.”
ೃ⁀➷ He Makes Enemies Disappear, Before You Know They Were a Threat. You never hear about the journalist who tried to dig into your private life. Or the petty business who made a backhanded comment about you in an executive room. But Sylus heard, and their influence vanished overnight.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You never hear about them.
The journalist who asked one too many questions. The analyst who muttered something sharp under their breath during a conference. The rival heiress who dared to imply that you were just a pretty face on Sylus’s arm.
You don’t notice it, but Sylus does.
He always does.
And he acts before the insult ever reaches your ears.
One week later, the journalist’s platform is gone, shut down by a legal landslide no one saw coming. The analyst? “Transferred” to a silent post on the moon’s edge. The heiress? Her fortune crumbles overnight, and no one dares mention why. It all happens so quietly, so cleanly, like they simply… ceased to matter.
You ask, once.
“What happened to her?”
Sylus hums, unbothered, sipping his wine as he fingers the red brooch on your chest. “Nothing important.”
You lean into him, the warmth of his blazer draped over your shoulders. He kisses your temple without taking his eyes off the skyline.
You never ask again.
Because when you walk into a room now, people look twice, and then bow. Not out of fear of you, but of what moves behind you. What watches. What whispers your name like a silent, invisible crown.
They never see it coming.
But Sylus does.
And he never misses.
ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Private Gallery, Of Only You. Tucked deep in his base is a red-lit room that no one enters but him. Inside: holograms, still photos, sketches, images of you in every expression, mood, and angle. He never brings it up. But when he’s gone for too long, that’s where he disappears to.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You’ve never seen the room.
No one has.
Tucked beneath biometric locks and red-lit corridors in one of Sylus’s most secure bases, it’s not listed on any blueprint. Not even his most loyal lieutenants know it exists. But it does.
A space carved out of shadows and silence. The walls? Floor-to-ceiling screens and sketch-strewn tables. Dozens of holoframes flickering in dim light, each holding you.
You, smiling in the garden of your villa. You, asleep with a book slipping from your fingers. You, storm-eyed and laughing, lips painted in defiance. Moments you don’t even remember, captured and preserved like relics of devotion. Holograms move in slow loops, and still sketches, hand-drawn in crimson ink, rest beneath protective glass.
He doesn’t speak about it. Never tells you.
But when he’s gone too long, deep in enemy territory, cut off by war, surrounded by silence and blood—that’s where he goes. Sits in the dark. Watches you.
Not the public versions of you, no.
The real ones.
He doesn’t look at maps. Doesn’t check reports. He stands with his hands in his pockets and eyes on your smile like it’s the only light left in the universe.
And when he finally returns, smelling of steel and victory, he always cups your face like it’s been centuries.
You don’t know why.
But he does.
Because even the coldest man in the world needs warmth to come back to.
And for Sylus?
That warmth is always, only, you.
ೃ⁀➷ He Carries a Locket, A Crimson One. Worn under his shirt, never seen by anyone else. Inside it? A delicate photo of you, smiling, hair windblown, wearing the crow brooch he gave you. You’ve never seen it. He never takes it off.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You’ve never seen it, not once.
But you’ve felt it.
The faint weight beneath his shirt when he leans over you. The way his fingers brush against it when he’s deep in thought, lounging with that maddening, crooked smile. It’s small, oval, and warm with his body heat, and he never lets anyone touch it.
He’d never even mentioned it until one evening, when you reached for the top button of his shirt, teasing, playful.
His hand closed gently over yours, not stopping, just… slowing.
“What’s that?” you asked, your voice lilting as you tugged the fabric aside.
His eyes flicked down to the blood-red glint at his chest, half-concealed by shadows. You expected a smirk. A sly remark.
But instead, something quieter.
“A locket.”
You blinked. “With what inside?”
A pause. Then:
“You.”
You laughed softly, thinking he was joking.
But he wasn’t.
Worn beneath his clothes, closer to his heart than even the blade strapped to his side, was a crimson locket, deep as garnet, smooth as glass. Inside, a photo he’d taken himself. You didn’t even remember when. You, laughing. Wind in your hair. His crow brooch pinned proudly on your coat.
He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t warned you.
He just kept it.
You reach for it again, slower this time. His fingers don’t stop you.
“I didn’t know you carried this,” you whisper.
His voice is low, rough with a rare honesty. “They can burn my armories. Wipe my networks. Hunt me across star systems. But no one touches this.”
You press a kiss to the spot just above the locket, over the soft beat of his heart.
No words needed.
Because you know now.
That long before he wore crowns of weaponry,
He crowned you the only thing worth carrying.
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𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆。 ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧。 ⋆
ೃ⁀➷ He Locked You in Paradise. After his last mission, Caleb used his authority to retire you from your job and install you in the Skyhaven penthouse, top floor, panoramic view, full staff, and only one keycard. His. You never asked for a cage. But now? You never want to leave.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
It started with a mission. A long one. Too long.
You didn’t even hear the shuttle land that night, just the hiss of the pressure seal releasing and the sound of Caleb’s boots crossing the penthouse marble like thunder.
“Where’s your comm?” he asked you before even setting down his cap, eyes sharp, voice too calm.
You’d left it in the bathroom. Just for a moment. But it didn’t matter.
The next day, he filed the retirement papers. Without discussion. Without permission. The same afternoon, he upgraded the locks, biometric. One keycard. His. The others, including yours, were deactivated with clinical efficiency.
You had no job. No schedule. No exit.
Just the view from the top of Skyhaven. And him.
At first, you resented it. You tried sulking. Tried pacing. Tried threatening to “go back out there.”
Caleb didn’t flinch.
He just poured you wine, removed your comm privileges from the Farspace network, and told the staff to prepare your bath. “You’re not a hunter,” he said simply. “You’re mine.”
But somewhere between the soft silks he ordered in your exact size and the new vanity fully stocked with all your old favorite products, between the morning massages, the hand-delivered breakfasts, and the scent of him clinging to your sheets, you stopped trying the door.
Now? You wait for him at the window every night, curled in the armchair in one of his stolen shirts. The sky glows violet with the shimmer of passing ships. Your comm is still offline. The outside world doesn’t reach you here.
But Caleb does.
He always does.
The door opens with a soft hiss, and you don’t even have to turn your head.
Gloved hands slip beneath your knees as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. “I told you I’d be back before sunset.”
“You’re late,” you murmur against his collar.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
And he does, every night.
Because the penthouse may be a cage, but the view?
The view is everything.
And you’ve never been more adored, more protected, or more kept than you are here, locked in paradise, where you belong.
ೃ⁀➷ He Runs, While Carrying You. Every morning, he runs laps around the private garden district of Skyhaven, where only the richest officials live. And every morning, you’re in his arms, giggling in your robe while he jogs with your full weight cradled like treasure. You hate cardio. He makes sure you never have to do it.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
Every morning, at exactly 0600, Colonel Caleb of the Farspace Fleet runs his required laps around the gated Skyhaven residential sector. It’s part of his personal discipline, regulation fitness, stamina drills, mental clarity.
But ever since you became his wife, the routine changed.
Because you wanted to be with him, always, but you hated exercise. Hated the way it made your limbs sore, hated sweating, hated the sheer effort of cardio.
You pouted once, half-wrapped in a throw blanket on the penthouse balcony, saying, “I wanna come, but I’m not doing all that running.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Okay.”
The next morning, he scooped you into his arms, like it was a drill, and took off at full pace, jogging smoothly with your full weight held against his chest.
And now?
It’s ritual. His boots pound the stone path as sunrise lights the clouds, your laughter curling around his ear as you rest your cheek on his shoulder. You’re wrapped in one of his jackets, and you hum softly while he breathes in time with his stride.
Guards salute him. Other officials glance and look away. No one dares comment.
It’s not just a run. It’s his workout with you.
“You’re ridiculous,” you giggle.
Caleb smirks, lips brushing your temple as he exhales, “And you’re my favorite dumbbell.”
ೃ⁀➷ He Dresses You Like a Trophy. You don’t just attend his banquets, you dominate them. He reserves exclusive boutiques just for you, takes leave just to sit back in uniform while you model silks and satin, and buys anything you so much as glance at. You don’t even carry your own bags. That’s what aides are for.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
You don’t even know how many gowns you’ve tried on at this point, but from your place in the boutique’s mirrored lounge, you can hear Caleb’s answer before you ask.
“Get it, Pipsqueak” he says smoothly, voice low with that self-satisfied purr he only gets when you’re dressed to kill. He hasn’t even looked up from where he sits, one leg crossed over the other, black gloves still on from his uniform, Farspace insignia glinting at his collarbone.
You arch a brow in the mirror, turning to examine the open back of the navy silk gown. “You haven’t even seen it.”
“I saw you step out in it. That was enough.”
The stylist freezes. The aides freeze. Even the boutique manager, who only takes appointments from Skyhaven’s highest elite, keeps her eyes low. This isn’t just any Farspace officer treating his girl. This is Colonel Caleb. And you? You’re his. Everyone knows it.
You shift toward him. “You’re spoiling me.”
He leans back on the velvet sofa, eyes dragging up your body with slow, deliberate appreciation. “I’m dressing my victory. You think I’m walking into my own banquet without showing them exactly what I come home to every night?”
A flush rises in your cheeks, but Caleb just gestures lazily with a gloved hand toward the boutique racks. “Try the white one next. I want them to suffer.”
You do. And when you step out in it, spun moonlight over your skin, slit high enough to tease his attention, you catch the twitch of his jaw. That little shift in posture. The faintest smile tugging at his lips.
He doesn’t say “get it” this time.
He just pulls out his comm and says, “Wrap the collection. She’s taking everything.”
You don’t carry a single box. Caleb’s aides handle it all, silent, efficient, practiced. You only hear him again when he’s behind you, coat brushing your back as he leans in to whisper against your neck:
“Next time, we’ll have the whole atelier flown in. I don’t want you lifting a finger. You’re mine to admire, not to work.”
And when you strut into his banquet hours later, his arm tight around your waist, his voice low as he murmurs sweet praises against your temple, you realize something:
You’re not just his wife.
You’re his masterpiece on display.
ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps All Your Stuff, Everywhere. Caleb spreads pieces of you in all his outposts. A lipstick-stained mug on his office desk. A perfume bottle by his cockpit window. A hairbrush tucked in his warship quarters. His subordinates know better than to ask. It’s not for them. It’s for him. Always.
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
The Skyhaven airstrip bakes under the sun as Caleb descends from the sleek body of his warship, black coat catching the breeze like wings. Officers stand at attention. Engines wind down. But his mind isn’t on them.
It’s on you.
More specifically, on the soft pink lip print still visible on the mug stationed by his cockpit window.
He doesn’t bother wiping it off.
Inside his private wing at Command, the same pattern repeats: a perfume bottle resting beside a case of classified datapads, a velvet scrunchie on the corner of his comms console, a pair of slippers you once kicked off after sitting in his lap during a mission briefing. They’re still there. No one dares move them.
Because everyone in the Fleet knows: those aren’t forgotten things.
They’re claimed.
“Sir,” one bold officer says as he walks past. “You want us to clear the desk before Admiral Talyn arrives?”
Caleb looks up from the mug.
The lipstick kiss stares back at him, barely faded, still perfect.
“No,” he replies coldly. “She can learn to keep her hands to herself.”
The officer goes silent. Caleb continues typing a report with one hand while gently straightening your brush with the other, aligning it so the strands you left behind remain untouched. His expression never softens in public, but if they look closely, they’ll see the way his thumb drifts over the place where your fingers last held the handle.
Later that night, when he’s back at the penthouse and you’re curled in his lap like always, drowsy, spoiled, his, you ask him why he brings your things everywhere.
“Because,” he murmurs, voice low as he presses a kiss beneath your ear, “even when I’m flying over war zones or buried in Fleet intel… I need a piece of you to breathe.”
ೃ⁀➷ He Answers to No One But You. Military brass demand his time. Parliament wants answers. But the moment your call pings his comms, he’s gone. Doesn’t matter if he’s mid-meeting, mid-strategy, or mid-battle. He always answers your voice with one word: “Yes, sweetheart?”
✦ .  ⁺   . ✦ .  ⁺   . ✦
The command deck of the Farspace Fleet flagship is locked in tension, holographic maps flickering, lieutenants barking coordinates, and Caleb standing at the helm, arms folded behind his back. His black military coat billows slightly from the ship’s internal draft, the purple and red of his insignia gleaming beneath sterile light.
“Colonel, the intercept window closes in three minutes. We need your—”
A soft chime pings in his earpiece.
Caleb stiffens.
One breath. Then another.
The officer beside him squints. “Colonel?”
Caleb lifts a gloved hand, silencing the room with a single motion. Without explanation, he turns on his heel and walks out of the war room, no hesitation, no urgency, like none of this matters compared to the name flashing across his comms.
By the time the blast doors seal behind him, his voice softens into something nearly boyish. He taps the call. “Yes, sweetheart?”
There’s a moment of silence, then your warm, sleep-softened voice: “Hi. I couldn’t sleep… Are you busy?”
He exhales through his nose, slow and fond, already pulling off one glove. “Not anymore.”
“Caleb—wait, aren’t you in the middle of something—?”
“No,” he says simply. “I’m in the hallway. Alone. And I’d rather talk to my wife.”
Your breath catches. He can hear the tiny creak of the penthouse sheets when you curl deeper into them. He imagines you in that oversized shirt you stole from his closet, blinking at the ceiling like you always do when he’s away too long.
“I just missed you,” you murmur.
“I’m flying back after this,” he replies instantly. “Banquet be damned. They’ll reschedule.”
You laugh quietly, like you don’t quite believe him. He’s already opening a classified channel with his off-hand, rerouting half a fleet to cover his absence.
They’ll survive.
They always do.
But only one person gets his everything.
And she’s already in bed, waiting.
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603 notes · View notes
yuansie · 2 months ago
Text
(3) even when there was rain, sunshine came
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pairing. caleb x fem! childhood friend! non mc! reader (x childhood bsf! zayne)
synopsis. caleb planted a seed in your heart when you were both young, nurturing it without meaning to until it sprouted and blossomed. it shouldn't have grown this much, not when you knew you could never have him.
genres/aus. angst, fluff, f2l, unrequited love, childhood f2l
warnings. mentions of death, attending (a) funeral(s), lots of crying, reader goes down an emotionally unavailable time period but worry she feels better afterwards, small and and brief mentions of hatred oops, and cursing bc someone now does that double oops! if there's anything i'm missing, please let me know!
rating. pg-13 whoops.
wc. 5 k
a/n. not proof read as always lol also... mayhaps a double update is coming... maybe... also that last bit may be wonky bc obvi i havent graduated from uni yet so ion know how that looks like WHOOPS ❤️‍🔥
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your fifteenth spring teaches you the reality of what it is like to truly mourn for someone. the news came to you in the midst of exams week at the aerospace academy, and it came to you in the form of your dad’s lieutenant colonel—his best friend. when you open the door to your dorm, you knew what it meant when you saw the man stand before you, his cap tucked in between his arm and side, his gaze downcast. your ears rang so loudly that you didn’t hear when he apologized.
and the rest of that week went by in a blur.
you took your exams and promptly prepared for the funeral the farspace fleet would give your dad in skyhaven.
it was an odd feeling.
attending your dad’s funeral in skyhaven was like a nightmare, a surreal experience that you wanted to wake up from. you always thought your dad would die of old age and be buried in bloomshore’s cemetery, long after retiring. yet, here you are: at the farspace fleet, watching as the general gave a speech about the brightest alum of the aesrospace academy and the best colonel he had the pleasure of training when he was a lieutenant. honestly, you don’t even pay attention to the old man. you know your mom isn’t either. you pay attention to the casket, the way the polished surface shines brightly against the unforgiving sun.
it’s an odd thing: attending a funeral when there is nothing in the casket.
because your dad died in the deepspace tunnel, the only casualty of the patrol team he was leading. you heard of his pilots’ recounts of the event, heard of it from his second-in-command. everything was normal, everything was going smoothly. then, the space felt weird. everything felt still for a second.
there was a vibration in the air, a low hum that intensified.
“your father gave the order for the patrol team to turn back.” a pause. “we were turning around when a vortex opened and…”
the deepspace tunnel.
what an unpredictable and unforgiving thing.
you blink, and suddenly there are people you’ve never seen before giving you their condolences.
“i’ll be organizing a small funeral for your dad,” your mom mumbles to you in between the shower of apologies you receive and the pitying gazes.
you glance at her. “do you need help?”
she shakes her head. “it’ll be small… just family.”
you suck a breath in and your finger twitches in your lap. “can zayne—”
“his family will be there,” she grabs your hand, giving it a light squeeze. “they’re family, too. do you want caleb there?”
caleb.
there is a tinge of anger that tugs at the strings of your heart, searing ardently within you.
even now, when you think you can move on from the idea of him—the thought of him—he still manages to slither back in some way.
you shake your head. “no. i just want zayne there.”
what’s it to caleb, anyways?
he stopped caring in eighth grade, so he won't care now.
and you don't have time to mourn over a living person who broke your heart.
your mom was quick to organize your dad’s funeral. a week later, while you’re on spring break, you find yourself at the kitchen table with your mom.
“what do you want in the casket?”
you tilt your head at her question. “excuse me?”
she continues filling out some paperwork. “what do you want to put in his casket for tomorrow? i’m putting in his awful collection of vinyls.” she chuckles, but you see the slight tremble in her fingers.
your dad often joked that he’d like to be buried with his vinyls so no one else could have them—he mostly said that because his best friend always eyed them when they were students in the academy.
what do you want to bury?
you think of his cap, the one that sits in your dorm right by the picture of zayne you have on your desk.
“nothing.” you finally say. “i… don’t want to put anything in the casket.”
you want to keep your dad by your side, you don't want to forget him.
“okay.”
and this time around, the funeral feels real.
your throat feels tight, your heart beats faster than usual. the sky weeps along with your heart, you feel like the world is spinning too quickly and that you’re about to sink down.
everything feels like a mess.
your mom stands to your right, her eyes fixed on the casket that’s being lowered into the ground. she moves forward, standing in front of the pit. she says something you cannot hear, kisses the white flower in her hand and lets it fall inside.
a squeeze breaks you out from your daze, warmth seeping into you. from the corner of your eye, zayne nods at you. with a gulp, you take a step forwards, then another until you're in front of the pit. you stare down at the casket.
this is too real.
standing in front of his casket makes it too real.
the man who called you his little star, the man who wasn't always around but tried to be, the man who never read you the classic bedtime stories and instead told you about the different jets in the fleet, the man who made you fall in love with the sky, the man who loved you more than anyone ever will and proudly told you that as if it were an undeniable fact—he is dead.
your dad is actually gone.
dead.
and your knees give out. you’re unsure whether you’ve been crying from the start but you are now: the tears rapidly fall down your cheeks, burning in excruciating pain. you don't care about the mud that gets on your clothes, all you can focus on is that emptiness and pain you feel, the wide hole that sinks into your chest.
a warm hand touches your shoulder, gentle as if to not break you further. arms circle around you, carefully bringing your head into a familiar crook. zayne exhales softly, a hand running up and down the length of your back. the umbrella he held up now lays forgotten on the ground.
“it hurts,” you croak, grabbing a fist full of his coat. “it hurts so much, zayne… make it stop.”
he continues to hold you. “it will hurt for a long time,” he says. “because healing takes a long time. you’ll learn to live with this one day… maybe not now, but one day.”
you can only gasp in response, clinging onto zayne as your sobs begin to take over, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “he’s dead,” you shut your eyes and press yourself closer to zayne, “he’s gone.”
you feel him shake his head. “he isn’t. he lives right,” zayne leans back, the hand that once held your head now pointing at your heart, “in here. he’s always going to be there with you.”
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the seasons come and go, the days blur together, and the faces you see everyday you can never put a name to. you talk to your mom every day, and you delude yourself into thinking that clipped responses are better than none at all.
it’s the most you can do, after all.
you talk to zayne less despite having lived in the same city for four years now. you pull away from him slowly, taking small steps away until the gap between you has grown into what it is now: a canyon. the distance was already there when he left, so it shouldn't matter if it's grown more now that you’ve done the same.
and the small girl you left behind? the one who made the sun rise? you haven’t spoken to her once since your dad’s funeral in bloomshore. you didn't even tell her of his passing—you just stopped talking all together, and in between your fresh sorrow and her constant messages, she stopped trying to get a hold of you, as if coming to the slow realization that you're… done.
honestly, you don't blame her for stopping. you were a bitch, the remnants of a heartache mixed with your grief drove you to give her the cold shoulder.
you’ve pushed them all away and locked yourself in the prison that is your fear: the fear of getting too close and experiencing that pain once again.
because you don't think you can allow yourself to mourn for the dead ever again.
the seasons come and go, the days blur together, and somehow you’re a week away from graduating. you’re surprised the academy even let you get this far—after all, your score on that exam was just fine.
the heat of summer is unforgiving: it beats down on your back as you climb down the jet, the sweltering heat making you take quick strides across the practice field, unfastening your helmet with a flicker of your hand. you’re practically booking it towards the locker room.
“how are you feeling, miss valedictorian?” a classmate runs up to your side, matching your quick pace. “you got your speech ready?”
you don’t spare a glance and continue walking. “i have everything ready.”
they whistle. “wow,” they awe, “that’s our legendary miss valedictorian for you.”
the title makes you roll your eyes. “i thought i told all of you to quit it with that.”
they shrug, still following you as you enter the locker room. “everyone knows it’s true. even the academy praises you.”
the prodigy of the aerospace academy, y/n l/n.
just like your dad.
you tune out the voice of your classmate, getting rid of your flight suit and equipment, and storing it neatly inside of your locker. you adjust your clothes just as fast before you're out the door, already heading towards the gates. there’s a man that stands not too far from you, his back towards you. there’s also a girl talking to one of the guards nearest to you, though you can't see her as the guard covers her from your line of sight.
you aren't even a step outside when a hand latches around your wrist, and you freeze because you know who it is.
how could you not? his warmth is so familiar to you, even after all this time.
what surprises you the most is the fact that he's here. why is he here? he lives so far away from the academy. how is he here?
he says your name quietly. “we… should talk.”
your heart lurches, but still you don’t pull away. “i thought you were busy with med school...”
you can practically hear the way zayne raises a brow at your words.
“how would you know?” he asks, his tone void of any real malice—just pure curiosity. “we haven't talked since august.”
“i… go through your moments… sometimes…” you mumble in embarrassment, “you were studying not too long ago, right?”
his hold on your wrist loosens and tightens at the same time, his touch hesitant. he wants to hold on tighter, but is unable to. zayne holds your wrist gently, thinking as if you are to crumble if he were to hold on any tighter. he breathes slowly, “can we talk?” he quickly adds on, “privately?”
you nod and grab his hand, leading him to your apartment.
and as you walk away, you don't hear the call of a familiar name.
“pips!”
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you awkwardly sit next to zayne in your living room, knees touching. your leg bounces, and you refuse to look at the older male.
zayne wordlessly places a hand down on your knee, stopping it from moving. “…there’s no need to be nervous.”
“there kind of is,” you grumble. “i didn’t think you’d ever visit me over…”
the distance, you want to say, but the words lodge themselves in your throat. you tap your finger against your leg now.
he hums. “well, i wouldn’t be here in the first place had you not started to pull away.” zayne breathes in slowly, carefully grabbing your hand in his. “i don’t blame you for anything. i just… want you to know that i’m always here. it doesn’t matter if you start pulling away because i’ll just follow you. i just want you to know that.”
you grip his hand at his words. “i’m a terrible friend,” you mumble. “how can you not blame me for this? how can you even say that?”
“because you’re still mourning,” he replies. “i know you—that means i also know how much your dad means to you.”
means—present.
not meant—past tense.
because you still miss your dad. you miss the summer days in verona where he’d carry you on his shoulders. you miss when he would talk to you about the new jets on his fleet. you mourn not only him, but the future you never got to live with him. he was supposed to watch you graduate, watch you work your way up in the ranks of the fleet—his fleet, he was supposed to be there when you ask him for love advice, he was supposed to help you move into your apartment after freshman year at the dorms and haul everything inside because he would never let his little star move a muscle.
“but i should be over his…” death. you still hate saying that stupid word. “but instead, i’ve let it consume me. you don’t blame me for that? for letting my fears influence me?”
you know that zayne knows: you pulled away because you’re afraid of losing him like you did with your dad. you’ve thought about it, about a world without him, when your mind can’t rest during the late hours of the night. each time you would end up silently weeping. there are no words to describe a world without him in it.
“of course not.” he knows. “i understand.” he always does. “i can’t make promises that i don't know if i’ll be able to keep because the future is unpredictable, but i can promise to take care of myself for you to ease your worries.”
and just like that, the knots in your chest untangle themselves. your shoulders no longer feel heavy, and you can breathe for the first time in a long time.
“you…” you tilt your head to look him. “you’re too good to me, zayne li.”
“i’m supposed to be good to you,” he lets out an amused chuckle. you take in how he looks now, how he looks older and more mature, how his hazel eyes have more brown in them than green hues right now, how his lips are curved upwards just the slightest bit. “i’m your best friend, you know?”
the book you had been reading for the month lays discarded on your chest, your back on your bed as you cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. zayne stares at you with a deadpan on his features. “you still haven’t made any friends?”
he gives you a pointed look from his sitting position against the bedframe. “have you made any friends?”
you stick your tongue out at him. “touché.”
zayne blinks once before leaning forwards to pinch your cheek, stretching the skin out. you furrow your brows and flick his wrist. “what are you doing?”
the corner of his lip lifts. “pinching your cheek.”
“no shit,” you scoff, huffing through your nose in amusement when his hazel eyes widen at your words. “what? don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming?”
he clears his throat and lets go of your cheek. “i certainly didn’t expect such a colorful word to be a part of your… everyday vocabulary.”
you shrug and roll off the bed. “the officers have a nasty influence on first years,” you scrunch your nose, “even worse when flight training starts. they just bitch about everything.” you sigh, “obviously, i don’t speak like this to the officers… or anyone.”
“then why say it around me?”
“because i don’t have anything to hide from you,” you reply, “i tell you everything. i’m always going to be the most relaxed around you—that won’t ever change.”
zayne smiles, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “you don’t tell me everything.”
you purse your lips. “yes, i do. i—”
“you never told me you liked caleb,” the smile still doesn’t leave his lips, and you tense at the statement. “but i knew that you did.”
you blink a couple of times.
the stupid kiss.
you never told him about what caleb did on the night of his fourteenth birthday. you didn’t tell him of the pain.
and you won’t tell anyone; no living soul will ever know.
looking away from him, your gaze falls on the snow globe on your nightstand. “and you never told me you liked her, but i knew you did.”
“i don't.”
your eyes go back to him, watching as he takes his glasses off. “i don’t like her… maybe i never did.” the last bit was quiet enough that you almost didn’t hear. before you can question him, he looks up and eyes your neck. a finger comes up to point at his own. “you don’t wear it anymore.” you know what he’s referring to.
you think to the box that sits underneath your bed in your mom’s house: the box that holds everything related to him—the pictures, the necklace, the notes and the doodles and the paper airplanes… everything. “i threw it away as soon as i left for skyhaven.”
the male hums. “is that so?”
you nod. “yeah,” you breathe out.
there was no point in bringing a piece of caleb with you when all you wanted was to forget him.
“it’s getting late,” zayne mumbles. “you have a spare room, right?”
“about that…”
zayne stares at the empty room you show him down the hallway from your room. he turns his head towards you. “why… is it empty?”
“i’m the one doing the visiting,” you say, “not the other way around. i found no need to set up the spare room…”
“i see…”
you smile at him, “we can sleep in the same bed.”
he furrows his eyebrows, mouth slightly agape. “what?”
“c’mon!” you nudge his shoulder. “it’ll be like old times!”
zayne sighs and pinches his nose. “you are a woman, and i am a man.”
“…and?” you raise an eyebrow at him. “are you saying you’re going to eat me up or something? should i be worried?”
“of course not,” he says quickly. there’s a slight frown on him that confuses you. “but… am i not a man to you?”
“of course you are,” you answer, leaning forwards. you reach out and grab onto his cheek, pinching it. “but i trust you enough to not do anything.”
“…i see.”
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there were no classes for the rest of the week for the graduating class, meaning you no longer had to wake up in the crack ass of dawn to get ready. unfortunately, habits are hard to die, so despite having turned off your alarm, your mind wakes you up when the sky is a faded, dark blue. immediately, your mood sours as you stare up at the ceiling.
you lay in your bed for a fee seconds longer when you’re suddenly aware that your right side is empty and cold. with a yawn, your cold feet hit the ground as you stand up and quietly search for your missing friend.
zayne lifts his brows when you walk into the living room, his glasses sliding down the slope of his nose. “did i wake you?”
you shake your head, padding over to where he sits on the couch. the cushion sinks when you sit down, your head immediately falling on his shoulder. “i’m used to waking up at this hour…” you squint at his hands. “are you studying?”
he nods, ready to say something but the word die at the tip of his tongue. zayne watches curiously at your outstretched hand that open and close repeatedly.
“give me your notebook.”
he does so without any complaint. you scan the contents quickly, gaze flitting up to him afterwards. “i’ll help you study.”
zayne chuckles softly, and shakes his head. “i appreciate that, but you should sleep some more.”
“i’m already up,” you say through squinted eyes. “besides, it’ll be like old times.”
“ah yes,” he hums, nodding once, “back when you were in middle school and i helped you study.”
except you never actually studied. zayne would read the questions out loud once, you would answer perfectly, and then you would decide enough was enough before spending the rest of your time reading with him.
friday morning comes in the form of a quiet and empty room.
when you wake up, your left side is empty once again. in the span of the week, you’ve come to learn that zayne has the habit of waking up earlier than you do. sometimes he’s up an hour before you, other times it’s half an hour.
you breathe in and exhale slowly, blink once at the roof and then stand up. the drowsiness leaves your body as you begin to get ready: you brush your teeth and splash cold water on your face before wiping it away, you put your uniform on, you comb through the knots in your hair, and you place your cap on your head. your eyes move towards your desk, eyeing the black cap that sits on it.
you’ll be able to wear it soon.
you slip your socks on, and move into the living room. zayne sits at the table, his laptop open in front of him as he highlights something on his notebook. he looks up, his hazel gaze locking with yours. he gestures at the steaming cup of coffee in front of the chair next to him, and you head towards it.
“i thought your graduation was at nine,” he says, eyes going back to his laptop. “why are you already ready?”
“force of habit,” you shrug, grabbing the cub. the warmth seeps into your fingertips, and you raise it to your lips, pausing, “and my class has to practice once before the ceremony. we’re supposed to be there an hour from now... head for breakfast afterwards,” you snort and shake your head, eyes narrowing in mirth, “someone called it brunch in the group chat. another person called them a dumbass.”
zayne’s lips quirk upwards as you finally take a sip from your cup. he watches you with a quiet intensity, one that somehow warms up the tips of your ears, yet you tell yourself to not dwell on it because he’s just zayne, the boy you grew up with.
“you sound happy.”
you bring the cup down to rest on the table. “i am,” you breathe out.
the rest of your time before heading to the academy is spent by quizzing zayne. he answers everything perfectly, and you promptly congratulate him every time, to which he huffs a laugh through his nose. when it’s time for you to leave, he offers to give you a ride and you accept.
his car is, as always, clean. it looks like it just had the day he bought—you were with him as he walked around the dealership, scrutinizing every car and analyzing every thing he learned about them until he found one he liked. it took almost two hours, and you were tired as hell, but it was worth it. he drove you to a small cafe afterwards, his treat. and though you were still mourning for your dad, despite it having been a year later, that day you felt the first semblance of normality.
the car comes to a stop, pulling you out of your thoughts.
“i’ll see you later,” says zayne.
you give him a smile. “yeah, see you later.” when you open the door, he grabs onto your wrist. you look back.
“you’ll be free afterwards, right?”
“well, i know that there’ll be a party to celebrate… but that’s in the evening, like at nine.”
he nods. “good.”
zayne doesn't say anything afterwards and only bids you goodbye, promising to see you in a few hours. with a small wave, you watch as he drives off, leaving you alone at the gates. you breathe in slowly and exhale.
you take a step back, twist around and begin to walk to the gates when you suddenly stumble forwards, your cap falling off your head and landing on the ground with a thud.
“shoot! i’m so sorry about that!” a voice rings out from behind you.
with a sigh, you lean down to pick up your cap, dusting it off. you glance behind you: there's two, tall guys. one has short hair, and he has his friend in a headlock. the one in a headlock has brown hair, bangs covering his face from your judging eyes. you turn to face them.
“my friend here sure is clumsy,” the guy laughs, tightening his hold on the hunched over friend. the friend grunts in response, trying to pry off the arm around his shoulder. “oh shit,” the guy gasps, seemingly having realized something. “you’re a graduating senior?”
“that’s right,” you say.
the guy beams, his free arm stretching out towards you. “congrats, senior!”
his enthusiasm brings a small smile to your lips, and you give him a firm handshake. “thank you.”
“caleb,” the boy snaps his head towards his friend in the chokehold. “i can’t believe your clumsy ass bumped into our senior!”
the name makes your smile curl downwards.
“ah, senior! don’t tell me we upset you!” the other boy panics.
you shake your head, eyes closed. “no,” you grimace, “but i do have to get going.” you put the cap back on your head, and with a small wave, you walk away.
“caleb, why the hell are you staring? show some respect!”
caleb.
what a way to sour your mood.
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the practice was chaotic, to say the least. after you dropped a bomb on them with the salutatorian, everyone began to shout questions directed at the two of you. you got so fed up you yelled at them to shut up or else you wouldn’t go to breakfast with them afterwards.
which leads you to now.
you sit at a table with your classmates, all of them staring at you.
“…so, i didn’t want to give the speech,” you shrug and poke at the food in your plate. “big deal.”
“but why?” someone asks, followed by a quick no offense to the salutatorian.
“they have more memories with the whole class,” you answer. “it didn’t feel right for me to be up on stage and give a big speech on memories and stuff. made more sense for someone who actually spent time with the class to do it.”
when you look up from your plate, you see that everyone’s mouth are wide open.
“…what?” you grimace. “did i say something wrong?”
“you’re surprisingly cool.” someone says.
their comment makes you snort. “very cool of me to do that, huh.”
someone ends up pointing at you. “you just laughed.”
chaos erupts once again.
“holy shit, she just laughed for once!”
“knock it off before i regret being here,” you give everyone a pointed look.
they all still, mumbling apologies. in the next second, everyone starts talking and taking turns to ask you questions.
surprisingly, you don’t mind the attention. you don't mind talking to your classmates like this; in fact, now there’s a tinge of sadness that settles into your chest.
you should have talked to them more.
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you swear you see the person siting next to you start crying during the salutatorian's speech.
as you stand at your assigned spot, hands holding your diploma behind your back, you see the same person start to cry harder once they’re tapped out by their family, their rigid posture crumbling.
your eyes rake over what you can see: there’s people waiting to be tapped out, some are crying, some are laughing and happy. and then you see him.
zayne naturally stands out: tall and lean, a head above the shorter crowd. the sight is comical, making you puff out your cheeks in an attempt to not laugh. he stops a few steps away, takes his phone and snaps a picture of you, all the while having an arm behind his back.
“you blinked,” he hums once he stands in front of you.
you narrow your eyes slightly at him.
with a chuckle, zayne taps your shoulder, his touch warm despite the layers of your uniform that separates your skin from his. your posture relaxes, the rigidness melting away as your lips curl upwards. he brings a small bouquet of flowers, not flashy like the ones some of your classmates are receiving. a few hyacinths and irises, their blues like the color of the sky you love, held together by a white bow tied around the stems.
“congratulations, y/n.”
you take the bouquet from him, and look at him, the small smile you had now a grin. zayne’s eyes look like a light green underneath the harsh glow of the sun, much like the green hues of the gemstone aventurine, with small specks of amber in them.
he takes a step forwards, arms slowly wrapping themselves around your form. your cap almost falls off as your throw your arm around his shoulder, the bouquet clutched tightly as your free hand flies to keep your cap against your head. laughter bubbles from your chest and falls from your lips, loud and cheerful for the first time in a while.
“thank you.”
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muqingslover · 4 months ago
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hiii, can you please share more goofy habits caleb has while sharing a bed with u 💝
[ By popular demand i'm here to share extra thoughts on Caleb's sleeping habits! Kinda of a part two to this, in case you missed! ]
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Oh boy there's so much to unpack here. We all know Caleb has experienced a loooot of bad things and has not worked through them in an actual healthy way at all. He is also a master at hiding it from you, but you can get a glimpse of how damaged he truly is during bedtime.
First of all, you will rarely, if ever, catch him sleeping on an actual bed. Or sleeping at all to be honest. What Caleb does is take power naps whenever he can on his couch at the office or when he's at your place waiting for you to. The one to (partially) blame for this is his chronic insomnia. I like to believe Caleb has always been a very light sleeper and it's only gotten worse throughout the years— The sound of a door opening is enough for him to be wide wake in a matter of seconds. Trust issues anyone?
When he wakes up, if alone, his go-to activity is working out. He'll do push-ups or leave the house for a loooong late night jog, anything that will tire his body out since he's wired up. Then, he takes a freezing cold shower to reboot his system and either starts to work early or sits down to solve some calculus problems to prevent his mind from thinking about anything else since it's 98% of the time never anything good.
To add to that, the main reason as to why his insomnia is so bad is the fact he has nightmares on an almost daily basis. They're often about you in some way and he wakes up panicking about where you are, how you are, if you're with someone else, why you aren't here with him instead and if you plan on leaving him. That's why it's so crucial for Caleb that you stay somewhere he can see you whenever he needs to. Otherwise, his anxiety will gnaw at him until he just shows up unprompted on your front door in the middle of the night.
On the topic of nightmares, next thing on the list is a more...sensitive one: His reactions to nightmares that involves the abuse Caleb himself went through. I say sensitive because this man is a trained soldier and he wakes up in very high alert which, sometimes, means he might hurt you by pure reflex similar to retired war veterans.
The first time you woke up with his hands tightly wrapped around your neck you seriously thought you were a goner. The sound of your voice calling his name was fortunately enough to make him snap out of the haze he was trapped in, believing he was under the threat of the ghosts of his past and had to defend himself before it was him the one who would end up dead. You have always been his anchor, it was not a surprise that you were the only one able to pull him back even in a moment like this.
Regardless if he had been in control or not, Caleb would blame himself until his last day on this world. He wouldn't sleep (Key word being sleep because he will stay in bed with you, he just won't *sleep*) on the same bed as you anymore after this and instead spends his nights on a mattress on the floor next to you. The sight of your bruised neck and the tears in your eyes because of his hands, because of him, only serve as fuel for his nightmares. He doesn't even want to imagine what would've happened if you hadn't been able to speak loudly enough to wake him up.
"Caleb is a big spoon!!" people yell at me and I agree! However! If you want this man to have some peaceful sleep then the only way to achieve that is to have him laying on your chest where he can both listen to your steady heartbeat and feel your warmth as he holds you. Run your fingers through his hair and promise him you'll be right there when he wakes up to soothe his anxieties as much as possible and he might just sleep throughout the entire night.
Moving on to more sweet thoughts so we don't end on a bitter note— He has serious beef with the plushies you own, specifically the ones you hug to sleep. I mean, he's right here? Hello??? Why would you want to hug that fat ass bear of yours. If your plushie goes missing one day through suspicious means don't be sad because you can just cuddle him! He promises he'll behave this time!
Another silly thing is Caleb cannot keep his hands to himself when the two of you are sharing a bed. Literally. His hands have a will of their own and they must be touching you at all times in some way. That also means he will bother you by torturing tickling you non-stop until you're on the verge of tears. He loves the sound of your joyful laughter and how red your face gets while you try to escape the evil tickle monster so I'm afraid there's no way to get him to actually stop.
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mrs-hatake · 4 days ago
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Will The LADS Men Baby Trap You?
Pairing: Caleb x F!Reader, Sylus x F!Reader & Zayne x F!Reader.
A/N: don't ask me why i wrote this because idk either lol also i was trying to capture caleb's struggle with being a good person while also giving into his selfish desires. if i failed in doing so then that's on me my bad :P
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Sylus
Not intentionally.
You and Sylus, despite being rough from time to time, are always safe. 
Maybe one night you were both on high from narrowly escaping death once more.
Sylus is of course happy that You’re with child.
He doesn’t force You to stay in the relationship since what you have going on is pretty great. But, he will convince you to be a housewife.
“…Think about it, Kitten.” Sylus’s voice is light. He isn’t lecturing You, just sharing food for thought. However, he does indirectly pressure You into retiring, “There’s no need for you to be a hunter anymore. You’re with child and it’s a dangerous world out there. I can provide for the three of us, make sure we’re safe and content. But, the decision is yours at the end of the day, of course. You’re a grown woman who is capable of taking care of herself which is why I’m confident in you taking care of our child. However, I just hope you don’t regret the decision you make.”
And You don’t…Not at first, anyways.
It isn’t until You were chasing a Wanderer, nearly dying in slaying it, did You consider Sylus’ advice.
It isn’t easy adjusting into motherhood. It’s nearly impossible living a life as a retired hunter when it used to be such a big part of your life. But seeing your child smiling at You, knowing that they’ll never experience the pain of growing up without a parent, quells your anxieties.
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Zayne
No, he’d never.
Zayne is mature enough to understand that having a child is a blessing, one that demands responsibility and maturity. 
He will not use your baby as a tool to control You. Just the thought of it makes him sick to his stomach.
Your relationship is beautiful as it is. However, he will admit that having a child would be a perfect addition. 
Zayne is great with kids, or so You’ve claimed. Having someone resembling You in both looks and personality puts a smile on his face. He loves You so much that he doesn’t mind having another, miniature, version of Yourself. 
But only when You’re ready 💕
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Caleb
ahahahahahahahaha YES!!
Caleb and his never ending paranoia of You leaving him because he’s never enough. That he’s too much. He isn’t the Caleb that You grew up with; a cheap impostor that’s a ghost of his past.
You claim that You love him but it’s only a matter of time before You leave him.
Caleb doesn’t want to believe that. He really, really doesn’t.
Yet he doesn’t want to take that risk.
It has taken Caleb a very long time for him to have You. He nearly died protecting You and he’ll be damned if You slip through his fingers.
Caleb doesn’t do anything sinister.
He just…sweet talks You into having his baby.
“You’ve always said you wanted a family of your own, Pips.”
So he’ll whisper in your ear at night, how beautiful You’d look carrying his child.
“That could be us.” Caleb would sigh covetously as he points at a family having a picnic during your morning jog.
He’ll pull up the photo albums he managed to save from the explosions, aww-ing and coo-ing at your baby pictures. “If we had a daughter, I bet she’d look just like You, Pipsqueak.”
Caleb is desperate, pathetic even, he’ll do anything to make sure You’d stay.
He knows how difficult it was for You to grow up without parents. Which is why Caleb is so confident that having a baby with You will ensure your stay in the relationship.
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velaenam · 3 months ago
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𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲
                                                                         ◦ ♡
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𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. you are a successful aerospace engineer, a girlboss, with terrible luck in romance. let's hope this strangers website brings you out of that rut! 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – swearing/foul language, strangers, slow burn, talks of depression/mental health, tba notes – not proofread. i want reader n caleb to meet soon.. eek hurry up space baby!! i started a taglist- if you want to be added, let me know in the comms!! love ya 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 3 of many ! previous chapter | next chapter
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a group of men surround the ‘maverick’-- a beautiful dark grey f35. they study the aircraft in awe, excited to try and sit in the cockpit. your father and another official had taken a handful of the pilots to tour the hangar that housed some of the most prestigious aircrafts the DAA had ever produced, and in the front and center, ‘maverick’ was standing loud and proud. not everybody has the credibility to be able to go into this hangar, so for the pilots this was almost a dream come true. 
“this is my favorite thing in the world.” your dad puts both his hands out, showing off his pretty girl. the pilots stare, silently, as your dad reminisces his history with the aircraft, “when i first started such as yourselves, i saw this beauty first being unveiled. one of the most gorgeous things i have ever seen in my life– aside from my wife of course.” he snickers, “--  i told my sarge that i wanted to fly on that thing. he told me ‘in your dreams.’ and well.. look who got to put his name on the side.” he says smugly. 
“when was the last time someone rode it?” a pilot asks, looking off to the side, your father looks at the cockpit, inquisitively. when WAS the last time someone rode the f35? .. “hmm. probably when i retired from the DAA as a pilot. maybe 15 plus some years ago.” – they raise their brows at him, “is it still … good to run?” – “of course! we constantly update it, at least once a year, or if my daughter is feeling generous– every other month. she mostly runs the logistics of the planes here.” he motions the rows of other planes behind the maverick, “these are the top of the line and her company regularly maintains it.”
the men stare dumbfounded, and one raises his hand to speak up, “sir… how old is your daughter?” 
“shes 27.” their jaw drops, only a year or two older than some of these pilots. dumbfounded at how someone that young already had such an impressive impressive portfolio. “she graduated college when she was 15. she’s been working in the aviation field since she was 17. she’s got a very experienced track record.” he chuckles, a cheesy wide smile spread on his face as he boasts about you. that was his favorite pastime aside from sleeping and watching sports. if you heard him talking about you like this you probably would’ve stuffed him in a trashcan to shut him up. 
“you think shes single?” someone whispers near his friend, and if wasn’t so insanely silent in the hangar, your father wouldn’t have even heard that. he turns to the pilot, his smugness coming back, “you want to try your hand with my daughter? i can certainly pass a note to her.” he pauses, then looks at the pilots again, “i’ll tell ya what. whoever gets the maverick, i can let my daughter know about you.” 
“well damn, calebs already won.” the same pilot groans in his hand, clearly already defeated. 
“who is caleb?” your dad looks around, and the men part like the red sea to reveal caleb in the very back, “huh-” caleb looks up from his hand, and your dad walks towards him, inspecting him.
“son. get in the plane.” your dad commands, and caleb stiffens, before nodding– despite being reluctant about it. he didn’t hear a damn thing they were talking about.
he was too busy staring down, his necklace in hand. he had spaced off due to so many thoughts in his head. he felt bad, because he was in the presence of aviation royalty, and yet– his brain trailed him off to another path. so now when hes needed he didn’t know where they were in the conversation. all he knows now is that he’s being picked on for an aircraft that he was intimidated by. maybe his friends were padding him a bit too much. his head was definitely not in the game, and he doesn’t have forever to figure this out.
he walks towards the aircraft, staring through it. it was godly, to say the least, and as he stared more the manly urge to hop on the aircraft and pretend that he was in a simulation increases. 
caleb eyes it one last time before hopping up on the cockpit. he’d had his fair share from training but the fact that he was on the maverick felt surreal to him. he stares at the buttons, the screen, his fingertips graze the throttle. he was absolutely reeling from the experience. 
“you look like a natural” your father would say, as he examined calebs actions. maybe the young bucks did have a point in always showboating this caleb man. the way he was eyeing the plane in a way that looked of experience. the way he fit in the aircraft reminded him of a younger version of himself. full of dreams.
caleb looked down at your dad and gave him a goofy little grin, before standing up, and sliding out of the cockpit. hes going to definitely think about that for a while. 
“come have dinner with my family.” 
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you’re one foot in the grave, staring down the wanderer in a highly fortified and shielded cage, and near is a group of hunters, ready to kill it in the event it broke out.
the testing ground was quiet, there was a low humming coming from the wanderer as your team shifts around, trying to figure out what to do.  just outside the containment cage was a jet– call sign enterprise– was powered up, systems running, and sensors blinking as the team prepared to collect interference data.
you sit behind the barricade with the systems engineer. her eyes shift everywhere that data moved, “telemetry looks clean… for now.” her eyes flickered over the readings, and you look over, tapping the screen, “let’s bring it closer by a couple klicks.. i want to nudge the threshold. let’s see if we can find the sweet spot of when the ai started to glitch.” 
besides you and the lead engineer was another engineer, he frowned as you said that, his eyebrows furrow, “are we sure the containment will hold if the wanderer reacts to the power signatures?” you point towards the hunters near the containment bay, not taking your eyes off the telemetry monitor, “that’s why they’re here. but short answer– no.” your lead engineer cuts you off, “but if we don’t understand how it scrambles our tech we’ll never stop it from grounding us.” you nod in agreement as the both of you lock into the screen.
as the jet started to inch forward, the diagnostics began to blink rapidly– small distortions in the avionics, and slight lag in the navigation feedback. the data starts to stream in, as the jet groaned softly under the invisible barrier the wanderer was emitting.
the lead engineers eyes squint, jaw set as she leans over the terminal, “it’s mimicking the input distortion… like it’s learning what to break?” 
the intercom patches through the room and a tech reports, “mainframes still responding, but not cleanly.”
as you remain quiet, the hud of the jet starts to flicker violently. the screen starts to glitch all of the sudden. the ai was locking up. your engineer and you look at each other, “it’s invading the ai.” you both say, in unison, your internal alarms going off. as you go to push the buttons the plane starts to hum even louder, the afterburners roaring life. your face contorts to annoyance as you stride over to the emergency button, slamming down on it. 
the engine dies almost immediately, the last of the power whirring away softly until it goes quiet.
it was frozen in the room, your eyes flicker to the engineers as you motion them, “get the results sent over to me and print it as well, we need to send this over to the DAA and jenna so we may figure out what they want to do.”
as you step towards the exit your secretary hands you your phone. it was your dad. your eyebrows furrow, puzzled as to why your family members have impeccable timing  calling you at the worst time, ‘i gotta have some intervention with them. whose next, my mom?’ 
“hi dad. terrible time. whats up?” you ask, grabbing your laptop and bag. “we are having dinner tonight, i’d like you to meet somebody.” your brows raise, confused, as your dad never invite anyone over for dinner. “this sounds like a trap. are you about to sell me off to some man?” 
“no honey, there is.. 
–a prospect that i may have… for maverick.” 
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you look at yourself in your compact mirror as majors drives you to the family house. you couldn’t help but think who your dad finally thought would take over maverick. that person must be that impressive of a pilot for him to be giving away one of the most valuable jets in the inventory. well not necessarily give away, but it wasn’t something to be trifled with.
you watch as the car gets closer and finish applying your lipstick, straightening yourself out. majors comes out to open the door for you, and you step outside. you wore a red blouse with your dress pants, and your red bottoms that matched. your hair was down, and you had your rings and earrings on today. you always showed out with your outfits, because who knows when theres a sexy and respectable man ready to sweep you off your feet?
you make your way inside the house as you hear laughing, chit chatting. and it sounds like your mother. your eyebrows raise again, confused as hell. your mother didn’t come home that often, because she was a busy woman herself. as you step into view your father lights up waving you over. “ah, she’s here!” he exclaims, standing up. you take a look at the people in the table. it was a handful of men, one of them being the man you locked eyes with at the gala. 
your eyes land on him again, and once again, your sights linger. his eyes never leaving you as you had to pry them off of his to face your dad, “sit sit! have you met caleb?gideon?--” you nod as you place yourself in the seat in front of caleb. “at the gala, but we aren’t on a first name basis.” you admit, and he smiles at you. something in you felt warm almost instantaneously. is it gettin’ hot in here?
your father takes the reins, speaking about all the men in the room. gideon, and whomever else. the only man really relevant to you is caleb. mr sexy man himself. your eyes never leave his, and his never leave yours. caleb felt tense from your gaze. was it intimidation? he wasn’t sure, but he definitely felt a pull towards you. caleb definitely felt some sort of intimidation, but he also wanted to get to know you.
your dad goes to explain the tradition of a pilots hand off. you zone out, to be honest. you just heard this too many times during your youth, and you ignored it. after he was finished you clear your throat, “so… let me get this straight.. you’re going to hand maverick over, because you felt that he was the one for it?” you ask, tilting your head and looking at caleb, who stayed in eye contact with you. you didn’t know whether or not that was hot or threatening.
”well yes..” and then your eyes dart to your dad, who was just all smiles, as if he was stupid. “i feel like that’s… now forgive me–” eyes dart to caleb, “caleb.” to dad, “you haven’t even seen what he’s capable of..”  one of his friends raise his hand slightly to come to his defense, “w-with all due respect– i think that hes more than capable.. he was our valedictorian, and he is #1 in our graduating class.” you nod. clearly underestimating him, but you couldn’t help it. that jet was your responsibility, you couldn’t just… hand priceless art to some… random, because of feeling. no matter how hot they were– especially not that. cant cloud your judgement!
“if you want to spend some time with the pilots, i can see about pulling some strings on getting you clearance to perhaps shadow them?” your father sits back, wiping the food from his lips, you had thought that would be a good idea, to see what the men are really capable of, since you mostly take the DAA’s word at face value. you think it through, eyes on you. as you ponder, the guys make conversations amongst themselves, complimenting the food, talking about their day.
“-- alright. but we have to evaluate everybody fairly. just because caleb looks good for the jet, doesn’t mean he is.” 
‘she said i look good..’ he thinks, ‘not like that stupid.’
as you say that, relief washes from everybody. not everyone was happy with the caleb dick ride, so for you to say that put an immense relief on their shoulder. at least someone, was neutral about it. you nod at them and stand up, your mother swallows her food quick, trying to catch you before you start to walk off, “honey! you’re not staying for dinner?” you smile down at her. you shake your head, and your phone rings, “sorry mom. work…”  you walk outside, your phone ringing from your engineer. 
caleb watches you as you walk out, and by divine timing his phone also rings. he takes a look at his phone, and the caller reads: ‘pips ♥️’ and he excuses himself from the dinner to walk outside. “hey pips what’s up!” he speaks softly, a small laugh escapes his lips, a bit relieved to hear from his beloved (ik this hurts u to read girl lol)
“caleb! i miss you so much, when are you going to see me?” his heart warms, thinking to himself, when is his next availability? especially the fact that he might have even more restrictions due to the pressure of your dad. “i’m not sure pipsqueak, i just a new assignment.” as he steps outside he sighs, “i promise we’re going to celebrate new years eve just like every year.” he coos into the phone (UGH)
as you focused on your phone call you lean in one of the pillars, out of sight, listening intently at the information that your engineers were discussing amongst themselves. as you listen, you also hear the sound of the door opening, and a distant voice, “i promise we’re going to celebrate new years eve– just like every year.” the man mumbles, and you side eye the person, immediately peeking from the pillar. you notice it was mr handsome– caleb, and you blink, before turning back to listen to your phone call.  'probably talking to his girlfriend' you say to yourself in passing, gluing back into the conversation with your coworkers.
“send me the data to my computer. i think i’ll stay here for the night, but i’ll probably be working on my computer.” you pull from the pillar as you approach caleb. his eyes snap to you, and he beams at you, with you just giving him a simple nod. “you guys did well today- have a good weekend everybody. i’ll call you if i have any issues, do the same.” you end the call. 
“whose that?” her voice rings through calebs ears as he snaps back to his reality. his pips asks- a bit impatiently, caleb raises his brows, at the sudden tone from her voice, “oh shes a colleague. general’s daughter.” as you walk past him your shoulders brush, and caleb looks away, his face pinks, as he puts his attention back to his pips, “well.. i have a lot of stories to tell! we have to catch up soon, caleb!” – “i know, i will try and find a day off to come see you. i swear pipsqueak.” 
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you look down at your phone and notice a message that you had not even noticed. it was sent to you 30 minutes ago. it was from whispr, it was captain apple. your eyes light up, a grin spreading on your face as you hit the notification
captain apple: hey, space baby! hope you’re doing good today. been busy at work.  space baby: you’re all good, been busy at work as well. what are you up to today? captain apple: talking to you hopefully?
you felt a blush creep through your cheeks as you stared into the screen. you bit your lips, unsure of how to respond. ‘that was kinda cute.. ugh am i this down bad?’ you wrestle with the thoughts in your head, and close your phone, going  downstairs.
most of the men had left, except gideon and caleb. they were speaking with your dad in the living room while you were up in your old room, camped for the night. you had your computer laid out in your desk as you walked to the entrance. your engineer was supposed to come up and deliver you the papers for your study, and you were going to show your dad to see his insight, and maybe the pilots that remain. you bid the engineer farewell as you close the door, the folder in hand, and you walk towards the living room where they were enjoying some spirits and discussing aviation.
“hey dad. i need you to take a look at this. it’s about wanderers and jets interfering? i don’t know if you know anything about it.” you set the folder in front of the men, and sit down. “i had copies done if you guys want to take a look as well.” you motion them to take some papers. “i’ll be back.” you walk off, going upstairs to get your computer.
captain apple: did i scare ya? i apologize for coming on strong! 
you’d almost forgot about the message. you pursing your lips, unsure what to say 
space baby: oh no sorry haha. i had to step away really quick, but i’m flattered, thank you. what are you up to tonight? 
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you spent the night discussing with caleb gideon and your dad about the wanderer and jet interference, and while the boys didn’t have much to say, they revelled in the fact that they were able to listen in on this. they surely were taking alot of mental notes.
you didn’t keep them long, and just briefly filled them in on what’s going on, and any possible changes that would be made to the jets, then answered any questions they might’ve had and then dismissed them.
as you step outside to get some fresh air, you lean on the pillar, looking up at the stars. you felt the presence of another person so you turn to face who it was, and it was gideon, giving you an awkward smile. you return the smile. he looked like he had something to say- so you wait.  he looks down at the floor, as if suddenly intimidated-or shy, “we really appreciate what you did. i know some guys don’t like constantly putting caleb on a pedestal.” 
you look at him, a giggle escaping your lips. he is pretty handsome, “don’t worry about it, i think you should all have a fair shot. it’s only natural.” as you step by him he trails you with his eyes, million thoughts running through his head, and before you could disappear from view he shouts towards you:
“are you seeing anyone?” 
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caleb finds his spare room for the night and thanks the maid for taking him to it. he fishes for his phone, almost dropping it as he tries to look at the notification from whispr. ‘oh shit i forgot to reply to her!’ and taps his conversation with space baby, rapidly typing
captain apple: not doing anything today, kinda just relaxing. had a busy week. what about you? staying in or not? 
he went to go find the shower as he messages space baby.
he couldn’t stop thinking about you, how beautifully confident you were, commanding the stage. the aura you exuded, how smart you are, especially regarding the aviation world. you seemed so distant, not throwing yourself onto him as other women have, and while that made him curious, he felt a pull from that. it was alluring him. he wasn't sure whether to be scared of you or be drawn to you, but he felt weirdly torn. he felt as if his brain couldn't fit more than one woman in his head. is his head space reserved for his pipsqueak or you? he was in a tough spot.
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a tickling feeling was the best you could describe. gideon was cute. he seemed very respectful, but it was so out of left field. you weren’t entertaining anybody, so you figured, why the hell not? the person you were even remotely interested in was taken. you might as well. one date won’t hurt.
“i’m not…why do you ask?” you give him a look, that look, to which gideon felt his knees buckle. his mouth dries, thinking of words to say. he didn’t think he’d make it this far. “i-” he stammers, “i wanted to know if you were free to go out sometime?”  for reals, what have you got to lose?
“yeah. i’m down!” you so casually say, bumping your phone with his. your phone number appears on his, your picture and profile along with it. he gives you a flashy smile before you step into the foyer, whispering a good night to him.
space baby: sorry been busy all night. are you still up? captain apple: no haha you do not need to apologize. i’ve been busy too. have you seen any good movies recently? looking for some recommendations. space baby: hmm. i watched dunkirk recently. i’m a lover for historical stuff or war documentaries.  captain apple: oh! ill take a look at it then. are you going to sleep anytime soon?  space baby: ah no. have some stuff to do, but if you want to keep me company i won’t be mad :)  captain apple: haha, of course, but if i dont reply i might have passed out. space baby: don’t worry i get it, it’s late. what is your favorite color?  captain apple: hmm. orange, blue, maybe red, you? space baby: hmm. sounds like a cop out, but everything. favorite color depends on my mood of the day. captain apple: i get it. what do you do for a living?
you briefly pause, looking at your computer that had data running through it. then you look back down to the chat
space baby: hope it does not come off rude, but i do not want to reveal any personal information of mine. i’m not quite comfortable, sorry!! ... maybe in the future?
calebs smile falters a bit, but shrugs, smiling, before typing back, his head softly hitting the headboard. 
captain apple: do not even worry about it! i totally understand haha... does that mean we have a future? ;) haha joking space baby: i really do appreciate your understanding. not a lot of people do... and yes... depends.. ;)  captain apple: i appreciate it. can i vent? space baby: of course! i’m not a licensed therapist, but i am a good listener captain apple: i feel so lonely. mentally exhausted  space baby: oh god, i’m so sorry. i know the feeling, what’s going on? captain apple: work tires me out lol, havent seen my friends outside of work in so long, so you know. i can’t really tell anyone at work.
unbeknownst to them, space baby and captain apple were just a few walls apart. both smiles falter as they read the message history. you sigh, feeling awful. you knew how it  felt, the loneliness at work, the feeling of being in a corner, you felt for captain apple. 
space baby: i’m so sorry captain apple. i completely understand what you’re going through– i go through that sometimes, it’s a cold world. have you been able to take some time off from work? captain apple: i just appreciate someone listening to me. to be honest no. i’ve always been the…care taker of my family, you know?  space baby: no i get that, makes things even worse, you have this feeling of having to uphold the family together. i’m so sorry, i wish i could help!! if i was your boss i'd totally give you a week off, or however long you need! >< captain apple: you listening is more than enough honestly. i appreciate our interactions more than you know. space baby: i appreciate you too, captain apple! i’m so glad i could be a good friend to you. i look forward to talking to you more. been looking forward to our conversations on a daily basis now.
caleb lays in the bed, staring at the text message, a tear hanging from his eyes, threatening to spill. such little interaction left such a big impact. he’d been feeling so bad, and the fact that space baby was willing to sit and listen to him, even so miniscule was enough for him. he wished to meet her one day, but for now, baby steps.
captain apple: i’m going to head to bed, but i really appreciate you being here for me. thank you so much space baby. space baby: i hope you have a good night captain, i’ll be here anytime! 
caleb lays there for a while longer, snuggling up to the soft pillow staring at the phone, contemplating his thoughts, appreciating the message that space baby had sent him, rereading the messages. he decides to hop on his movie app, searching for dunkirk, and watching it for the night or until he fell asleep.
you take one last look at the data that you were watching, and move your computer to the bed, getting yourself ready to relax for the rest of the night.  after a while, as you finish watching the data collection you feel a sense of sleepiness overtaking you, and as you go to shut your computer off, you could’ve sworn that you heard dunkirk through a wall. ignoring the noise, you close your eyes, getting ready to retire for the night. you had a long day ahead of you tomorrow. you couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness for your mutual. you'd somewhat wish you weren't so closed off, or else you would've been open to meeting him.
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𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @mcdepressed290, @young-adult-summer, @unstablemiss, @britishfailure, @caramelizedpopcirn,
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a-hermit-pining · 2 months ago
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LaDs as Hotel Staff
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AN: I get writing zoomies sometimes. This is the result of that. It started as White Lotus au but derailed to Hotel Del Luna.
Ingredients: 100% Fluff and found family ish??
My Fav: All. I love them all.
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Xavier: The most sleep-deprived hotel manager in the known universe. He greets the guests of Philos with a perfect, practiced grin, even when the presidential suite brats call at 2 a.m. demanding fresh coconut water.
(And guess what? They'll get it.)
You’re his unofficial work best friend. The staff member everyone marvels hasn't been fired yet. The one who pulls him back from the brink of snapping.
No one needs to meet the berserk Xavier. Truly.
You grab the ringing phone from his hands, smooth as ever. "Yes, sir," you say sweetly, "we'll have your coconut water first thing in the morning. Sweet dreams." Click.
You turn to Xavier, smug. "See? Not that hard. He’s piss drunk. We’ll be fine."
Xavier looks like he’s questioning all his life choices. Again.
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Rafayel: The siren of Philos, or, as some TripAdvisor reviews mysteriously mention, "the ghost by the shore."
Helps you "handle" the problematic guests. The ones who threaten Xavier with bad reviews. By "handle," you mean... well. They stop being a problem. Permanently.
You skip the breakfast rush, stealing a moment by the sea to watch the sunrise. Rafayel surfaces from the water, sleek and shimmering, flopping onto the shore with practiced drama.
"Sup?" you greet him with a nod. "You're early, fish."
He glares. "For the last time, I am not a fish." He scoffs folding his arms, his tail thumps in annoyance. "Must I drown you again to teach you proper titles?"
"Yes, yes, High Prince of the Seas, forgive this poor mortal," you laugh, bowing low.
He preens, fixing the scales at his throat. "Besides," you ask, watching the sunrise, "you drowned another cruise?"
Rafayel smiles, wicked and unrepentant. "They trespassed into our grove. I'm merely an agent of natural selection."
You really should warn Xavier. Maybe.
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Zayne: The resort's fitness trainer, seasonal worker. Come winter, he’s here. Come summer, he disappears into the mountains like mist.
Rich, middle-aged guests are smitten by the quiet, broody "Dr. Zayne."
Good thing you’re nosy enough to herd the overly touchy clients into "submersion tanks", a.k.a. the safest way to soak off the raging hormones of fifty-year-old teenagers.
You lean against his table after yet another close call. "She was halfway onto your lap, dude," you say dryly. "If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked it."
He lobs a pen at your head. You duck, laughing. "Hey! I could have lost my eyesight. I’m not rescuing you next time, Dr. Zayne."
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like the rumbly murmur of one of the snow leopards before they rip someone's hand off.
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Sylus: The owner of Philos Resort. Ex-mafia (maybe). Semi-retired, mostly unhinged.
The one who decided it was perfectly reasonable to staff a resort with sirens, mountain leopards, and occasional revenants. (Yes, the sirens get paid in... alternative compensation.)
You’re halfway through losing your weekly pay in a messy game of cards with Luke and Kieran when Sylus strolls in, all wolfish grin and casual menace.
"Good to see my employees working hard," he says, sliding into the game like a shark in still water.
You try not to sigh too loudly. Losing your paycheck and your pride in front of your boss? Great.
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Caleb: The ancient herald guarding the outer gates of resort. The one who slipped your resume under Sylus' nose and said, "This one. Get them."
His tiny hut, just outside resort boundaries, is the unofficial venue for staff parties, close enough for the sirens and leopards to join, far enough that Xavier doesn't have a nervous breakdown over property damage.
You’ve only seen Caleb use his staff once. A massive, glowing relic that appears from nothing. And it was to banish a screaming Karen into the Void after she threw hot coffee in your face. (Her son wept for hours. Not helpful.)
Caleb remains the hardest to anger, and the hardest to cool down once the ancient fury is lit. You’re still finding new strategies to convince him to release guests... eventually.
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aethercoreheart · 3 months ago
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caleb | 8:14 PM
“Watch your step, watch your step!”
“God, Caleb, I know!” you grunt as you take the weight of the box. “You make me sound like I’m a three-year old learning how to walk a tightrope.”
You hear him let out an exasperated huff - you can't see him but you know he's rolling his eyes at you. You carefully make your way down the stepladder, cautiously planting your foot on each step as you walk backwards. You reach the ground with another grunt, and Caleb takes the box away from you. 
“Careful,” you mutter, as you relinquish your hold on the box. Its contents make clinking noises from within as Caleb takes the brunt of its weight.
You can barely see his face in the dark, but you can visualize the way he grits his teeth and clenches his jaw.
“I got it,” he barely manages to say. 
You hold his elbow as you guide him through the hallway and into the dining area, and he sighs in relief as he sets the box down onto the table. 
“Lighter?” he asks you.
“Yup,” you answer, taking the small plastic lighter from the back pocket of your jeans. You spin the sparkwheel to test it, and it sparks to life, producing a small yellow flame.
He begins to take the jars of candles out from the box, setting them on the table for you to light. You light them one by one, and soon the light from their flames accumulate, casting a warm glow and flickering shadows onto the walls of your apartment. 
You're about to light another one when you hear the distant rumbling of thunder from outside, and you feel the hairs on your arms raise, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You halt in your motions, the lighter’s flame just barely reaching the wick of the candle you are currently lighting. A soft hiss escapes through your teeth. Caleb glances sideways at you, and you see the corner of his mouth twitch up into a slight smirk.
“Are you scared of a little thunder?” he asks, a slightly teasing tone in his question. 
“No,” you lie through gritted teeth, and you continue to light the candle. 
Once you and Caleb have finished lighting all the candles you have in the box, you set the lighter down onto the table, and you rub your thumb, which feels a little raw from the numerous times you had to use it to flick the lighter on.
“What do we do now?” Caleb asks as he closes the flaps on the box closed. 
You shrug. “Well, I do have that book I've been meaning to read. I think I should be able to do it in this light.”
Caleb nods. “Okay, I think I have a few shows downloaded on my phone that I can watch. Let's just hang out until we have to go to bed." 
“Sounds like a plan.” You pick one of the candles up, and its flame dances with the sudden motion. “I'm gonna go get my book.”
--
Your eyes strain as you try to read the words on the page. The light from the candles was enough to see by, but not necessarily adequate for reading. This was supposed to be cozy and relaxing, but you can literally feel the oncoming headache forming in your temples.
You glance over your shoulder to see how Caleb is doing next to you. He's completely absorbed in the show he is watching - it looks like a documentary - and you can hear a little bit of the dialogue through his headphones.
You're about to give up on the book and retire to bed by yourself, when you hear another low rumble, and it sounds a lot closer than it did last time. You give an involuntary yelp, and you drop your book onto your lap, your hands automatically finding their way to your ears. Caleb, alarmed by your sudden movements, also drops his phone and looks at you in surprise. You can't do anything but give him a helpless glance, your hands still covering your ears. 
He laughs, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders, bringing you closer to him. You nuzzle into his embrace, relishing in the warm comfort you didn't know you were desperately seeking. You place your head onto his chest, your ear pressed against his ribcage. He takes a hand and covers your open ear. You can hear his heartbeat - constant and reassuring, and you find yourself breathing in time to it. The howls of the storm outside soon start to feel distant, and a sleepy haze begins to cloud your vision. Caleb returns to watching his show, and he presses his lips into your hair. You feel another smug smile forming against the top of your head. 
“Scaredy cat,” he whispers, and it takes you a few moments to come up with a retaliation. 
“Shut up,” you murmur, as your eyelids start to flutter. “Just enjoy this while it lasts.��
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dipperpepper77 · 3 months ago
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LADS as romance movies
Dipper's Delusions
Tags: Angst, death, romance, sappy shit. Spoilers for the movies
Xavier: The Time Traveler's Wife. I can see you falling in love with him. Both marrying and having a whole life. But, he keeps vanishing. Continuously in a lapse of going through time. Always having one end goal... come back to you. He travels to times where you were just a child, to the day of his funeral, your funeral, relived your wedding, saw your first heartbreak from a far. Everything. Every time he crashes his head on your lap. You always had your familiar gentle touch. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to tell you what awaits in your future together. He just wants to love you over and over again.
Rafayel: The Notebook. HEAR ME OUT. He is definitely one of the LADS men who will make themselves look stupid to impress you (literally the hospital visit). He would definitely jump up and dangle on a Ferris wheel to get you to say yes to a date. That being said... he IS sassy BUT he is also reliable and loving. He would write to you everyday. He WOULD build you a home with his two hands. Do not be fooled by the mask he wears. He would go to the ends of the earth for you. That's how he finds himself at the same retirement home as you (his choice. no one can tell him to leave). He reads your love story to you everyday until you remember him.
Zayne: Pride and Prejudice. (I was going to say Breakfast at Tiffany's but I see so much edits of him as Darcy) This man does scream Mr. Darcy though. He stays in shadows. Keeps himself busy. A man of honor and integrity. But, in times of him confessing his love... it comes out as a burst of emotion. He's always concealing (Elsa core) how he feels that when it's in the light... it's in the light. His usual stoicism is replaced by a tender husband once you marry. You WOULD have random nicknames he gets to call you for different occasions. He would only call you by the nickname he calls you when he's completely, perfectly, and incandescently happy. Because you are his joy.
(Before I start with Sylus... I'm sorry. You may shoot me if you'd like)
Sylus: Me Before You. Hear me out. In his lore he needed to die by your hands. What if in this life time... he was just meant to die? He's left bedridden after an accident. He was now a recluse (for obvious reasons). He didn't have a plan to live long. Not in his state. So when he met this witty person who wears funky outfits? He didn't expect to love you. To find these outfits endearing, to keep thinking 'one more day' every single morning in order to see you, to find himself having many good days. He's so in love with you. You were light. You were the air he wanted to keep breathing. Like a sunshine after the storm. His will to go 'one more day'. Of course, he's rich. So he spends that remainder on you. Buying things he heard you liked. His heart leapt every single time you squealed at his gifts. But... in the end. He still didn't want to live. He just wanted you to be able to live happily after him. Because... he was so fortunate to meet the love of his life.
Caleb: Big Fish (my fav movie). But, Edward Bloom is so Caleb coded. Imagine this... your child is SO frustrated with the "tale-tales" of his life. Like yeah dad.. you TOTALLY flew into a storm and saw god. But, he retells the way he met you. The love of his life... He see's you at the circus... he's awestruck. Who are you? Where are you from? He can NOT let it go. He's a dog with a bone. You ARE his wife, this was love at first sight. He settles a deal with the circus owner. Working hard labor and nearly dying. He doesn't even get paid... just paid in information about you. He goes to your college... you're so sweet... but, engaged. He does GRAND gestures of love. Your name in a heart written on the sky by a plane, a field of your favorite flowers, the works. So you marry him instead. He goes to war... but escapes. No way that man will EVER be ripped away from you once he's had you.
Dip Talk: HI I MISSED YOU ALL. I'M BACK
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cheri-cheri · 2 months ago
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EN vs CN: Wildlight Chronicles Event (Caleb)
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While the English translation of LADS content is definitely wayyy better than in MLQC, there are certain translations that I felt could have captured the original Chinese version more accurately. Let's have a look at some of the major translation differences in the Wildlight Chronicles Event:
1. Caleb's "Maturity"?
[ EN Version ]
Caleb: You're making me sound like a beanstalk in a fairytale. MC: Were you worried about not being taller than me? After all, it might make you seem less mature to me. Caleb: Was there ever a time you thought I was mature?
[ CN Version ]
Caleb: You make me sound like a spring bamboo shoot. [说得我像一根春笋。] MC: Back then, were you ever worried that you'd never be much taller than me and lose your dignity as a big bro? [你那段时间有没有担心过以后都不比我高多少,失去当哥的威严?] Caleb: When have I ever had the dignity as a big bro in front of you? [在你面前,我什么时候有过当哥的威严?]
The EN translation likely used "beanstalk" instead of "spring bamboo shoot" as the former is more common in a Western context, but this is just a small point.
The more significant difference is that the word "威严", which carries the idea of being dignified, stately, imposing and stern (think of the majestic aura exuded by royalty), is simplified to "maturity", which has a completely different word in Chinese (成熟). And as usual, the EN translation had to censor the reference to Caleb being a "brother" to MC 😂
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2. Caleb's Retirement Plans
[ EN Version ]
MC: Caleb, you can be a farmer when you retire! Caleb: Workin' as a tutor, chef, and handyman... You already planned out my retirement. I'll be busy even as an old man.
[ CN Version ]
MC: Caleb, you might actually become an outstanding farm owner after retirement! [夏以昼,你退休以后说不定能成为一个出色的农场主!] Caleb: If I add this to what you said earlier about me becoming a tutor, chef, and handyman, you have already filled my post-retirement plans to the brim. [加上你之前说的家教,厨师和修理工,我退休后的规划已经被你安排的满满当当了。]
I find that the extra adjectives used in the CN version (e.g. "outstanding", "filled to the brim" injects more colour and vividness into their dialogue.
As a side-note, wouldn't you agree that the best post-retirement plan that Caleb could have is being a doting grandfather?
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3. Casey's Chinese Name
[ EN Version ]
Caleb: The campsite manager said he named him Casey because the name's derived from a word that means "vigilant". Casey's always on top of everything, even catchin' field mice.
[ CN Version ]
Caleb: The boss of the campsite said that he gave Kuan Kuan its name because of how it oversees the wide field and can catch field mice. [露营地老板说,因为宽宽管得太宽会捉田鼠,所以才给它取了这个名字。]
Just a slice of trivia that Casey's name in Chinese is 宽宽 (Kuan Kuan), which literally translates to "broad broad" / "wide wide".
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4. Caleb's Retirement Plans
[ EN Version ]
Caleb: I bought them because they're beautiful. also, beautiful flowers are meant for someone special.
[ CN Version ]
Caleb: Because they look very nice. And also because nice flowers are meant to be given to the person one likes. [因为它很好看。也因为好看的花要送给喜欢的人。]
To me, the phrase "the person one likes" comes across more intimate and direct (which is in line with Caleb's nature) than simply saying "someone special".
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5. Bad and Good Results
[ EN Version ]
Caleb: There will always be a result. MC: What if none of them bloom? Will that still count as a result? Caleb: Yes, even if it's not what we're hoping for. Caleb: Regardless of whether the flowers bloom or not, they're the flowers we cultivated, protected and watched over together. Caleb: Even if none of them blossom, we can take what we've learned and plant new ones. Caleb: As long as you're willing to keep trying, our flowers will bloom someday.
[ CN Version ]
Caleb: Our flowers will bear results. [我们的花不会没有结果。] MC: A bad result where the flowers don't bloom also counts as a result? [开不出花的坏结果也算结果?] Caleb: Of course a bad result is also counted as a result. [坏结果当然也算结果。] Caleb: Regardless of whether it's a good or bad result, those flowers were cultivated by the both of us, protected by the both of us, and accompanied by the both of us. [但无论好与坏,都是我们一起耕耘,一起守护,一起陪伴过的花。] Caleb: Even if the flowers don't bloom this time round, we can carry this experience when planting the next round of flowers. [即便这一次没有开出花来,我们也可以带着经验去种下一次的花。] Caleb: As long as you're willing to keep trying, there will definitely be a time when our flowers bloom. [只要你还愿意继续尝试,我们总会迎来一次花开的。]
The CN version brings out Caleb's mindset towards results more clearly, where he sees purpose in the pursuit of something regardless of whether it ends badly or well.
Sprinkling in a little analysis: This dialogue is clearly layered, where you can replace the word "flowers" with "relationship" and it would be an accurate description of their pre-relationship dynamic. Caleb's tender care in cultivating the flowers, his patience in waiting for the flowers to bloom, having no expectations that the flowers would bloom (as we can tell by how shocked he was when the flowers actually bloomed), and him simply being content with being by MC's side is a mirror of what he has been going through so far with MC.
I also find it interesting that Caleb's says that the flowers will bloom someday "as long as you're willing to keep trying" instead of "we", and I'm glad that the EN version captured this accurately. Just like in his previous dates where Caleb holds himself back like the yearner he is, we once again see Caleb giving MC the space to take the initiative to make their relationship blossom. And she finally does that in the Floating Floraletter date ( ´ з `)🍎
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6. The Little Assistant
[ EN Version ]
Caleb: It doesn't matter what role you pick after you retire. You'll still need your trusty assistant.
[ CN Version ]
Caleb: It looks like no matter whether I become a farm owner or handyman after retirement, I can't do without my specially hired little assistant. [看来退休以后无论是做农场主还是作修理工,都不能没有特聘小助理。]
This was unfortunately a mistranslation which changes the way this line is interpreted.
The official translation could be interpreted as Caleb wanting to become MC's trusty assistance regardless of what post-retirement hustle MC decides to take up.
However, in the original Chinese version, Caleb was actually referring to his own post-retirement plans and how MC is indispensable in his future.
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⸜( ´ ꒳ ` )⸝ That's all for now! Thanks for reading and I hope you found this interesting HAHA
❀ Masterlist
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dittopicaro · 5 months ago
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The L&DS Guys as Geriatric Senior Citizens👴💫
Xavier
Maybe I'm biased but I think he'd make the cutest little old man. Age probably shrank him a little, and he's probably cold all the time. When he's not sleeping in his favorite chair, he's at the park feeding the birds (there's a sign stating that it's prohibited, but he gets away with it). He still retains some of that subconscious charm from his youth that draws people to him, making him a beloved figure in the community. Neighbors are always willing to help him out and leave home cooked meals at his door nearly every day.
Zayne
He fully embraces being elderly. After retiring, he finally gets to rest and enjoy leisure pastimes. He always has hard candy on him and is willing to share them to any polite young whippersnapper who holds the door open for him. Due to having worked in the medical field for so long, he's always compliant with checkups and accepts help for daily tasks when it's offered. He often reads books at a café by his home that he shuffles to daily. He has a group of other old man friends he'll play mahjong or chess with in public parks.
Rafayel
He's still really funny and witty, but with the changing times he's not the most politically correct anymore. It never comes from a true place of malice, though. He really delves into the eccentric old man aesthetic, wearing capes and top hats. He has a tendency of wandering though, which makes his loved ones nervous as he gets older, especially when they found him standing a little too close to the pier one morning with his walker. He rolls his eyes at the overprotective care he gets, but secretly appreciates how many people look after him in his older years.
Sylus
He willingly let's everyone believe he's losing his hearing just so people will stop talking to him. Definitely groans like an old door when he sits down. Probably has the sickest cane ever and absolutely falls asleep sitting straight up with his mouth wide open. Dresses impeccably until the day he dies. Probably crabby a lot, but also really loving in little ways to the people he cares about. Overall, he kind of reminds me of an 18 year old cat or something, where he's saggy, achy, but also just dignified as he was in his youth.
Caleb
He's a fighter. As someone who essentially built his identity off of being a protector and caregiver, he fights being cared for hard. He will be 83 years old and shovelling snow off of the roof of his house as neighbors watch in horror. He's a bit of a karen as well, and won't hesitate to cause scenes in public if he doesn't get his way. He probably has a crusty little white dog that he's extremely protective over. He's definitely a homebody, but he and that smelly little dog of his go for walks every morning at an ungodly early hour.
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wallflowerwritesstuff · 15 days ago
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Promise?
Your calendar has everything.
Except your birthday.
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Caleb's Version is up first :)
Zayne's Version / Xavier's Version (coming soon)
Sylus's Version (coming soon)/ Rafayel's Version (coming soon)
dividers by firefly graphics.
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“What’s this, pipsqueak?” 
You look over your shoulder as he digs around the items on your desk rather than help you clean like he said he would. Placing the nth box you’d dug out of retirement on your dresser, you smile a tiny but at the stack of calendars he pulls out of another slightly more beaten box.  
“Such a pack rat,” you murmur to yourself, walking over and taking one from the top. You flip through it and sigh at how empty it is. You really need to get better about filling it out.
“These are—” 
“Calendars.”
His expression shifts as he flips through another one, his eyes scanning each month with growing interest. He places last year's down and goes to the very bottom of the pile to spot the familiar apple-themed one. Your messy handwriting and random letters you swore spelled something way back when littered the back, but the front remained untouched.
“You kept it,” he whispers quietly, thumb brushing over the faded but otherwise intact cover. 
You watch him closely, noting the way his eyes softened. When he met your eyes, you could see it…the debate of whether this was a conversation to have or allow to end. 
You chose for him, reaching out as your fingers brushed along the cover as well. 
“I did. I know it started as a joke about my bad memory,” you say with a smile, this time missing the twitch of his lips and brows at your words, “But it became a habit. One I carried with me even into adulthood. All thanks to little Caleb.” 
He pushes the air from his nose, amused as he flips through it with a lot more care than the first. You let him bask in the moment, holding the most recent to your chest silently.
“You were such a kid,” he says with a grin. “Always keeping score.”
You moved closer to peek at what he was referencing. It took you a moment to decipher what you’d written, misspellings and all. 
“Allowance day- Meanie Caleb owes me and Zayne an old popsicle each,” you read, scrunching your nose and feeling your face warm. It was short-lived, a realization hitting you soon after. “Hey…I don’t think you ever paid up!” 
Caleb rolled his eyes. “In my defense, I couldn’t find ‘old popsicles’ anywhere! Zayne said the place he got them was closed and every popsicle I brought to you, you denied.”
You squint at him, not accepting the explanation. 
“You promised.”
“So should we get the band back together and go hunting for old popsicles?” Caleb questions with a raised brow, flipping through the rest of the months before grabbing the next year’s and doing the same. You two went back and forth, topic changing every time you found something that spurred your memories to rise to the surface.
Your high school years are where things got really interesting much to your chagrin, Caleb laughing as he held it out of your reach and drank every written word in different colored pens. 
Pens he’d gotten you as a gift after ruining your fancy dress shirt in the wash after forgetting a pen in a sweater pocket of his. 
“Every basketball game and PT appointment, huh?” he hums as you hiss his name in warning, debating a sneak attack until he hands it to you without much fight at all. When he grabs the next, you feel a bit of relief that it was from after graduating. Those were much more sparse than the previous. University had taken a lot of your time and energy, only for you to then jump into the Academy once you realized you wanted to become a hunter. 
Part of you wonders whether Caleb’s encouragement or the dreams of that bright light that saved you way back when was the final nail in that coffin. 
“Man, you had a pretty packed schedule before graduating,” Caleb points out. “No wonder you would always be out cold when I came home to visit.” 
You ignore the comment, watching him go through them faster with how little detail there was compared to the older ones. He eyes the one in your arms, which you give without much thought if it meant he would leave you alone. The sooner he was done nosing around your past, the sooner you could….
You freeze, turning back to face him as your lips part. 
“Caleb—” 
“You wrote our death anniversary,” he whispers, like it was harder to breathe at the realization. He flips through the months once. Twice. “But not your own birthday?” 
You pick at the skin of your lower lip. You genuinely hadn’t thought much about your birthday. It wasn’t like it was your official birthday anyway. 
It was just a day. A reminder you’d wished to avoid.
“Why so surprised?” you asked, gently nudging him and trying to make the air in the room lighter. “Between being a Hunter, random wanderers appearing on a whim, it’s probably a cursed date,” you joke, but Caleb didn’t laugh or tease you as usual. 
Instead, he sighed, placing the desk calendar back on the stack and keeping his hand there for a moment. 
“It isn’t a big deal,” you try again, picking at the fabric of your pajama pants. 
And it wasn’t. Not to you. The only reason you’d celebrated was because other people seemed to want you to. Important people. 
People who hadn’t been around last year for reasons outside of their control. 
“Did you at least spend the day with someone?” Caleb asks quietly. “Anyone?” 
You hadn’t. 
Zayne had been away on some research project. 
Tara had been at an office in another city at the time. 
Xavier had disappeared to who knows where, returning the next week as if he’d never left with an injury you’d forced him to let you treat. 
Each had sent birthday wishes or belated birthday wishes which you accepted with a bit of hesitation, but the day of? 
You’d gone on a mission much to Jenna’s confusion. 
You’d come home after getting drenched by the rain that invited distant thunder and lightning to Linkon City. You’d curled up in bed, listening to the worsening storm and imagining those ‘silly’ birthday celebrations that involved party poppers the moment you walked through the door.
At least those loud noises provided nostalgia rather than fear. 
You clung to the memories, pulling your blanket over your head and closing your eyes while clinging to a plushie.
Picking the confetti from your hair as Gran and Caleb crowded while singing around you.  
The hugs from Gran that became weaker every year without her realizing, making you hold on a bit tighter. 
(not tight enough.)
The hugs from Caleb that became stronger every year until he no longer needed his evol to lift you up to spin around. 
(you needed to catch up.)
“Pipsqueak?” 
You snap out of your thoughts. “I can’t give you an answer you want,” you admit. “But I wasn’t forgotten if that’s what you’re worried about. I got birthday wishes and little presents from the people around me.” 
It wasn’t enough if the look he wore while eyeing your carpet was any indication of how he felt. 
You nudge him again, this time linking your pinky with his own as his focus shifted to you in an instant. 
“Stop wallowing. If you feel that strongly about it, then spend my next birthday with me,” you state. “And the one after that…and after that—”
You suck in a breath when arms wrap around you, all too familiar. 
You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed it until you wrapped your arms around him, too. 
“Deal,” Caleb promises, lips pressing a kiss to your temple. 
It shouldn’t have made your heart skip a beat. 
“I get it,” you say while trying to cool your cheeks and ears. “Now help me like you said you would, decluttering this room won’t happen if we’re standing here all day.” 
Caleb doesn’t let go right away, easing up slowly and allowing you to pull away first. 
He places the calendars back into the box, not daring to touch them as you make piles of things to donate, throw away, or keep.
And months later, you come home to a new desk calendar and flip to the current month. 
You look through it with a knowing smile, fingers brushing against the familiar handwriting and tracing the apple-like shape drawn around the date. 
Pipsqueak’s Birthday.
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dollyswishingwell · 24 days ago
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Hiii do u think u could write about a chubby mc by any chance like maybe similar to your works with the lingerie and pampering? Thank you so much!!!
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Fluffy
𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluffff, i love soft women therefore the boys love soft women. this is for alllll the chubby reader requests. feel free to request more specific scenarios if you’d like :p
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Your chubbiness is a result of their spoiling. they take full responsibility
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𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:・
- “So soft…” Rafayel can’t stop touching you. Your tummy, your thighs, your arms, he’s always squeezing, always hugging you from behind with his chin resting on your shoulder and both hands laid over your stomach like it’s sacred. “It’s all mine, isn’t it?” he murmurs with a dreamy little smile that makes your heart melt.
- He spoils you constantly. Food from quaint seaside cafés, sugary pastries, lavender bubble tea, rich desserts from his homeland… and he insists on feeding you with his own stained fingers. If you try to share with him, he pouts, “No, no, I bought it for you, not to split.”
- He’s obsessed with how you glow. He paints you in soft, dreamy palettes, your figure bathed in sunlight, your belly peeking from under silk robes, your stretch marks immortalized like delicate brushstrokes. He’ll kiss your shoulder and murmur, “My masterpiece.” And he means it.
- He takes it personally when you talk about dieting. He’ll gently pull you onto his lap, smug as ever, rubbing slow circles into your hips while teasing, “You want to starve what I’ve been working so hard on?” Then he starts pressing kisses down your neck until you forget what you were even saying.
- He overstimulates you out of worship. Especially when you’re feeling self-conscious. Rafayel takes his time with you. He kisses every inch of your stomach, thighs, hips. His voice goes soft, “I love when you’re full of me… full of love. You’re perfect like this.” And he makes sure you feel it, over and over again.
- He loves how soft you are when you sleep. He always spoons you, his leg draped over yours, hand possessively resting on your stomach. Sometimes, he’ll even wake you up at 3am just to whisper, “You’re so beautiful right now. Look at the moonlight on your skin.”
- He starts drama with Thomas constantly. Usually because he’s skipping some press event or gallery meeting to stay home feeding you strawberries in bed or building a pillow nest around you for a nap. “Tell him I’m retired,” Rafayel yawns, nuzzling into your hair. “I’m busy sculpting divinity.”
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𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆
- He doesn’t say much, he just stares. The moment you walk by in one of your silky robes, and he catches the curve of your fuller hips, your thighs, the soft swell of your stomach, Zayne goes completely silent. His hazel-green eyes follow every movement like a surgeon examining perfection. And then? That low, commanding “Come here.”
- He has zero complaints. You might grumble that you can’t fit into one of your old gala gowns, but he’s already kneeling in front of you, lips brushing your stomach. His voice is calm, steady, reverent. “Then we’ll get better ones. Custom. To fit exactly the way I like.”
- He touches you constantly at home. When you’re curled up beside him, he’ll rest his hand over your thigh or stomach while reading patient files or typing on his tablet. He rubs slow, absentminded circles, like the feel of you grounds him more than anything else.
- He keeps feeding you, without comment. Gourmet meals, imported teas, delicate desserts from private caterers. He’ll set snack trays on your vanity while you get ready, murmuring behind you as he fastens your necklace, “Eat something while I zip this up.”
- Strict with everyone, except you. When you worry out loud about your weight, he looks at you with that cool, clinical gaze before saying, in a voice that brooks no argument: “You’re healthy. You’re mine. That’s all that matters.”
- Obsessively gentle during intimacy. Especially now that you’re softer. Zayne takes his time, kissing your stomach, massaging your thighs, whispering into your skin like he’s reading scripture. “I love this body. You grew it for me.”
- He starts buying you more robes. Expensive ones. Satin, silk, cashmere, soft fabrics that fall around your frame like royalty. All a little oversized, all handpicked. “You’re a doctor’s wife now,” he says, voice low with amusement. “I expect you to look the part.”
- He shuts down your insecurities instantly. A quiet frown at your reflection? Tugging at your shirt in the mirror? Zayne’s already there. He closes the mirror with a snap, tilts your chin up with steady fingers, and says, with unshakable certainty: “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” And with him, you know it’s the truth.
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𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
- He’s completely fascinated by your body. Xavier watches you like he’s studying your curves for a thesis. When you shift beneath his gaze, he tilts his head, touches your belly or hips, and murmurs, “You’ve changed… I like it. You feel warmer.”
- He teases you when you’re curled up together. Lying on the couch with you wrapped in his arms, he strokes your sides and hums, “If you get any more spoiled, I might have to carry you everywhere.” Then he does, lifting you with ease and tucking you into bed like precious treasure.
- He falls asleep on your tummy constantly. It’s become his new favorite pillow. He curls up around you like a sleepy cat, arms snug around your waist, murmuring softly as he drifts off, “You’re softer now… don’t change it.”
- He buys you outfits that show off your new curves. Tailored gowns, soft clingy fabrics, elegant cuts that flatter everything. He brushes his fingers along the zipper and says, low and reverent, “If you’re mine… I want everyone to know it.”
- Your insecurity doesn’t compute. You say something like, “I think I gained weight,” and Xavier just blinks at you. “So?” he says plainly. “You’re mine either way. I don’t want you small. I want you happy.”
- He overfeeds you without realizing. Every slice of cake, every weird herbal drink he mixes for you, it’s all love. If you say no, he looks vaguely heartbroken. “Please,” he murmurs, coaxing the bite to your lips. “Just one more. You’ll like it.”
- He secretly memorizes every stretch mark. He kisses them like starlight, like they’re sacred constellations. Tracing them with his fingers, he whispers, “You changed for me… I’ll make sure it’s worth it.”
- If anyone dares comment on your weight… Xavier goes still. Completely unreadable. He doesn’t react in front of you, but later, someone ends up quietly blacklisted, evicted, or vanishes entirely from the N109 registry. When you ask, he just hums, “Strange. People disappear all the time.”
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𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚。𓅨⋆。°✩
- “Look at you.” That’s the first thing he says every morning, voice rough, amused, eyes glued to the way you stretch in bed beside him. His gaze lingers on your plush thighs under the satin sheets, your softened waist, the evidence of his spoiling. “You really have gotten spoiled, haven’t you?”
- He treats your weight gain like a divine achievement. He’ll lean back in his chair, wine in hand, watching you try on a new dress with a lazy, hungry smile. “You were beautiful when I met you. But now? Now you look like you belong to me.”
- He feeds you luxuries like a prince feeding a pet. Truffles, lavender tarts, honey-drenched pastries. He sits you in his lap during meetings, arms around your waist, lazily slipping bites between your lips. “Open up. Good girl.”
- He buys you tighter clothes on purpose. They’re supposedly tailored, but they always cling just a little too much at the hips, the chest. When you pout or tug at the fabric, he smirks. “Maybe I like watching you outgrow things. Makes me feel like I’m doing my job right.”
- He talks to your stomach in private. Especially after long, indulgent nights. He’ll press soft kisses to your belly, murmuring against your skin like it’s a prayer. “You take everything I give you so well. Look at how you’ve changed for me.”
- In public, he’s shamelessly possessive. His hand always rests over your stomach, arm snug around your waist. He makes sure people notice. Especially the ones who knew you when you were thinner. “Doesn’t she look divine?” he’ll ask, voice full of dangerous pride.
- He cuts off any insult with a smile like a blade. If anyone glances at your figure with even a hint of judgment, Sylus leans in close. “Careful,” he says smoothly. “Speak like that again and I’ll have you scrubbing sublevels in Zone K by morning.”
- Your softness is his favorite display of power. You didn’t get soft for anyone else, you got soft for him. And Sylus lives for it. His voice dips low with satisfaction every time he sees your curves catch the light. “Let them all see,” he murmurs. “You’re mine now. And it shows.”
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𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆。 ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧。 ⋆
- “I’ve been feeding you well, huh?” he teases, voice soft and full of pride. He wraps his arms around you from behind, presses a warm kiss to your neck, and gives your belly a gentle squeeze, like he’s proud of it. Like it means you’re finally his.
- He refuses to let you walk half the time. From bed to couch, to his ship’s quarters, Caleb just picks you up with no warning. “You’re not walking.” His voice leaves no room for argument. He’ll nuzzle your cheek and murmur, “You’ve gotten heavier. I love it.”
- He tucks snacks into your bag like a protective husband prepping for war. Your favorite cookies, soft milk drinks, sweet little pastries, he packs them before missions or errands. “Eat while I’m gone, okay?” he tells you. “I want you full when I get back.”
- He’s obsessed with you in his clothes. Especially when you’re lounging around in one of his Farspace shirts and it rides up just a little over your tummy. He’ll freeze mid-coffee, jaw slack. “Pips. Seriously. Come here. Right now.”
- He shuts down your insecurities fast. Call yourself too chubby? His expression hardens instantly. “Pips, i made you like this. You’re soft. You’re safe. You’re mine.” And then he’s pulling you into his lap, hand resting over your stomach like he’s guarding the most precious treasure in the universe.
- He maps your body like a star chart. Especially after showers or when you’re curled in bed, his fingers trace every curve, every mark, every soft place you’ve grown under his love. “I could spend forever learning this body,” he whispers, kissing your skin.
- He doesn’t tolerate a single word against you. One snide remark from a cadet and his smile vanishes. One glance from Caleb and that person is off the mission roster, probably reassigned to the worst post in orbit. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
- To him, your softness means you’re safe. You stopped running. You started resting. You let him take care of you. Every night before bed, he kisses your stomach like it’s holy. “Took you forever to let me love you, huh?” he whispers. “Look at you now.”
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wolfofcelestia · 2 months ago
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・゚✧ ────── ⋆⋅⚝⋅⋆ ────── ✧・゚
The boys in retirement
and how fast I think they would develop a dadbod
(From slowest to fastest)
・゚✧ ────── ⋆⋅⚝⋅⋆ ────── ✧・゚
Rafayel:
I mean, he isn't a fan of exercise as it is but he's gonna want to swim his heart out whenever he wants. Actually, now that he's retired, he has even more time to swim around. Seafood isn't super fatty either, so there wouldn't be much of a change in his body if he were to retire and live a simple life with MC
Exercise:
- Moderate-high (if swimming is considered exercise for him?)
Diet:
- Pretty healthy actually
Dadbod transformation:
- Minimal or very slow
・゚✧ ────── ⋆⋅⚝⋅⋆ ────── ✧・゚
Caleb:
The question is... Can he even retire? I'm going to assume that he can retire as colonel officially, but in the background, he'd still be "on call", so he'd still be physically active. Maybe not as much as he used to be, but he'd still have to keep in shape enough to carry out his duties. Still, I feel like his body would definitely soften up in "retirement" when MC keeps asking him to make all these different feasts and to eat them with her
Exercise:
- Moderate-high (for reasons he cannot disclose, he must be ripped at all times)
Diet:
- Indulgent
Dadbod transformation:
- Minimal or very slow
・゚✧ ────── ⋆⋅⚝⋅⋆ ────── ✧・゚
Sylus:
This man is a gourmet. Every meal is as delicious as it could possibly get. And if you've watched any cooking shows by famous chefs whose food Sylus would no doubt be eating (*cough* Gordon Ramsay *cough*), you'll know that they pretty much just baste everything in butter and different fats make things taste better. Add his drinking to the mix, and he's got a ton of calories lined up for him on the daily
I'm assuming his metabolism is faster than a human's though. And I'm also assuming he'd still want to keep his boxing hobby up. He'd have more time to box too, now that he's retired. So I feel like he'd definitely be looking a little rounder than in his prime boxing days, but he'd still be able to hold his own in the ring
He may be minimally affected due to his non-human metabolism, but all that decadent food would catch up to MC pretty quick too. No matter what, Sylus still makes sure he's strong enough to pick her up with one arm because he loves to see her face light up, just like how it did when he first flung her over his shoulder
Exercise:
- High (boxing and MC lifting)
Diet:
- Extremely indulgent
Dadbod transformation:
- Minimal or very slow
・゚✧ ────── ⋆⋅⚝⋅⋆ ────── ✧・゚
Xavier:
Assuming he completely quits any sort of fighting, I'd say his junk food eating would catch up to him pretty quick, but again, I'm also assuming his metabolism is a lot faster so he can process that better than earth humans. But if he and MC retire together, I'm 10000% sure she wouldn't let him live off of junk food. He would probably still gravitate towards it, but she'd steer him in a more... sane direction. So he'd fill out into a dadbod pretty quick but not as fast as... well...
Exercise:
- Low (eepy)
Diet:
- He's struggling out here
Dadbod transformation:
- He's definitely getting there
・゚✧ ────── ⋆⋅⚝⋅⋆ ────── ✧・゚
Zayne:
Oh, Dr. Zayne... Meet him one year into retirement and you wouldn't even recognize him ahdskdh
He's developed an addiction to sugary coffee to get through his days from med school and all throughout his career, so he's definitely not going to give that up. Then there are all his sweet treats. MC can nag him all she wants but he's gonna get his hands on them one way or another. He's earned his retirement, after all
His life would be one sweet treat after the other, with healthy meals in between of course. He'd ensure both he and MC get well-balanced meals, giving them all the required nutrients they need each and every day. Followed by a delicious dessert. Always dessert
Despite his indulgence and gluttony, old habits die hard, and he wouldn't be able to silence the inner doctor within him. He'd still insist on going for walks with MC after each meal. They'd be known throughout their little retirement community as the couple who always walks together through their neighbourhood, rain or shine. They could always be seen in a little park watching the sunset together
His body would definitely get softer, but so would his heart, filled with everything he ever wanted - more time with MC, more time to enjoy life with her, and always, always more sweets
Exercise:
- Low-moderate (mostly walking)
Diet:
- Oh god
- Probably the diet of a unicorn
Dadbod transformation:
- [LADS advert plays here on max volume]
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little-glitter-kitten · 5 months ago
Text
I Think The Apple's Rotten Right To The Core Pt 6
Prologue: As your brother, Caleb always took great pride in the fact that he was always the first to notice the little things when it came to you. When you were hurt, when you were sick, when you were lying or keeping a secret. What will Caleb do when he notices just how much his precious little adopted sister has grown? Can he fight the filthy, rotten feelings threatening to ruin all he holds dear?
(Caleb x Reader, no use of 'Y/N, AFAB reader, size difference.)
TW: Pseudo-incest, dub-con, somnophilia, sexting, semi-public sex,  possessive Caleb, Obsessed Caleb, Yandere Caleb.
YOUR POV:
You sit at the dinner table, trying your best to make conversation with your Grandmother while studiously avoiding Caleb's eyes.
You swear you could feel every time his gaze landed on you, the weight of it feeling almost as heavy as a physical touch. Your breath would catch in your throat whenever your eyes locked and you were beginning to grow frustrated.
You were more than frustrated, actually.
After Caleb left your bedrooom and went to help set the table like nothing had even happened, you spent the next five minutes wiping the traces of his cum off of you. You didn't even have enough time to bring yourself to orgasm before Grandma was calling for you to come downstairs and eat.
To say that you were pent up was an understatement.
Caleb was busy telling your Grandma about his old high school friends while you pushed your salad around your plate and tried not to sulk.
"...they split a few years ago and went their seperate ways. Last I heard, she was back in her parents house and unemployed but he met someone else and is now engaged." He told them.
"At least he got his happy ending, though." You said nonchalantly, stabbing a piece of lettuce with more force than was necessary. "Too bad about her."
You felt his eyes snap back to you and you swear you could feel your body grow heavier under Calebs intense scrutiny. You risked a glance up to see him looking at you, rubbing his chin as though pondering something.
"Well, maybe, if she wasn't so intent on playing the victim card, she would realise that good things..." You felt his foot slide up you leg under the table. "...come to those who wait."
Just as suddenly as it appeared, his foot was gone and Caleb had risen from his chair to take his dishes to the sink. Leaving you to sit and stew in your rapidly swirling thoughts.
After dinner, the three of you had retired to the living room. Grandma and Caleb sat at opposite ends of the three-seater while you occupied the wingback chair that sat perpendicular to the couch. It was known as your chair and no one would dare sit in it while you were home.
Relaxing into the seat, you mindlessly scrolled on your phone as Grandma continued her latest knitting project and Caleb lay back on the sofa, watching the TV.
Though the room was filled with a comfortable silence, you were anything but comfortable. You were using your phone as a way to distract yourself from the man sitting right 6 feet away from you, who seemed to be completely unaffected.
Just as you were beginning to feel your nerves settle, your phone vibrated in your hand, a drop-down notification appearing and informing you of a text from Caleb.
You steal a glance at him, his eyes focused on the TV but his phone sat in front of him, face down on the couch. Looking back down at your phone, you begin to read.
Caleb: 'Is my sweet, little pipsqueak sulking the corner?  ( •̯́ ^ •̯̀)'
You ignore him and continue scrolling but it wasn't long before you see another text appear.
Caleb: 'I can see you've read my message. Giving me the silent treatment, pipsqueak?'
You knew it was incredibly immature of you but you knew how much he hated being ignored. Looking up at him, you find his gaze already on you. With a bored expression on your face, you lock your phone screen and place it on the chair in front of you before turning your attention to the television.
Very quickly, you felt your phone buzz once...then twice....then three times.
Looking over, you see him typing furiously, his brow furrowed in a mix on concentration and...anger?
Feeling like you may have pushed him to far, you pick up your phone and read the messages.
Caleb: 'Is this because we didn't get time for you to have your fun?'
Caleb: 'Because, it sounds like you had plenty of fun last night... I heard you taking care of yourself after I left the room. How many times did you come? I counted at least 6. Well...from what I could hear from your bedroom door, anyway.'
Caleb: 'You always were a brat when you didn't get your way.'
You couldn't help the audible scoff that escaped your mouth. The nickname 'brat' was always his go to when he was upset with you.
Beginning to feel pins and needles, you uncrossed your legs to give them a stretch before crossing them again. Risking a glance at Caleb, you blanched. The tips of his ears were bright red, the creases between his eyebrows becoming more pronounced and the veins in his neck standing out.
Is he really that angry from a bit of silent treatment?
Caleb: 'Did you seriously just flash me after ignoring me, pipsqueak?'
As much as you wanted to reply and deny it, you were too stubborn to concede defeat and stop the silent treatment. You sat, watching Caleb's typing bubble appear, holding your breath.
Caleb: 'You little cocktease! If you know what's good for you, you will lock your door tonight and pray to God I don't get in.'
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marriedtosuku · 1 month ago
Text
Headfirst
Tumblr media
Collage made by me, but I dont own any pictures. Middle photo was made by @heybiji on Twitter.
an: This is a non-jjk drabble. A quick little drabble about Caleb of Love and Deepspace since I can not pull for Xavier's event card because I pulled a 5 star Caleb. Which in theory is insane because I literally do not want to pay extra for a possibility (do I still sound bitter at not getting my omega). Anyway, enjoy this fluffy piece and I cant wait to hear from you all.
Pairing: Caleb x reader
genre:fluffy, kinda self-depricating, pregancy, chapped lip Caleb, baby apple
word count: 600ish
Hmph, stop pipsqueak.”
I ignore his pleas, a tube of my favorite lip balm in hand on a mission to moisturize my boyfriend’s lips. He has a habit of biting his lips when he’s nervous, chapped skin prickling against my neck while we wait for the timer. 
“ no Caleb, your lips are scratching me.” 
“ let me just lick em.”
“No,” I counter. “ that makes it worst. This is going to make your lips smooth and buttery.” 
“ do I need smooth lips to wait for a pregnancy test?” 
I stand against him, his exposed arm wrap securely around my neck. The test tempts me with each grueling second pass by in steady ticks. This is our first pregancy scare since our wedding and the tension of it all has me reeling on Caleb’s broad chest. Idealistically, a child would be the missing piece in our family dynamic. A girl or boy, favoring mostly me with a few feature of my staggering husband sounds blissful, but our trauma combine could make Dr.Phill plan an early retirement. To put it bluntly, we’re damaged goods. 
Caleb, an ex Colonel commander, still wake up in cold sweats. His hard body quivers, hands tightly bounded around the fitted sheets, heaving in utter distress at whatever memory tormenting him that night. Some nightmares were worst than others which is why he prefer I fall asleep before him. 
But I’m not any better. 
A cluster of misguidance, mistrust, and misfortune all wrapped up in a short tempered body. I had my fair share of death and misery to make even Heartbreaker weep. Some things I haven’t even told Caleb about and never will. 
Because a hunter has to be strong, especially in the face of an adversary. 
“do you think we’re ready for a child?” I asked. 
He purse his lips. “I think we could try. We know how rough we had it growing up and know not to put our child through it. Therapy has been working, so I’m not experiencing nightmares as much.” A hand caressed my shoulder blade. “You’re just in your pretty little head again.” 
I hate when he does that. 
“ m’not in my head.”
“Hey, “ he turns me around, his bright indigo eyes stared at me so tenderly, hands firmly on my arms to keep me steady, and a kiss from his chapped lips on my forehead. “We are ready for this. Our child will be loved, nourished, and cared for. They will not a go a day without hear an ‘I love you’, and I know we both would go hell and high waters to protect them. I can promise you with my heart that I’ll do whatever it takes to make you and them happy and safe.” 
“Caleb,” 
My heart skips a beat when the timer echoed in our bathroom. It felt like a hot cast iron skillet on my hand. 
“Are you ready to look?” 
I nod.
Our strides differed. Caleb practically glide over towards the white, plastic stick while I strayed behind like a skittish cat. Caleb reassurance made my heart a little lighter but that pestering voice lingered. 
“Am I good enough ?” 
“Can I be a naturing mother?” 
“There’s no rules to parenting, pipsqueak.” 
“Stop reading my mind!” 
He chuckles. “Come here,” 
I zoned in at the test and Caleb’s glimmering face. 
Positive.  
“We’re going to be parents.” He practically lifts me up. 
“Heh, I can’t believe it. I’m still doubting my parental abilities, but I know that we have each other and we’re going to give our all so baby Apple will never be without.” I finally say. “It’s just one more thing.” 
“Yeah?”
“Their daddy shouldn’t have chapped lips.” 
an: I love this man, but I know he doesn't own chapstick.
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