l55374

[l55374]

im glad u didnt make zayne cry :)

i would've died.

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — HE ALMOST LOSES YOU FOR GOOD

a/n: here's the angst you all voted for <3 i am not entitled to any and all emotional compensation

ZAYNE

The hospital room is sterile. Dim. The kind of place that muffles even time.

Machines beep in soft, steady rhythms, a cruel imitation of life. And in the center of it all, you lie motionless. Bruised and bandaged, wires and tubes snaking from your body like ivy trying to hold you here. Like even the machines are begging you not to let go.

Zayne doesn’t say a word.

He sits by your bedside with his hands clasped tightly around yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. There’s dried blood under his fingernails. Not yours. Not his. Someone else’s. It doesn't matter. Nothing does right now except the weak pulse beneath his fingertips and the raspy rise and fall of your chest.

You’d been gone too long on the mission. Comms lost. Then the call came. Injured. Critical. Zayne had made it to the hospital faster than anyone could track his movements. Like some primal force had torn him through the world just to reach you.

He hadn’t let go of your hand since.

He doesn’t blink as he watches your face. There’s no outward panic in his expression — Zayne never shows that — but his jaw is locked so tight it looks like his teeth might crack. His knuckles are white. Every so often, his fingers tremble. He tells himself it’s fatigue. He tells himself it’s nothing.

But inside, he’s cracking.

“You’re stronger than this,” he murmurs. His voice is gravel, low and rough like it hurts to speak. “You’ve survived worse.”

The door opens quietly. A nurse slips in to check your vitals. Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just keeps holding your hand like if he lets go, you’ll slip through the cracks in the world. Like he’s the only thing tethering you here.

Then everything starts to go wrong.

It begins with a blip. One shrill, high-pitched note that slices through the room.

The machines shriek. Lights flash. Your body arches once, violently, and then collapses like the life is draining from it. Code blue echoes down the hallway as a team rushes in like a tidal wave. Hands everywhere. Orders shouted.

Zayne stands in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t let go.

“Sir, you have to leave—”

“No.” His voice is calm, deadly. Final.

Two nurses try to pry him back. One grabs his shoulder, another his arm. He tightens his grip on your hand like it’s the last lifeline he has.

“She needs space, Zayne!” a doctor yells, panic spiking. “We need to shock — move him!”

And finally, they drag him back.

Zayne stumbles, not because he trips, but because his legs don’t want to leave you. His hand is ripped from yours like tearing velcro from a wound. The doors slam in his face.

And he’s alone.

Alone with nothing but the glass window and the chaos beyond it. He presses both palms to it, leaning forward, forehead against the cold surface. His breath fogs the glass.

"Don’t do this," he whispers, more to himself than to anyone else. "Don’t you dare."

Inside, your body jerks with each charge. CPR. Adrenaline. Voices barking numbers he can’t make sense of. One of the nurses glances at the window and sees him — sees the man who always has it together, now looking like he might fall apart if they lose you.

Zayne’s fists press to the glass. His lips move, no sound comes out.

Then—

The shrill flatline halts. Beeps begin again. Slow, weak… but there.

A pulse.

Zayne’s breath catches so sharply it’s like someone stabbed him with relief. He staggers back half a step before dragging his hand down his face, eyes red, though no tears fall.

The door doesn’t open. No one waves him in. But he sees the doctor nod faintly. You’re alive. Barely.

And that’s all he needs.

Hours pass. Maybe more. They finally let him back in once you’re stabilized. You’re still unconscious, but you’re breathing on your own now. The bruises still paint your skin in sick colors, but your chest rises without machine aid.

Zayne sits beside you again, hands folded in his lap this time, like he doesn’t trust himself to touch you just yet.

“I thought I lost you.” The whisper breaks through the silence, rougher than before. “I never panic. You know that. But when I saw that line go flat...”

His voice breaks.

Just a crack.

But it’s there.

He bows his head, resting it on the edge of the bed, eyes closed. One hand finds yours again, hesitant at first, then firm.

“I can’t do this without you. So don’t you dare make me.”

A moment of silence.

Then — your hand twitches.

It’s small. A flicker. But it’s real.

Zayne jerks up. His eyes dart to your face. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime… you groan.

Weak. Barely audible.

He releases a shuddering breath, and it almost sounds like a laugh. But it’s wet, broken. He brings your hand to his lips and presses it there for a moment, breathing you in like proof.

You’re not safe yet. It’s still touch and go. But you’re here.

XAVIER

You don’t remember falling.

Not the explosion. Not the heat. Not the way your body hit the earth with a sickening thud.

But you do remember the voice.

“Stay with me. Please — stay…”

You remember that voice breaking in a way you’ve never heard it before. And you remember the warmth of lips pressed to your temple, trembling hands brushing blood and ash from your cheek. The words that tumbled out didn’t sound like him. Not the Xavier you knew — always so reserved, so gentle, so soft in his restraint.

This Xavier? He was on fire.

———

When the other Hunters arrived at the edge of the smoking field, the world had gone too still.

The enemy had been neutralized, but the cost — the cost was crumpled in Xavier’s arms.

Your body was splayed across his lap, your suit torn, chest rising only in shallow, ragged jerks. Blood coated your side — too much of it. Your hand hung limp, fingers curled around nothing. Debris lay scattered like forgotten pieces of a battle that should’ve ended differently.

And Xavier — Xavier was hunched over you like he could shield you from death itself.

“Come on, come on, please — just stay with me,” he whispered, again and again, his forehead pressed to yours, his glasses crooked and fogged. His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been screaming but had run out of air. “You promised you wouldn’t do something like this again. You promised.”

He didn’t notice Jenna approaching until the captain stopped a few feet away, boots crunching softly over broken glass and scorched dirt.

“Xavier.”

No answer.

“Xavier, the med evac is en route. Let me—”

“No.” His arms tightened around you, voice sharp for the first time in hours. “She’s still breathing.”

Xavier didn’t care who saw him now.

He cradled your head in his hand, the pad of his thumb brushing your temple in an endless rhythm like a lifeline. “You’re going to be okay. Just stay awake. Stay with me. You hear me?”

Your body didn’t respond. But your lashes fluttered for half a second, and Xavier choked on a sound that might have been a sob.

“I can’t—” he whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t do this without you.”

His lips brushed your temple again. He wasn’t even aware he was doing it. Again and again. Like a prayer. Like the universe would listen if he just repeated it enough.

“Come back to me. Please.”

It wasn’t a demand. Not even a request.

It was a beg.

And for a man like Xavier — a man who spoke more with his silences than words — to fall apart like this? It shook everyone to their core.

The others quietly made space around him. Not one of them dared interrupt. Because in that moment, there were no ranks, no roles. Just one boy, desperately trying to hold his world together before it slipped from his fingers.

RAFAYEL

You didn’t hesitate.

The moment the sniper’s scope glinted from the rooftop across the gallery, you moved — muscles fueled by instinct, not thought.

The shot rang out.

And you were already there. Between him and the bullet.

The impact knocked you backward into Rafayel’s chest with brutal force. You didn’t even feel the pain at first. Just pressure. Heat. Then cold. Your legs crumpled, and he caught you as you fell.

His hands were around your waist before he even realized why they were wet.

“Hey,” he breathed, looking down.

And then he saw it.

The blood.

Dark, thick, and seeping far too fast through the back of your uniform. His gloves were stained. His fingers trembled.

His heart stopped.

“No — no, no, no—” His voice broke as he sank to the ground with you still in his arms, cradling you like you were something made of porcelain. “You didn’t just — you idiot, why would you—?!”

Your head lolled against his shoulder. You tried to smile.

“Instinct,” you murmured weakly. “It’s… what I do.”

“Not for me.” His voice cracked. “Not for me. Not if it means this.”

You blinked slowly, lashes fluttering like paper-thin wings. “You’re safe. That’s all I… that’s all I need.”

“No, no, don’t say it like that. Don’t say it like we’re done—” His hands gripped your face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the panic in his movements. “Look at me. Look at me. Don’t you dare look away.”

Your eyes were struggling now. Heavy. Too heavy.

“Raf…” you whispered, voice catching. “You’re… crying…”

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. The tears were falling freely now, carving silent trails down his cheeks. You weren't sure if it was due to the blood loss, but his tears looked ethereal, something akin to pearls.

His breath came in ragged, shallow bursts. His usual poise — gone. His charm — shattered. All that was left was a man breaking open in real time, clutching the person he thought he'd never lose again.

“You don’t get to do this,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, nose brushing your temple. “You don’t get to leave me again. Not after last time. Not after everything.”

“I’m… sorry…”

“Don’t say sorry. Say you’ll stay.”

You were cold. He could feel it — through the warmth of his body pressed to yours, your skin had gone frighteningly still.

“Say it,” he begged, his voice growing hoarse. “Say you’ll stay. Lie to me if you have to. I’ll take anything. Anything.”

Your hand twitched in his.

Just barely.

And he held on like it was the last real thing in the world.

The were others that arrived seconds later — shouting, movement, chaos. Rough, barked orders. The paramedic's hands on the wound. Thomas' voice trembling as he called for med evac.

But Rafayel never let go. He wouldn’t let go.

Even as they tried to lift you onto the stretcher, he held your hand like it was the only lifeline keeping him from collapsing.

“You stay, you hear me?” he murmured, lips brushing your knuckles. “You’re mine. You’re my light. Don’t you dare take that from me.”

They pulled him back.

He followed the stretcher all the way to the transport, ignoring the blood on his clothes, the way his legs threatened to buckle beneath him.

You had protected him with your life.

And now, he would use his to fight for yours

SYLUS

The lights in the bar were soft and golden, warm against the sound of clinking glasses and smooth jazz that curled through the air like lazy smoke. Sylus was lounging at the booth across from you, a smirk dancing at the edge of his lips, one arm thrown over the back of the booth like he owned the place.

You were laughing at something he said — something teasing and perfectly crafted to make your cheeks warm — when the first shot shattered the glass behind you.

Everything went still.

Then it exploded into chaos.

Screams. Panic. More gunfire. The crowd scattered in a storm of bodies and overturned tables. Sylus was on his feet in a second, hand moving to his holster, eyes scanning with razor focus—

Until he turned and saw you collapse.

Your body hit the floor with a sickening thud, a flash of red blooming against your side.

His mind blanked.

“No — no, no, no — hey!” He was already kneeling beside you, hands trembling as they hovered over your wound. Blood seeped fast through your shirt, hot and slick against his skin. “Damn it, this isn’t funny. Get up.”

You blinked slowly, pain blooming in every nerve, and tried to smile. “Guess I… ruined the mood, huh?”

“Shut up,” he snapped — only his voice cracked halfway through, sharp and raw. “Don’t joke like that.”

His usual arrogance, that swagger, the way he always acted like the world bent to his will — it was gone. Torn away like your breath was from your lungs.

You reached for him, your hand barely lifting before it dropped again.

“Sylus…”

He scooped you into his arms in one clean motion, ignoring the pain that flared in his knees as he pushed off the floor. His grip was tight — too tight — but he didn’t care. You were bleeding. Your breath was shallow. And you were too damn still.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice low but frantic, slipping through gritted teeth. “You don’t get to leave me here, not now. We aren’t supposed to end like this.”

Your head lulled against his shoulder. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t you dare say sorry,” he growled. “Save your breath. You can apologize when you’re yelling at me again tomorrow.”

The remaining attackers were either down or retreating. Luke and Kieran were clearing the room. But Sylus didn’t look at them. Didn’t ask for help. He carried you through the smoke and broken glass like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Blood soaked through his shirt, warm against his chest. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. His signature smirk — now a ghost.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he murmured, forehead brushing yours. “I let my guard down. I let you down.”

“Don’t say that…” you whispered.

“Why not?” he hissed. “I’m always talking. Always running my mouth like nothing can touch me. Like nothing touches you. But look at you. Look at you.”

Your eyes fluttered. “Still…handsome, though.”

A broken sound escaped him — half laugh, half sob.

“Of course you’d say that now.”

You were slipping again. He could feel it.

“No,” he said, firmer this time, the weight in his voice shaking with each syllable. “You listen to me. You are not going out like this. Not in some second-rate ambush at a bar I don’t even like. You owe me a better ending than this.”

Your breathing was faltering.

And Sylus’s heart was plummeting with every stuttering beat.

“Don’t make me beg,” he whispered, trembling now. “Don’t make me— please. I’ll give you anything. Everything. Just open your eyes.”

As soon as his body was through the familiar doors of his apartment, Sylus collapsed onto the floor, hands gripping your skin so tight it left imprints — a physical manifestation of just how close he was to teetering off the edge.

"Sweetie, please," he rasped, fingers desperately — blindly — for the rhythmic beat just under your jaw, a sign that you were still here, still with him.

Then came guttural noise that came out his mouth when he finally found it.

You were alive. Barely. But alive all the same.

CALEB

He had lost people before.

That was the reality of command. Of war. Of the Farspace Fleet.

Caleb had saluted coffins, sent letters to families, given orders that cost lives. He had smiled through the ache, cracked jokes at funerals to keep others from crying, swallowed guilt like medicine that never worked.

But not you.

He was never supposed to lose you.

———

The report came in during a skirmish.

It was brief. Incomplete. Chaotic.

“Alpha Team down. Casualties unknown—[static]—one Hunter critically injured. Confirmed ID: [static]—[Your Name].”

He stopped breathing.

The world blurred around him. Voices, orders, lights — they faded into background noise. All he heard was your name and the word critically.

He was running before he realized it. Shouting. Pushing past medical teams. Hands trembling as he shoved through the infirmary doors and—

There you were. Unmoving. Broken.

Hooked to machines that breathed for you, pale against the stark white sheets, red still seeping through the bandages wrapped around your torso.

Caleb froze.

It felt like the floor had vanished beneath him.

“Colonel.” A medic’s voice. “You shouldn’t be here—”

“Don’t.”

His tone cut through the air like a blade. The medic stopped mid-sentence.

Caleb stepped forward, slow, like every inch was agony. He reached for your hand, then stopped, hovering.

You looked… gone.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Hey, Pipsqueak. What the hell is this, huh?”

He sat beside your bed, hands finally closing around yours.

“You’re not allowed to go before I do,” he said, trying to smile — but his voice cracked. “That’s the deal. I get the cool, tragic hero exit, and you get to roll your eyes and talk about how dramatic I am at my own funeral.”

No answer. Just the quiet beep of your heart monitor.

Caleb let out a shaky breath. “You always made fun of me for being too sentimental. Said I wear my heart too loud. Maybe that’s true. But it’s yours. Always been yours.”

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them.

And this time, he didn’t.

“You should’ve seen me when the call came in. I broke rank. I barked orders like a lunatic. I left my post. They’re probably writing up the paperwork for insubordination right now.”

He laughed — sharp, broken.

Then silence.

A long, still silence that stretched until it hurt.

He squeezed your hand harder.

“I’ve lost good soldiers,” he whispered. “Too many. But you weren’t just another name in my report. You weren’t just a Hunter. You’re…”

His voice faltered again. His lips parted, trying to shape the truth, but it hurt too much.

“You’re my heart.”

A soft tremor ran through his shoulders. He dropped his forehead to your hand, clutching it like it could keep him from unraveling.

“You can’t do this to me. I wasn’t ready. I’m not ready to lose you. I’ll never be ready.”

He didn’t know how long he stayed there—murmuring, begging, slipping confessions into the spaces between your breaths. Time didn’t exist in that room. Only fear. Only grief.

Only you.

Then—

A twitch.

Barely perceptible. But his breath hitched.

He looked up fast, wide-eyed. “Hey… hey, was that—?”

Your eyelids fluttered.

“Come on, sweet girl,” he whispered, voice catching like a prayer. “Come back to me. Just a little more.”

Your lips parted. A small sound escaped. A rasp. Not a word, but it was you.

Caleb exhaled a shuddering breath, a tear sliding down his cheek, one hand flying to brush your hair back from your face. “That’s it. You’re here. I’ve got you.”

You blinked up at him slowly. “C-Caleb…?”

He laughed — wet and breathless — and pressed your knuckles to his lips.

“Yeah, Pips. I’m here. And I’m not letting go.”

He didn’t care that he was crying. That he looked like a man torn in half and barely stitched together by hope.

You were alive.

And that was all he needed.

[l55374]

😭😭😭😭 MY BB

Zayne Waking Up From Nightmares — Headcanons

🩵My Zayne Masterlist🩵AO3 Link🩵Ko-Fi🩵

He never makes a sound, but you always know.

Zayne’s nightmares don’t wake you because he thrashes or screams. No—he stiffens. His breath comes short and controlled, like he’s trying to suffocate the panic. It’s the way his body changes—coiled like a spring, drenched in cold sweat, even if the room is freezing. You’ve learned to sense it in your sleep like muscle memory.

He always sits on the edge of the bed.

He never wakes you on purpose. When it gets bad, he peels himself out from under the covers and sits at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, silently trying to regulate his breathing. One hand occasionally rubs at the back of his neck. The other sometimes covers his mouth like he’s trying not to cry.

The first thing he says is always your name.

Not loudly. Barely audible. He says it like a lifeline—testing to see if you’re awake. “…Y/n?” Just once. And if you stir even a little, he immediately tries to play it off, but he sounds like shit. You never let him get away with that.

He melts the moment you reach for him.

Even a sleepy, mumbled “come here” has him turning toward you like gravity’s pulling him. He folds into your body like he’s trying to crawl into your chest and stay there forever. His arms lock around you tight, and your scent alone is often enough to start grounding him.

Your touch is everything to him.

Running your fingers through his hair? He’s done. Fingertips trailing down his spine, gently scratching his scalp, rubbing lazy circles at the base of his skull—all of it makes his breathing slow. You can feel him unclench beneath you. He doesn’t speak at first. He just listens to your heartbeat with his face pressed to your chest.

He apologizes. Quietly. Every time.

“I didn’t mean to wake you…”

“I’m sorry, it’s nothing.”

“It was just a silly dream.”

You hush him. Every time. He’s not a burden. And you always remind him of that.

He clings like it’s involuntary.

Even when he’s calming down, he keeps you close. If you try to shift, his hand will instinctively tighten around your waist or slide up your back. Sometimes, if you’re lying on your side, he’ll curl up around you like a cat and bury his face between your shoulder blades like he’s hiding.

If he can talk about it, he will—but only with you.

Zayne doesn’t confide in anyone. Not really. But with you—once he’s calm—he’ll sometimes whisper fragments: the sensation, the faces, the helplessness. He doesn’t describe the nightmare in full, but you always understand the weight of it.

He says thank you when you think he’s already asleep.

Just when your own eyes are drifting shut again, you’ll hear his voice, low and quiet:

“…Thank you. For being here.”

And he means it. With his entire soul.

The next morning, he’s even softer.

He brings you breakfast in bed. He brushes your hair out of your face with such tenderness it hurts. His hand rests on your thigh while you talk. If it’s a day off, he keeps you in his lap for hours while reading, fingers lazily tracing your skin just to remind himself you’re real.

[l55374]

reblog to punch a nazi with all of your compressed forgotten childhood rage.

[l55374]

Childhood trio Pt. Caleb always does it! 🍎

MC, throwing an apple to Zayne: Peel this apple for me please?

Zayne, throwing the apple back: No. I'm not gonna peel an apple for you.

MC: But Caleb always does it for me.

Zayne: Why does Caleb peel your apples for you?

MC: He doesn't like for me to eat the apple with the skin on it, he says the skin's loaded with toxins!

Zayne: Okay, well, good news. Caleb's not here.

MC: I know he's not here, and that's why I need you to do it for me, please please please?

Zayne: Oh. Just eat it with the skin on.

MC: I DO NOT LIKE IT WITH THE SKIN, I'M NOT ALLOWED, I'M NOT ALLOWED!!!

Zayne: Oh my days. Okay, if you just stop yelling, I will peel the apple for you the way that Caleb likes you to eat it. Give it to me.

MC throws the apple back

Zayne: I'll do it the way that Caleb insists, okay?

MC, satisfied: Yeah.

[l55374]

ahahah why do i feel jealous of my friend that just got sent to the hospital ahahahha

ahahah ha why do i have a constant need of being worse than the people around me ahahaha

why did god make me like this

[l55374]

@2_MA_TO on X/Twitter

[l55374]

MC: Let me walk you through a hypothetical. Can I walk you through a hypothetical?

Zayne, sighing: What did you do this time?

[l55374]

ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁

[l55374]

the café was louder than usual. music playing, espresso machines hissing and the table of guys next to yours getting rowdier by the minute. you tried to laugh through it with your best friend. tried to ignore how their voices kept getting closer, how their comments got bolder. until one of them pulled up a chair uninvited.

“didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said, grinning like he absolutely had, “but i couldn’t help noticing how cute you are when you laugh.”

your smile died. “i’m not interested.”

your best friend gave him a death glare. “she has a boyfriend.”

the guy just laughed ugly. “then he must be a fool to let you out alone.”

your heart started to pound. you slipped your phone under the table, fingers flying across the screen.

sylus. elm café. group of guys won’t leave us alone. please come now. i’m scared.

his reply came within seconds.

on my way. don’t say another word to them.

but one of them leaned in again, fingers brushing the table just inches from yours. “so what’s he like, huh? bigger than me? tougher? come on, baby, don’t be shy.”

you flinched. then the café door opened. you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. the entire room seemed to feel it, like the temperature dropped ten degrees in a second.

sylus walked in with quiet and lethal calm. black coat buttoned up, expression unreadable. his gaze landed on you, and didn’t leave. he came to your side, slow and deliberate, like a storm winding up.

“you okay?” he asked you softly.

you nodded, but your hand trembled when you reached for his.

he turned to the guy still being way too close. “back up.”

the guy sneered. “who the hell are you?”

your man didn’t answer. he didn’t need to. the look in his dark eyes was a warning enough. but another one of them laughed from their table and called out,

“come on, bro, share with us. don’t be greedy.”

the entire café went still. sylus blinked once, like he hadn’t quite heard that right. you felt it first, the absolute stillness and the tensing of muscles. the kind that settles over predators right before they strike.

he leaned forward, his voice turned into velvet-wrapped steel. “she’s not yours to share. she’s not mine to share. she’s not a thing. she’s my woman. and if you ever speak to her like that again, you won’t walk out of here.”

the guy scoffed like he wanted to argue until sylus stepped forward and the entire table backed up.

“you think you’re scary or something?” the first guy muttered, weaker now.

sylus tilted his head, gaze calm but cutting. “no. i don’t think. i know.” he looked to you. “come on, angel. let’s go.”

you slipped into his side instantly, grabbing your best friend’s hand on the way out. he didn’t say another word or looked back. he kept one firm hand on the small of your back until the door shut behind you.

outside sylus called a cab for your best friend. the silence was thick and your heart was still thundering. after saying goodbye to your friend, sylus lead you to his car.

inside, his fingers were still tight around the wheel, and his jaw clenched tightly.

you reached for his hand. “i’m okay now.”

he finally looked at you, like he had to see you to believe it. his voice came low, soft but hoarse. “you should’ve never been put in that position.”

“you came,” you whispered. “that’s what matters.”

he leaned in and kissed your forehead softly. “you’re not a toy. you’re not a prize. you’re mine, but that’s not possession, angel. that’s protection. and i’ll protect you from anything. anyone.”

you smiled gently. “even idiots in coffee shops?”

he smirked, but only a little. “especially them.” then his voice dropped a little lower, laced with something darker. “if i ever hear someone speak about you like that again, i won’t just walk out.”

and for a moment, the car felt like it belonged to something dangerous, something terrifying. but completely yours.

[l55374]

“my love doesn’t like kissing on the lips.”

sylus

sylus would absolutely respect the boundary without hesitation. he’s deeply emotionally attuned and careful with physical intimacy, especially after what he’s been through. he’d probably say something soft like, “as long as i get to love you, i don’t care how i show it.”

he’d notice your comfort zones immediately and redirect his kisses to your forehead, hands, shoulders. anywhere that earns a soft smile from you.

he might offer to explore it slowly, like, “if you ever change your mind, we can take it one step at a time. no pressure. just us.” but it would never be pushy.

bonus:

“thank you for trusting me. i’ll never ask you for more than what you’re comfortable with.” it’s never about where he kisses you. it’s about what he’s telling you with his touch. and if you ever want to try again, even years from now? he’ll be right there, patient, waiting, hand in yours.

zayne

zayne would care less than you think. this man is a flirt, but he’s also adaptable. if you don’t like mouth kissing? that’s okay. he’ll just kiss you somewhere else—your wrist, your collarbone, the inside of your thigh.

he’d probably smile and say, “kissing’s not just about lips, my love.” and then prove that he meant it thoroughly.

you might actually be the one who ends up flustered when he finds new places to worship with his mouth, because zayne doesn’t just accept boundaries, he thrives within them.

bonus:

“if i can’t kiss your mouth, i’ll just kiss the rest of you until you melt anyway.” he whispers and kisses you behind the ear. sweet, soft, and absolutely understanding. zayne never makes you feel weird. he just wants to show his affection, wherever you’ll let him.

caleb

caleb would be the most sensitive about it at first, not because he doesn’t respect boundaries, but because he’s so physically affectionate and tends to equate kissing with emotional connection.

he might get quiet the first time you turn your face away, but once he understands, he’d nod and just gently tease you. “guess i’ll just have to get really good at neck kisses instead, huh?”

over time, he’d lean into the ‘practice makes perfect’ route only (!) if you opened the door first. like, if you said, “i think i want to try,” he’d grin and go, “i promise to make it worth your while.”

bonus:

“i’m not here for what i want. i’m here for what we have.” then, without asking, he leans forward and kisses your hand, your wrist, the inside of your forearm. he doesn’t bring it up again. he doesn’t need to. “i don’t need your mouth. you already gave me your heart.”

xavier

xavier would freeze for a second. he’s not great with unexpected intimacy shifts. but once he computes it, he’d give a clipped nod like, “noted.”

but later, he’d go out of his way to research alternative ways of intimacy. expect subtle but thoughtful changes; longer hugs, holding your face while staring into your eyes, kisses on your temple while working.

if you ever felt guilty about it, he’d say something like, “don’t apologize for being the way you are. i chose you. that means all of you.”

bonus:

he loves kissing. it’s poetic to him, soulful. but he’s also deeply romantic, and that means meeting you where you are, not where he imagines you should be. “your lips may not be mine to kiss, but your smile is mine to protect.”

rafayel

rafayel would initially be genuinely curious. not judgmental, just inquisitive. “is it sensory? emotional? a past experience?”

once you explained your reasons or even just said, “i’m not sure—i just don’t like it,” he’d immediately drop it. he’d even help you feel more confident about it, saying things like, “your body is a temple, and i’m lucky to be invited to worship. wherever you let me.”

you might catch him studying your face when you laugh or look away, but it’s admiration, not necessarily longing. he’d be respectful to the point of making sure you never feel like you’re missing something.

bonus:

he might be a little dramatic about it. he mourns the loss of kissing with all the flair of a man being exiled from a country he never visited. but rafayel never pushes. never crosses the line. instead, he gets creative. “oh, you won’t kiss me? guess i’ll just… have to bite you then.”

author’s note: sometimes i can’t decide in which direction i want to go with a headcanon, so, i went with a little bonus 😊

[l55374]

note: i’m just sharing this thought, but still—!!MDNI!!

nobody come in here arguing about this because it’s canon and i don’t care what anyone says…

caleb ABSOLUTELY loves bigger women.

have you seen how big that man is..? he needs a girl who can TAKE HIM!!!

he knows how to cook too, so he always makes sure you’re fed and don’t play none of that “i’m gonna get bigger, caleb. i need to ease up on my eating.”

girl he’s going to fuck you upside down, left, right, on your side, back—in the sky if he could—and he’s holding you up with nothing but pure strength while he does it. one way or another, he’s gonna make sure he gets it through your pretty little head that you are EXACTLY what he wants.

you’re concerned he can’t lift you? not only will he prove that he can time and time again, but he’ll just continue to ensure he stays consistent in the gym so that he’s always strong enough. he can never have you stressing about something he loves way too much.

the way your stomach sits right over the waist band of your panties? GOOD GOD, IT GETS HIM HARD EVERY TIME!!!

one of his favorite things is backless dresses on you. he becomes equivalent to a caveman LOLLL!! a clear unobscured view of your plush body? LET YOU WEAR IT IN PUBLIC?!? you’re walking around with his cum in your panties for the rest of the day.

he adores your pussy because she’s just so plump and perfect. his favorite pastime is cupping you in his hand when you guys are just chilling or something. sometimes he’ll even press kisses to it—which ends up with your panties pulled to the side, his nose buried deep in between your lips, and his tongue in your hole. (and yes, his spit and your slick is EVERYWHERE!!! HE IS A MESSY EATER!!!)

your tits are his personal pillow. he hates when you wear bras, btw. he’s not able to hold your boobs in his hands properly when you do.

his strong hands and arms are always around and on your stomach. LOVESSSS to get a hold of you. he wants to bite you so baddd LOLLL!! it’s his love aggression, he can’t help it.

he doesn’t compare you to any goddess because you’re HIS deity. the only one that matters to him, in fact. baby, than man adores you. he wants you naked everywhere, all the time, 25/8.

he’s too hard of a man to not have his other half be his soft side. MHMM MHMMMMM!!!!

(i have so much more i could say, but then i’d just be yappin)

tags 🏷️: @innergardentoadpony @teacupwaifu @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @ajyoursgirl @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @inutrasha94 @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv

[l55374]

his resolve .ᐟ ⋆˙

★ summary- caleb x fem!reader. Caleb has never known safety, but he’s learned what it means to protect it. So when he finds four guys cornering you, he knows he can finally do something about it. Because you're the reason he fights—the only thing that makes surviving feel like something more. Just a small, terrified boy, trying to protect someone even smaller than him.

★ wc- 3.4k

based on these calebweek prompts 🍎

The park near your house was the perfect place for finding unusual flowers—the kind that didn’t usually make it into flower crowns or get crushed into pigments for paint, but held their own kind of charm. They were perfect for breathing life into Caleb’s and your little ‘secret base’, as you called it. Your personal touch.

Today was different from normal. You had snuck out early, your plan carefully plotted. You wanted to surprise him with a flower garland—something beautiful and a little messy like the both of you—to hang above the entrance of your shared haven. A quiet declaration that ’this place was ours.’

The park was always alive with soft background noise—murmurs of old ladies working out on the creaky fitness equipment, the tinny laughter of toddlers being pushed on swings by their mothers, and the steady hum of everyday life. But you didn’t head toward the open areas. You turned a sharp corner and slipped through the patch of thinned-out shrubs, worn down from all the times the two of you had snuck through, until you reached it: a little corner garden, hidden just out of sight. The community had planted it to help wildflowers grow freely.

The waft of the flowers was both overwhelming and alluring. It always smelled sweet here, sweet enough to make your chest ache. You leaned in, wide-eyed, fingertips brushing gently over the blooms. Primrose. Sunroots. Asters. You picked the fullest ones, stems breaking with a soft snap as you tucked them into your dirt-streaked hand, careful not to overpluck from any one patch.

The only other kids nearby were four older boys from the neighbourhood loitering around on the swings. You kept adding to your bundle, unaware of the swing’s squeal as it came to a stop. Unaware of the gritty sound of gravel underfoot, drawing closer—until they stood right behind you, shadows obscuring the sight in front of you.

“You’re that girl,” a voice said behind you. Older. It belonged to one of the four from the swings. “The orphan.”

The word cracked against your spine like a branch splitting.

“The one who clings to that boy like his tail. Caleb, right?”

You turned slowly, unsure if you should respond. But before you could speak, one of them stepped forward and grinned. There was something sharp and cruel beneath it, something that made your stomach twist.

“What are you even doing here?” another scoffed, then looked down at your bundle of flowers. “Trying to play house in the dirt like some stray?”

Then one of them kicked the flowers out of your hand.

You dropped to your knees instantly, grabbing at them, but they were already crushed. One of the petals tore in your hand. You sat there, crestfallen, eyes lingering only on the scattered remains lying defeated at your feet.

“Guess it doesn’t matter,” another boy sneered. “Nobody’s gonna care what some charity case brat wanted to hang up. You and that moron Caleb—no wonder you stick together. Freaks find freaks.”

Laughter broke among them. Your knees stayed rooted to the ground, the weight of their words clinging to your back like wet clothes. You didn’t dare look up.

“What’re you doing?”

The voice cut through clean like a blade.

Caleb turned to her, kneeling beside the scattered flowers. He crouched beside you, eyes scanning the crushed remains before landing gently on yours.

“You okay?”

You nodded, just barely. Your voice caught in your throat, unable to form a sound, eyes grazing past his shoulder at the boys who were still watching.

The boy frowned. “We were just talking to her.”

Caleb stepped closer.

“Didn’t sound like talking.”

Caleb didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t scowl or shout. But something in his presence shifted, almost quiet and terrifying, like the still air before a thunderstorm.

Your eyes scoured him, your only sign of guidance, unsure of what to do next.

“I’m just gonna have a chat with these guys,” he said, brushing a bit of dirt off your knee. “Don't worry about me, pipsqueak, I’ll be back soon.”

Then he reached up and gave your nose a gentle squeeze, the smallest curve tugging at his lips.

“Why don’t you start hanging these around our base?” he added, nudging your shoulder gently in the other direction. “Make it look nice and pretty when I get back.”

You hesitate and take a step back, anxiety clouding your thoughts with each movement at the mere idea of Caleb might do—or worse, what might happen to him. The crushing thought of him coming back injured made you glance over your shoulder, but before the thought could fully form, gravity seemed to drag you forward, and you stumbled into the garden.

The tall metal gate loomed before you, and the sharp click of its lock echoed in your ears, sealing your fate.

Dread began to pool in your stomach. Your plans from earlier vanished swiftly from your mind. The bouquet slipped from your hands, dirt clinging to the once-vibrant petals. Panic rising, you lunged for the gate, trying desperately to pry it open with your bare hands. But it held firm. Locked.

Your hopeless struggle left you with nothing other than guilt-ridden fear.

Your knees, now sore and reddened, buckled beneath you. You crawled back to the mound of dirt where the flowers had fallen, now bruised and broken, and collapsed limply beside them.

Part of you feels like this was your punishment for sneaking out. Now forced to sit alone, swimming in guilt for the foolish decision to leave after lunch against Gran’s and his wishes.

You only wanted to do something nice for him. But the cost of that decision left you locked away at the edge of your garden, cut off from the world beyond the stupid gate. And Caleb—the one always eager to take care of you—was now out there fighting your battles.

Tears welled, blurring your vision. You sniffled, trying not to break down completely, trying not to seem even more like a helpless case in need of saving. But every passing minute drove you deeper into despair.

The sun dipped lower, casting hues of gold and pink across the sky. Its last rays clung to the walls of your house like soft brushstrokes. The flowers in your hand drooped, nearly bare now as you sheepishly plucked the petals one by one, letting them pool around you. Just as you reached for the last one, the familiar creak of the gate split the silence.

It swung open slowly.

And there he was—Caleb. Stiffly stepping into the garden, flashing you a weak smile.

His hair was dishevelled, dirt-streaked his knees, and a purple bruise was beginning to bloom on his cheek. One hand clutched his stomach; his wince betraying the pain he tried to hide behind that familiar, reassuring grin.

Your legs sprang into motion as you stumbled forward, knees weak and numb as you tried to regain your balance. Small hands clung to his rumpled clothes, searching desperately for more injuries, for an explanation.

“Caleb, what happened to you?”

A short, humourless laugh escaped him as he braced himself against the wall. “It just got a little rough,” he muttered. “You don’t need to worry about the details. All you need to know is—they won’t be bothering you anymore.”

You searched his face for something—pain, fear, even regret, but found none. You didn’t care about the kids who had been teasing you. The only thing that mattered was the boy in front of you, wincing with every breath as he tried his best to bite down  any pain he was feeling.

“Cale—”

“What happened to your knees?” he interrupted, hunched over anxiously, examining the light marks and abrasions turning into bright red sores.

“I tried climbing over the gate,” you weakly admitted.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay put? Come on, let’s go inside before it starts to get infected.”

“But—”

“I said don’t worry about me,” he cut in again, softer this time. “I’m okay, I promise.”

He was lying. And you both knew it. But you didn’t fight him on it. Instead, you let him loop an arm around your shoulders and guide you into the back door of the kitchen.

The kitchen smelled faintly of antiseptic. The quiet hum of the fridge filled the silence as you sat on the wooden chair.

Caleb had already cleaned your wounds, applied antiseptic, and plastered your knees with care—even drawing a little smiley face on one of the bandages as if that could somehow undo the chaos of the day.

Even when he was hurt, he still took it upon himself to tend to you. You always had his full, undivided attention.

He commended your bravery and promised to make your favourite snack as a reward. The skin around your nails reddened from the constant picking, and your legs could do nothing but swing from the wooden chair. Brave? That was the last word you’d use to describe yourself.

No. Liar. Selfish. Weak.

A brave person wouldn’t let someone they care about get hurt in their place.

“This is all my fault,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t have snuck out.”

You sniffled, wiping your nose roughly on your sleeve.

“I just wanted to make our base look pretty… add something of my own. But instead, you got hurt because of me. Why didn’t you let me stay?”

The last word cracked, almost squeaked out, betraying the tears pushing up behind your eyes.

Caleb didn't say anything at first. He just wiped your cheeks with the edge of his shirt.

“How come when I see you, you always have tears running down your face?”

“You got seriously hurt, Caleb!”

“And you think I would’ve let you fight them all alone?”

You hiccuped. “No… but we could’ve gone home together, where it’s safe. Or fought them together.”

Silence hovered between you for a moment. Caleb’s brow softened as he let out a long, tired breath.

“Look at me,” he said, flexing his arm in a half-hearted show of strength. “I may not look it, but I’m strong. Stronger than you think. I don’t need you going out looking for trouble when I’m around.”

His eyes drifted to the window. He stared at the fading light, and for a second it looked like he wanted to say more. But whatever thoughts stirred behind his eyes stayed there—unspoken.

“Not everything ends in a fair fight.”

“Next time,” he said finally, turning back to you, his tone firm, “tell me. You don’t have to tell Gran everything. But let me know.”

His gaze held yours, unwavering.

“I don’t think I could forgive myself if you got hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Caleb.”

“Don’t apologise,” he said gently. “Just promise me. Promise you’ll tell me everything.”

He raised his pinky toward you.

You wrapped yours around him, tugging tight with all the strength in your small fingers.

“I promise.”

The evening had quietly settled over the kitchen by the time Gran returned home. At the dining table, you had already fallen asleep, leaning into his side, your arm still wrapped tightly around his, like you were trying to hold onto him even in your dreams.

Earlier, you’d practically begged him not to leave. Sleep had made your head bob, and eyelids heavy, but you fought it with everything you had, clinging to him as he fed you snacks. When he offered to carry you up to bed, you refused outright. Your grip on him only tightened.

You didn’t want to lose sight of him. Not again.

The kitchen was eerily still as Gran slipped into the seat across Caleb, quietly applying ointment to his injuries. There were no thoughts, no distractions, no outside noises leaking in, only the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing rising and falling beside him.

His usual easygoing demeanour had all but vanished, replaced with a hollow, strained stillness. His eyes tracked every motion of Gran’s hands, each cut and bruise slowly bandaged. There was no pretending when you weren’t awake. His limbs hung slack, lacking their usual tautness and strength. It felt like he’d just run a marathon, every muscle screaming with exhaustion.

Gran’s brow furrowed deeply when he lifted his shirt, revealing a particularly nasty bruise blooming just below his left rib.

“Caleb,” she murmured, her voice low and resigned. “I don’t want you getting into these fights anymore. When I took you in, I asked you to look after each other, but… this isn’t what I meant.”

His nostrils flared outward, fingers spread white against the edge of his seat.

“If I hadn’t been there,” he swallowed hard, “she would’ve gotten hurt. Badly.”

“Just look at the number of bruises on your legs.”

He winced as the ointment touched a deep scratch along his leg, muscles twitching against the sting.

“This is nothing,” he hissed.

But another flinch betrayed him when the ointment brushed against his arm, pain flashing through him in waves he couldn’t fully hide.

The events of that afternoon flooded his mind, threading through his thoughts like a shadow he couldn’t escape.

Any smart kid would’ve backed off the moment they saw the odds—four against one. The others were older, bigger, meaner. But Caleb didn’t flinch.

They were fast. Fast enough that two of them had grabbed him, wrenching his arms behind his back while the others took their turns. Each picked their blow with cruel precision, mocking him before finally knocking the wind from his lungs. When they were done, they dropped him like a broken toy—discarded, unwanted, like some street dog left to rot.

It didn't last long. It felt pitiful to drag out what already seemed like a losing battle. His knees and elbows took the worst of it, scraping hard against the gravel as he crumpled to the ground, helpless and abandoned.

His hands still prickled as he flexed his fingers, remembering the sharp sting of humiliation. He could still see them—laughing, sauntering away without a care, their figures shrinking as they disappeared from view.

He thought of the garden. Your safe place. The promise that he made to you every time his name trembled and failed to leave your lips.

He never knew his heart could sink that low, twisting deep in his chest, his stomach unravelling into a pit of guilt and helplessness with every step of that memory.

He remembered how powerless he felt in the lab—how his voice hadn’t mattered, how his body hadn’t been his own. But now… now he had freedom. And freedom was a weapon. A chance.

He’d be damned if he let that go to waste.

“What happened to those boys, Caleb? The lady on the corner said she looked out her window and saw four young boys crying, clutching their arms in pain. They were screaming loud enough for the next neighbourhood to hear.”

Her words fell through the silence like water flowing into a gutter. His mind was far away from the conversation.

Her words broke through his thoughts like a knife. “She said one of their arms was broken.”

Gran licked her thumb and gently wiped a smudge from his cheek, then gently cupped his face. He looked at her expressionlessly. There was no guilt, just a quiet acceptance of what he’d done. She peered at his face, looking for any hint of reasoning. His eyes didn’t waver, just stern and fixed, backed by a quiet determination. A look that said all how he was feeling, full of something far older than his years. He wasn't scared.

He wasn’t like kids his age who had the freedom to do as they pleased. Caleb had seen the horrors, what it was like to be powerless. To have choice ripped away. He knew things weren’t guaranteed in this life. He knew fear better than anyone else, and he didn’t flinch in the face of it anymore.

“I won’t lose,” he said, voice low. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”

I have someone I must protect.

He would break the world first, than lose you. Gran’s gaze softened with sorrow, with helpless guilt. No child should know the weight of survival like this. Fearing for his safety is a burden she wishes she could lift from him. The wounds on him serve only as a reminder of her inescapable remorse.

“I don’t want her to be in pain again,” he whispered, barely louder than a breath, the last word catching at the edge of his throat.

And she saw him, for a brief second before he turned away, casting a glance at the sleeping girl beside him before discreetly wiping his eye with the back of his hand.

She saw it clearly then: his legs dangling off the edge of the chair, and his tiny fists clenched tight around the hem of his stained shorts.

Just a small, terrified boy, trying to protect someone even smaller than him.

She carried them both to the couch, settling them gently before tucking a blanket around their small, tired bodies.

“You two only have each other in this world,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “She looks up to you, Caleb. When she sees you hurt, she hurts too. I need you to look after yourself, just as much as you look after her.”

She never knew if her words ever truly reached him. Deep down, she suspected he would never see things her way. To him, there was only one truth: that they had no one else. Just each other.

He gave her a silent nod.

She leaned down, kissing them both softly on the head.

“Goodnight, my dear.”

His eyelids felt heavy. With a small, sluggish shift, he tried to adjust his arm into a more comfortable position, but your hold only tightened. You burrowed closer, murmuring in your sleep, “Caleb… don’t go…”

He turned his head toward you. Your face was still blotchy from tears, the bottom of your nose marked with dried snot. His arm had long since gone numb beneath your weight, but he didn’t move.

Instead, he let out a long, tired sigh, resting his head back against the couch cushion.

He was the product of an experiment before he was ever a child. A child who met more tears than laughter. The sterile confines of the lab taught him his first lesson—that tears were worth less than the dust collected on the floor.

That feeling of helplessness was less a memory than a constant reminder. The image resurfaced in his sleep every night, the haunting picture of your unconscious body on the operating table, surrounded by people who treated you like nothing more than data. Watching it all unfold like he was living through a tragedy he had no power to stop.

He would always remember how gently he’d introduce himself to you, again and again, with a softness neither of you had ever been given. It was the only thing he could offer then—tenderness in a world that had given them none.

The promise you made in the safety of your shared haven was bound tighter that night. And so too was the vow Caleb made to himself.

A tethered kite can only soar so high. But he swore he would fly farther. Farther than the weight of fear, farther than the gravity that tried to keep him grounded. He’d make sure your days ended in laughter. That your joyful cries would finally outnumber the tears you no longer remember shedding. He would be your anchor when every adult had failed you. Your home, when the world gave you none.

To him, failure wasn't an option. Failure meant losing you.

His hand came to rest gently on your head, fingers brushing back the hair that had fallen along your cheek. Caleb looked at the dim reflection cast in the glow of the living room lamp—your image softened in its warm light, quiet and still, as if untouched by the chaos beyond these walls.

The steady rhythm of your breathing pulled him closer to sleep, like a lullaby only he could hear.

He wrapped the blanket more securely around you, drawing you into him as if the simple act could protect you from every shadow waiting just beyond reach.

His purpose came from you, and what had left that lab was a love born from survival.

He stroked the back of your head slowly, gently, each pass easing him closer to rest. Soft fragments of a promise lingered on his lips.

“Don't worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

If he could help it, he would shape the world into something safer for you. He would stand in the way of anything that tried to hurt you.

He would build something better.

A world so far out of reach that harm could never graze you again.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ likes, reblogs, and feedback are always appreciated! feel free to ask me anything or pop in and say hello ૮₍˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

a/n- let's ignore the fact im already a few days behind in this calebweek. im still a firm believer josephine cared for caleb but their relationship was def rocky and not the same she had with MC. i love this prompt so much bc caleb was still a child when he took on his protective role, like they were both just babies. also if you see me spam post to catch up, no u didnt

as always hope you enjoyed reading!!

[l55374]

sleeping with caleb (ᴗ˳ᴗ)ᶻ

—hcs about sharing a bed with caleb bc i still haven't finished his bday fic :p

☆ caleb has long accepted that he’s never getting his personal space back (good, he doesn't want it anyway). no matter what position he falls asleep in, he always wakes up at the edge of the bed, ass hanging out, with your arms and legs wrapped around him like a koala. he doesn't mind really, because he loves that you still gravitate towards him, even in your sleep.

☆ whenever you get into a petty argument, you make a point of building a pillow barrier between you. when he tries to protest, you just shoot him daggers and turn your back. you can't sleep because of his constant shuffling, but eventually, you knock down the barrier bit by bit, letting him roll over beside you and softly whisper an apology in your ear while he pulls you close. you don’t respond because you’re still upset, but you just let him hold you. and that alone is enough for him

☆ winters in skyhaven are brutal because of the high altitude. so on cold winter nights, you find yourself drawn to caleb because he's just so warm—he's basically a human radiator. when you're feeling cheeky, you like to slide your cold hands under his shirt and laugh evily whenever he flinches

☆ whenever you visit him in skyhaven, he insists on sleeping in your room together. It's not that he dislikes his room, he just prefers being in the space you've curated in his home. he loves being surrounded by things that smell like you, breathing you in while he falls asleep

☆ caleb likes to pretend he's still asleep when you think you've woken up before him. he lets you poke his cheek, blow in his face, tickle his chin, play with his hair until he’s had enough and rolls you over, pulling you into a soul-crushing hug you can’t escape

☆ his favourite time of day is the moment you fall asleep at night, and the moment just before you wake up in the morning. there’s something about your face that looks so peaceful and soft, that makes him fall in love with you all over again. he loves that you’re the first and last thing he sees every day

☆ contrary to what people might think, but caleb loves being the little spoon and being held. he doesn't do it often, but after long shifts with the fleet, there's nothing he loves more than lying on your chest, listening to your breathing while you stroke his hair. his worries melt away instantly, and he always falls asleep faster than usual—some of his best sleeps, honestly.

☆ caleb, the self-proclaimed claw machine master, is a prime example of suffering from your own success. not only does he have to share the bed with you, but with the 20+ plushies that he won and proudly bragged about. now he’s got his own personal plushie (you) snuggled up next to him, along with twenty others, silently staring into his soul

☆ caleb’s bed head is horrendous, and don't even get me started on his morning breath. you love counting all his cowlicks and taking pictures of his messy hair, holding your nose like you’re disgusted. but when he catches you laughing too long, he shuts you up by peppering your face with kisses before pulling you in for one long, deep kiss that leaves you breathless

☆ caleb is a light sleeper, so when he hears you tossing and turning, struggling to fall asleep, he gently pulls you into his chest and starts telling stories, just like he used to when you were kids. you call it childish, but the sound of his voice, soft and steady, is all it takes for sleep to quickly wash over you. and once your breathing slows down and your body relaxes, he whispers a quiet list of reasons why he loves you—one after the other, just for you

a/n- blessing you with a lot bc i couldnt stop at one. i cant be the only one that uses he's secret times as a sleep aid, his voice is so soothing i knock out instantly. short blabber bc i haven't finished half my fics i was meant to post last week. this caleb bday fic has been sitting in my drafts for over a month 🚬🚬

[l55374]

Rafayel is so cuteness aggression coded😭😭😭

[l55374]

𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘐 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘦 | LADS + when you meet their past/future selves

warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR THEIR MYTHS/DEATH+REBIRTH. BE WARNED. angst, mention of mutilation, you assume they're going through a mental episode, still unaware of their past, slightt humour, this has been happening to caleb for years in this headcanon hence your unsurprised/calm reaction (also I typo'ed a fair bit on caleb's, its A-01* not X01, sorry!!)

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── xavier

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── zayne

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── rafayel

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── sylus

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── caleb

[l55374]

LEMURIAN

aaaaaAaaaaaaAAAAAAAA

i need him so bad

The door had barely clicked shut before his hands were on you.

Still sun-warmed and tasting faintly of salt, you barely had time to laugh before Rafayel’s mouth captured yours—hungry, molten, reverent. He pressed you back against the nearest wall like he couldn’t bear the space between you a moment longer, his fingers skating over your skin slick with sunscreen and sun, and want, barely held back all day.

“You’re cruel, you know that?” he moaned against your lips, his voice low and soaked with longing, words curling around you like silk. “Wearing that little thing… knowing what it does to me…”

His hand slid around your waist, fingers teasing the strings of the bikini he’d picked for you months ago—delicate, barely there, the color designed to make your skin glow. He’d forgotten you even still had it. You hadn’t. You’d saved it.

And judging by the state of him now—kiss-bruised mouth, flushed cheeks, eyes molten and dragging across your chest like they were starving—he hadn’t been prepared for the way you looked in it. Perfect. Divine. His.

“You looked like a dream out there, cutie…” he breathed into your skin, his lips trailing down the column of your throat, damp and shivery. “Like something the sea spat out just for me to worship. You should’ve seen yourself.”

“I did,” you murmured with a sly smile, letting your fingers toy with the hem of his linen shirt, sticky now with salt and sweat, clinging to the hard lines of his torso. “You made sure of it, the way you couldn’t stop staring.”

He groaned deep and low, and rutted his hips against yours gently, letting you feel just how true that was.

“I tried to behave,” Rafayel whined, dragging his teeth gently across your shoulder, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting. “I was so good, cutie. I played in the sand. I let you win that race to the pier even though you cheated. I even let that lifeguard flirt with you for two whole minutes without setting the entire coastline on fire.”

You laughed, breathless and heat-drunk, and tugged him closer, nails ghosting down his back until he shuddered against you.

“You’re not very good at pretending you didn’t enjoy every second of it,” you whispered.

“Of you? Sun-kissed and smiling and wearing the damn bikini I hand-selected with trembling hands and the purest intentions?” he nipped at your jaw and moaned like he was in pain. “Cruel. Absolutely heartless. I should file a complaint to the gods, really.”

“Mhm, still…here you are,” you murmured, dragging your tongue just behind the shell of his ear, delighting in the way he gasped, “begging to be punished.”

His head dropped to your shoulder with a whimper, his hair damp with sweat, strands sticking to his flushed neck. His body was so warm pressed to yours, all taut muscle and bare chest, the heat between you clinging like second skin. Your bikini still clung wet and snug to your hips, a contrast to the way his hands roamed like he was trying to undo every tie with touch alone.

“I’m not begging,” he breathed, hands skimming lower, lower, drawing your thigh up around his hip so the contact turned dizzying. “You already know I need you so damn bad, don't ya?.”

“Mmhm.”

“Cutie…” his voice dropped, silk dipped in sin. “You taste like sun and salt and every dream I’ve ever had. I need to touch all of you. Right now.”

And he did—every inch, every curve, every place you’d teased him with that wicked little smirk across the shoreline. His palms were firm and reverent, sliding along the slick warmth of your skin, mapping the path from ribcage to hip with a devotion that bordered on religious. He pressed open-mouthed kisses wherever his hands traveled—under your jaw, the valley between your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach—his moans constant, muffled against your skin.

“You were made for this,” he whispered between kisses, dazed and drunk on you. “For the sea. For me.”

Your fingers threaded through his lavender strands, now damp and curling slightly at the ends, and pulled until he looked up at you—eyes blown dark, lashes wet, lips kiss-swollen and parted with want.

“Take me to bed,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He groaned again, like the words had physically knocked the breath from his lungs.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured, lifting you easily into his arms, mouth already on yours again, deeper this time, messier, made of sun-warmed desperation and hours of wanting you too much.

“Hold on tight, cutie,” he whispered against your lips. “Because I plan on making you forget your own name.”

He carried you like second nature, strong arms cradling you with all the reverence of a man handling his most precious work of art. His skin glistened, sun-slicked and flushed, his breath shallow where it brushed against your collarbone. The bedroom was already heavy with heat, both from the weather and from you—your body still humming from a day of being watched, worshipped, wanted.

He laid you out on the bed like you were the only masterpiece he’d ever cared to study, eyes roving across your still-wet bikini, the one he hand-picked as a gift a while back, his name practically stitched into the way it hugged your hips. You stretched languidly against the sheets, smirking, and that was all it took—he was on you in seconds.

“You’re cruel, you know that?” he murmured against your stomach, lips trailing down with soft, reverent kisses that made your thighs twitch. “Wearing that little thing… knowing what it does to me…and still smirking like you’re enjoying seeing me at your feet, desperate for a taste of you.”

“I won’t lie, you look so good like this,” you breathed, fingers tangling in his damp hair just to feel the weight of him, the heat, the tremble. “All flushed and needy.”

His hands slid up your sides, palms wide and hungry, and his mouth pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses over your belly, then down, tongue flicking at the curve of your navel. He moaned like he was feasting, like the taste of sunscreen and you was too much for him to bear. Then his teeth tugged at one of the delicate strings of your bikini bottoms, slowly, dramatically, until it came loose with a whisper.

You laughed softly, curling your legs around him. “Using your teeth now?”

“I was being polite before,” he groaned, biting softly at your hip. “But I’ve gone too long without tasting you, cutie, and I’m this close to losing the last of my sanity.”

He moved to come up for a kiss, eyes glassy, mouth parted—and just as his lips neared yours, you pressed your foot firmly to his chest.

“Ah—” he choked on his breath, eyes widening as you pushed him back with just enough strength to keep him pinned where he was. “Oh, you’re evil.”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “Mhm, you love it.”

“I do,” he groaned, falling back against the sheets with a dramatic flair, flushed and completely, hopelessly gone. “Gods, I do. Look at what you’re doing to me.”

You trailed your toes down his chest, letting your heel press to the waistband of his swim shorts. He shivered, hard. Then arched a brow at you, pupils blown wide, chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths.

“You’re going to kill me, cutie,” he whispered. “One day, you’ll smile at me like that, and I’ll just drop dead.”

“Mmm, even so,” you murmured, spreading your thighs in invitation, “you’re still breathing now, no?”

He stilled. Then slowly, like a predator tasting victory, he lowered himself again, hands curling under your thighs, dragging you down the bed with a strength that stole your breath. His eyes were locked on yours as he placed a kiss at the inside of your knee. Then another. Then lower.

When he reached your inner thigh, he hummed a sound that was more growl than sigh.

“I love you,” he murmured like it was a curse, voice cracking. “I love you so much it hurts. You’ve ruined me.”

And then he devoured you. His mouth was hot and slick, tongue moving with practiced, fervent devotion—every stroke tailored to the exact sound he wanted to rip from your throat. He moaned into you, like the taste of you could keep him alive for centuries. Like this was a high he’d never come down from.

Your fingers found his hair—his wild, tangled, damp purple strands—and twisted. His breath stuttered. You pulled, and he groaned, hips grinding into the mattress like he was unraveling just from the pleasure of giving.

“Rafayel—” Your voice broke.

“Mmm, say it again,” he whimpered, mouth not stopping for a second. “You sound so pretty when you’re about to come for me, cutie.”

You whined, eyes fluttering shut as your body writhed under the spell of his mouth, his fingers now working in tandem with his tongue, curling and coaxing every ounce of heat from your core.

And just as you were teetering on that delicious edge—he stopped.

You blinked, dazed and breathless. “What…?”

His mouth was glistening, chin wet, eyes dark and electric. That familiar smirk pulled at his lips as he slowly crawled up your body like a storm, all heat and weight and tension.

“You didn’t think I’d let you stay in charge forever, did you?” he purred, his voice like velvet dragged over flame.

You swallowed, eyes wide.

“Now,” he murmured, nudging your legs open wider with his knee, pinning your wrists gently above your head, “be a good girl and let me show you exactly what you do to me. Let me make you feel so, so good, yeah?”

Of course he loved seeing you like this—sprawled out beneath him, glowing from sweat and sun, pupils wide with need, lips parted with unspoken pleas. Your body arched toward his, trembling on the edge of that final fall, but he denied you just a little longer, dragging it out like the artist he was, savoring every second of your unraveling.

His gaze devoured you, dark and gleaming, like watching you come undone beneath him was a masterpiece he’d been dying to finish.

But you… gods, you knew how to coax him. Your fingers slid down, lazy and deliberate, tracing the thick outline of his arousal through the soft fabric of his swim shorts. Just enough to make a point. Just enough to make him twitch in your hand.

He whined, a sharp, guttural sound that melted into a growl as his hips jerked forward instinctively.

“Oh no you don’t,” he breathed, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head again, harder this time, his frame hovering over you like the storm he always carried inside him. “You don’t get to tease and touch and pretend you’re not trying to kill me here, cutie.”

You barely had time to smirk before his mouth crashed into yours—wild and open and hot, all teeth and tongue and heat. He kissed you like a man starved, like he needed the taste of your moans to stay breathing.

Your bodies tangled, slick and desperate, the remaining pieces of clothing falling inevitably and rapidly to the floor. His hand found himself, stroking with a shudder before guiding his cock to your entrance—and you barely managed a gasp before he thrust in with a single, delicious motion, hips slamming flush against yours with no patience left to spare.

You bit into his neck with a cry, half praise, half plea, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he drove into you without restraint, without pretense, chasing something raw and sacred in the heat of your joined bodies.

But it was what came next that made you clench around him with a sharp, helpless moan. You felt it first—the frantic movement of his hips, the tremble of his breath against your throat—and then you heard it. Words. Not in your language. Not in anything you could understand.

Lemurian.

He was whispering it into your skin, into your mouth, your neck, your chest. Rough syllables, fevered and low, thick with worship and desperation, tumbling from his lips between gasps and groans. The ancient rhythm of his native tongue wrapped around your body like a spell.

You didn’t know what he was saying—gods, you wished you did—but the sound of it, the way it trembled out of him like prayer, ignited something deep and primal in your chest.

“Rafayel—” your voice broke, almost pleading. “Say it again.”

He growled, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he thrust harder, deeper. And then it came. A string of Lemurian, slower this time, more deliberate—followed by the only words you did understand. The ones he had taught you in the hush of a moonlit night, laughing as you struggled to pronounce them, only to melt when you finally did.

“You’re mine.”

It hit you like a wave crashing through your core—his voice, his rhythm, the way he buried himself so deep inside you it felt like you would never be whole without him there.

Your body tightened, back arching violently as you cried out his name, your release crashing into you in full, blinding waves.

Rafayel groaned, deep and broken, as your body clenched around him like a vice, and he followed—hips stuttering, voice hoarse and filled with reverence as he spilled himself inside you, still murmuring Lemurian into your skin like a prayer offered to the gods.

When the storm finally passed, he collapsed onto you, his breath ragged, face buried in your neck.

“Mine,” he whispered again, softer this time. “Always, cutie.”

[l55374]

Can I braid his hair