-> Daddy Caleb Taking Care Of His Exhausted Baby

Crying.

NSFW — caleb would loatheeee you trying to be quiet. he’s waited so long to have you this way after all the daydreams and fantasies that would distract him. the ones that would make him reread his source articles in academy because the image of your collarbones in that v neck from your hangout blurred the lines, the ones that would make him improvise in conversation with friends because he was too busy thinking about kissin up your spine to hear what they said. and after all that you want to hide away from him. uh uh.

he’d finally have you sprawled out on his huge comfy California king, pressed under the weight of his body in a nasty prone bone. his shoulders and sculpted biceps would be caging you in and his forehead would rest gently in the crook of your neck, suffocating in the smell of your sweat mixing with the perfume you always wear that drives him insane. you were completely trapped and it was delicious.

but here you were, shoving your face into the pillow and squeezing your eyes shut in hopes to find the strength to stop being so loud. your were embarrassed at how primal he could make you sound like your noises were being ripped from your chest at the feeling of him.

he’d hear the hitch of struggle in your voice once and his eyes shoot open and his brows pinch together. he lifts his head to look at you through droopy eyes. ‘w’ya doin’‘ he slurs firmly. ‘stop it.’ he wheezes and shifts to lean on his forearm and uses his other hand to grip your jaw and tilt your head up.

you let out a gasp into the thick sticky atmosphere but you still don’t seem to ease up and he whines in something close to agony at your muffled noises. ‘nooo please baby sing for me gimme ‘ur pretty voice.’

he’d get so impatient that he hooks his thumb into your mouth and pries it open, moaning at the drool that trickles down his wrist. he starts to fuck you as if he’s trying to thrust through you and you can’t help but cry out in bliss, right into his ear, as he rams right into that sweet spot that’s just for him.

it was like a mountain was just lifted off of his shoulders and the relief coursed through him like euphoria. ‘my pretty girl. nothin’ t’be scared of stop hidin fr’me. let caleb hear you, let him hear baby’ he’d coo absentmindedly. he has to try like never before not to cum in you right then.

I think some of you forgot that autistic people sometimes act strange and say things that are poorly worded and speak with incorrect tone and misunderstand or miss social cues because they are autistic

Winter's Kiss

sylus x fem!reader

summary: luke and kieran rope you into spending christmas at the n109 zone (and kissing their boss).

cw: fluff, soft!sylus, kissing under the mistletoe, luke and kieran being idiots, found family

wc: 2.7k

a/n: merry christmas eve/christmas my lovelies!! some fluff for the holiday season! here's to hoping sylus turns up under our christmas trees :)

also on ao3!

Somehow, you’d ended up in the N109 Zone for Christmas.

It wasn’t like the barrage of texts from Luke and Kieran had weighed upon your decision, the rapid influx of messages from the twins demanding your presence for Christmas. That coupled with the image of Sylus alone on Christmas night hadn’t made your stomach churn and heart ache at all.

The year had been a tumultuous one. Wanderers, disturbing visions and wanted criminals had you on edge these past few months, so perhaps unwinding with said, now somewhat mellow, wanted criminals was warranted in some way. 

You heft the presents under your arms, moving your fingers to stabilize the wrapped goods when you feel one of them begin to slip. Shopping hadn’t been too difficult, although choosing a gift for Sylus had proved to be somewhat of a challenge. You weren’t sure whether to get him something heartfelt or to gift him a refurbished gun with new prototyped features that were advertised to the Hunter Association. 

The glittering streams of tinsel drags you out of your thoughts, a smile pulling at your lips as you imagine Luke, Kieran and Sylus decorating. You hear panicked, hushed whispers when you turn the corner, a laugh spilling out of you when you see the sight before you.

Luke perched atop Kieran’s shoulders, Kieran grumbling irritatedly when Luke flails and misses the tip of the Christmas tree, the golden star falling off only for Kieran to shift and have Luke catch it.

“It’s not that hard, you idiot,” Kieran grunts, his knees bending in an attempt to readjust to Luke’s weight.

“Then you try!” Luke protests.

“I thought you two were meant to be in tune,” you muse, stepping closer, over the strewn wrapping paper and bending down to add your presents to the growing collection under the Christmas tree. 

“We are,” they both say in unison, their eyes landing on you.

“You made it!” Luke says happily, squirming, “Boss will be glad.”

“ Really glad,” Keiran adds, his annoyance forgotten momentarily. “We’re glad too.”

You smile at them, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s nice to see you guys too. Maybe you should try holding the star at the tip, Luke?”

“That’s what I told him!” Kieran says, letting out an aggrieved sigh. 

Luke huffs indignantly, adjusting his position yet again as Keiran steps closer to the tree, giving Luke some more leverage. It’s another failed attempt and Kieran is rolling his eyes, dumping Luke onto his feet unceremoniously. 

“You do me now.”

“What about her?” Luke asks, pointing at you.

“You could ask Mephisto,” you offer, pointing at the mechanical crow that was currently preening his feathers. “What do you say, buddy?”

Mephisto gives an indignant squawk, his little head turning away arrogantly, tending to his feathers with care.

“Nevermind,” you sigh, before looking towards the twins. “Kieran is taller than me, though.”

“Just get on,” Luke whines as he bends his knees, waiting for you to climb up onto his shoulders.

You open your mouth to protest, but there’s a warm hand curling over your hip, pulling you back gently, flush against a firm chest. “Let’s not badger our guest, hm?”

Deep and velvety, you have no doubts as to who this voice belongs to. Your head tilts back to find Sylus smirking down at you, his expression amused.

“Glad you could join us, sweetie. The N109 Zone isn’t usually so… festive.”

“Yeah, well, apparently you were missing me, so I figured I’d drop in,” you tease, a sly smile spreading across your face.

Luke and Kieran snicker until Sylus’ stern expression silences them, his hand squeezing at your hip in warning.

“I never said that.”

“Must’ve been the wind,” you murmur.

“Right,” Sylus deadpans.

You squeak when the red mist wraps around you, lifting you off of the ground, the golden star being thrust into your hand by the same swirling mist. The trio of men beneath you seem amused as the tendrils sweep you higher, closer to the top of the tree, giving you enough height to place the star right where it needs to be.

Sylus’ Evol dissipates as it sets you down onto your feet, the mist sweeping across playfully and making your dress flutter. 

“That’s one way to do it,” Kieran remarks, slinging his arm over Luke’s shoulders before they shoot each other knowing glances and disappear from the living room.

“You came,” Sylus says once the twins have left, his arms crossing over his chest.

“I did,” you reply, peering up at him, your hands clasping behind your back, “too bad you never sent me a personal invitation.” Sylus smiles, and you can’t help but think he looks softer in this light, the ruthless leader of Onychinus replaced by a man who seems less intense and more accommodating than usual.

“I figured Luke and Kieran would’ve gotten through to you,” he muses, his head tilting as he lets his gaze dip over you.

You do the same, taking in his sweater and trousers, trying to quell the inconvenient yet undeniable pull of attraction you feel towards him. 

“Well, they did,” you sigh, managing to drag your gaze back up to meet his, “although I can’t say I appreciated how many texts they sent.”

“The twins tend to get excited,” Sylus replies, reaching out towards you, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

It’s hard to not notice how Sylus’ touch lingers for a moment, his expression looking a little absent-minded as though remembering something from the past. Your brows furrow, unable to decide between asking him or letting his touch linger further. His hand drops away after a few moments before he clears his throat. 

“I made dinner,” he announces.

You laugh, eyes lighting up at the thought of Sylus in the kitchen. You don’t quite believe him though, not when Sylus had enough money to hire at least a dozen personal chefs.

“You’re not serious,” you say, head tilting in amusement.

“I am,” Sylus smirks, his hand landing on your lower back as he guides you forward, towards the hallway, “Luke and Kieran pitched in.”

“Now I feel special,” you muse.

“I suppose you are,” Sylus replies, his expression sobering, “to all of us.”

You’re taken aback by the sincerity in his words, heart giving way to a flutter that you attempt to squash down by pinching yourself, not that it helps. This sense of belonging isn’t what you’d planned on, warmth blooming in your chest as you stare up at Sylus and remember the twins. It’s nice, really, to be valued like this. You can’t help but think you could get used to it. 

Laughter echoes through the hallway as you and Sylus move through it. You startle when Kieran shouts, his voice urgent. 

“Don’t move!”

“Oh, look at that ,” Luke sighs dramatically, feigning innocence as he peers upwards, directing his gaze above you and Sylus.

Bewilderment flashes across your face until you hear Sylus let out a low laugh. You tip your head back, eyes narrowing when you spy the sprig of mistletoe hanging right above where you’re standing. Mephisto adds in something that sounds like a suspiciously happy squawk, and you stare at the crow, realising you’ve been betrayed. 

“Funny,” you say drily, shaking your head. 

Kieran sighs just like Luke, as though he can’t quite believe the situation. The cunning expression in their eyes gives them away. 

Devious, little brats.

“Well, you can’t move now,” Luke says, sounding positively aggrieved. 

“I suppose you’ll just have to kiss, isn’t that right?” Kieran says, looking towards Luke. Luke nods, a self-satisfied smile settling on his face. “Those are the rules.”

“What rules?” you shoot back, glaring at the pair of twins, “there are no rules. I could quite literally just walk away.”

“Christmas tradition !” Luke and Kieran both argue, their faces looking a little crestfallen when they hear the tone of your voice, “you have to kiss!”

You can feel your heart twinge at the earnest tone present in their voices, your eyes flickering up to meet Sylus’. Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem to have any protests, his gaze boring down into yours expectantly. 

“You seriously have nothing to say?” you grouse, head tilting.

“It’s just a kiss, sweetie,” he replies, his arm wrapping around your waist to bring you closer to him. “What’s the matter, hm? Afraid you’ll fall for me?”

“The thought is laughable,” you retort, trying to ignore the soothing squeeze of his hand against your side; the unrelenting warmth that was currently seeping into you and melting your hardened resolve.

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Sylus murmurs, his fingers gripping your chin to tilt your head. “We have time.”

“Move a little to the right!” Kieran calls out, waving his hand.

“What for?” you ask exasperatedly, feeling Sylus step closer, moving you with him.

“For- for the aesthetic !” Luke huffs out.

The twins look a little impatient as you stare at them, your brows furrowing further when you see Kieran whisper something to Luke.

Sylus doesn’t let you dwell longer on the twins’ antics, his calloused hand cupping your cheek to turn you towards him. 

“Merry Christmas, sweetie.”

Your eyes flutter shut as his lips slot over yours, your hand curling around his wrist. Sylus kisses you like he means it, lips soft yet insistent, his thumb smoothing over your cheek. You forget where you are momentarily, knees feeling weak as you fist his sweater pulling him closer, rising up on the tips of your toes to meet his kiss better.

Sylus tilts his head, deepening the kiss. Your stubborn resolve weakens pitifully and you can only think about how perfect this moment is, how good Sylus’ lips feel, how warm his embrace is-

There’s a blinding array of flashes, white sparking out from under your closed eyelids until your eyes snap open, head turning to the side to find both Luke and Kieran with cameras in hand.

“Oh, shit,” Luke begins.

“I thought the flash was off,” Kieran mutters, frowning.

You grit your teeth, taking one step towards them, your eyes narrowing. “Give that to me.”

Luke and Kieran hug their cameras to their chest protectively.

“Christmas memories,” Luke laughs nervously when he sees the determination in your eyes. “Wouldn’t- wouldn’t want to lose those.”

Kieran nods in agreement.

“Boss!” They cry out when the cameras get swept out of their hands by Sylus’ Evol, one of them landing in your hands.

You click through the images, heat blossoming in your stomach when you see how intimate the kiss looks, Sylus’ body pressed firmly against yours, his hand on your cheek. It’s romantic, your somewhat eager response, Sylus’ tight hold, all captured closely through the lens.

“‘s nice,” Sylus murmurs, his chest pressing up against your back as he peers down at the little camera screen.

“ No ,” you shake your head vehemently, “it’s not nice.”

“We look good,” he whispers, his voice dropping lower, lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

You try to ignore the way his hands feel on your hips, his body pressing a little closer into yours. It’s hard not to agree with him the longer you stare at the images though, you do look good, and Luke’s interjection about Christmas memories has you feeling a little forgiving. 

“Fine, keep them,” you sigh, handing the camera back to Luke whilst Sylus does the same to Kieran, “but don’t share them, please.”

Luke and Kieran nod enthusiastically and you snag onto Kieran’s arm before he can leave, your voice dropping to a low whisper.

“Send them to me,” you whisper, “and not a word to anyone.”

Kieran smiles deviously and you roll your eyes, reaching up to ruffle his hair. 

“You’re such a jerk, Kieran.”

“C’mon,” he whines, “you love us.”

You smile up at him, your arm hooking with his. “Maybe just a little.”

He snorts and you let out a laugh, following after Luke and Sylus who had left earlier, talking about something else. Dinner goes smoothly enough and you refuse to tell Luke and Kieran what their presents are, despite their whining.

You feed Mephisto little bites of your food, your finger petting his little feathery head gently every now and then. He preens at the attention, letting out an odd sounding chirp every now and then when you tap his little beak and offer him some more food.

Sylus is seated beside you and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to stop stealing glances at the side of his face. The longer you stare, the more you can feel yourself falling deeper, a pressing crisis unfolding in your mind. 

Fuck . You think you might like him.

Deep rooted feelings of yearning never lead to any good, and yet, you were too impatient not to act on them.You wait patiently, fingers playing with themselves in your lap, for the perfect opportunity. 

It presents itself when Luke and Kieran break out into an insignificant quarrel, their eyes moving elsewhere. Sylus is already looking towards you and you’re leaning forward, cupping the back of his head to bring him closer, lips meeting his in a slow, sweet kiss. 

“What was that for?” Sylus murmurs when you break away, his eyes roving over the flush settling on your cheeks.

“No reason,” you reply nonchalantly, leaning back in your chair.

Sylus scoffs out a laugh, behaving seemingly unaffected. There’s a light flush dusted across his cheeks however, his tongue darting out to taste the remnants of you on his lips.

“This is for no reason too,” he says, grabbing your chin and pulling you closer.

You sigh contentedly when he kisses you, arms wrapping around his neck, your lips working against his a little feverishly as though you can’t get enough.

A cacophony of protests breaks out from the twins when they see you and Sylus kissing at the table.

“Gross! Get a room!”

You roll your eyes, breaking away from Sylus to peer over at them. 

“You were the ones that made us kiss,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Yeah, we didn’t mean all the time,” Luke corrects.

“Deal with it,” Sylus interrupts, brushing a kiss to your cheek.

You hum happily, Sylus’ hand warm as it encases yours under the table. Luke pouts and Kieran mirrors him, both of them slumping back in their chairs.

You and Sylus get a little more privacy when you step outside, snow dusting across both of you, covering the shrubbery and trees. Mephisto swoops through the air, his mechanical wings flapping as he lands on a tree branch above. The icy chill of the wintery air isn’t so bad, not when Sylus is stepping up behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder as he holds you close to him.

“It was bound to happen,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek again as you stare up at the night sky, glittering with stars.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself,” you reply, squeezing his forearms.

“Let’s just say… I had an inkling. I know you, sweetie.”

“I don’t understand what you mean sometimes,” you sigh, peering up at him, head resting on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers, dropping a kiss to your temple.

You sway gently in his arms, pressing yourself closer, eyes slipping shut. You’d kill for more moments of peace like this.

It never seems to last for long.

The beginnings of torn wrapping paper begin to fill your ears and you peek through the glass window to find the twins tearing at their presents.

“Oh, these are sick !” Luke announces, beginning to twirl around the pair of knives you had gotten him.

“They have to wait!” you protest, reaching for the door, “Sylus, they have to wait!”

“Let them,” Sylus murmurs, dragging you back into his arms, his chest rumbling with laughter.

You can’t help but let out an exasperated noise, smiling up at him. Sylus lowers his head and you nudge your nose against his gently, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

“What?” he asks quietly when you trace the curve of his cheek, your fingers splaying across his skin.

You kiss him again, revelling in the softness of his eyes when you pull apart. There's a strange warmth in your chest, an unknown pull in the back of your mind as though something familiar were evading you.

You feel like you know him too.

“Merry Christmas, Sylus.”

This is how I want to b fucked

lads LIs when you're hesitant to initiate kisses

sylus understands your hesitancy to make yourself vulnerable, but he also can't stand to see you unfulfilled. the first couple times he catches you staring at his lips, he offers nothing but lazy blinks and slow smirks, challenging you to come to him first. but when you look away in uncertainty one too many times, seemingly content to watch your own desires slip away as long as it saves you from embarrassment, he saunters toward you, maintaining eye contact all the way. placing one hand on your hip and the other on your chin, he bends to capture your lips with his, making you stumble with his intensity. his grip on you only tightens when he breaks the kiss, and before you can ask what he’s doing, he tugs you toward his lips. when you lose your balance and fall into his embrace, you realize his game: he’s making you kiss him first 

zayne empathizes with your shyness and hesitancy, afraid to so much as look at you the wrong way in case he offends you. since you’re both too frozen in overthought to make the first move, you don’t become intimate as quickly as most couples, trading physical closeness for emotional understanding. when he walks you to your door after a visit to the bakery, he leaves you with a warm goodnight hug, and you both assume the other is satisfied. only when you think he’s asleep on the sofa one evening and press a fond kiss to his cheek does he realize you share his private desires. the next day, after stoically psyching himself up for 20 minutes, he finds you in the kitchen and kisses you deeply, a pink tinge on his cheeks when he pulls away

caleb wants you to kiss him first—or at least ask him to kiss you—but what if you won’t? he needs to know that you want him—that you’ll willingly give him the privilege of kissing you—so he gives you a few pushes in the right direction. he teases you with heated glances and not-so-accidental touches until you walk up to him, dumb with desire. when you stare up at him helplessly, he settles a large hand on your waist and hovers over your mouth, giving you the chance to push him away. when you don’t, he leans in slowly, tantalizingly, as if wanting to drive home the fact that you’re letting this happen to you—letting him claim your mouth in a slow, consuming kiss. this way, maybe, just maybe, you’ll find the courage to take what you want from him next time—if you let him taste you, there’s no need to be shy anymore, right?

you know rafayel, so you know he would be upset if you expected him to initiate everything—would it kill you to show a little interest in him? that said, you also know that initiating things isn’t really your thing. so, you find a trick that works like a charm: you goad him into kissing you. you’re comfortable enough with kisses to other places—anywhere but the lips—so you adorn his cheeks and neck with soft, chaste kisses until he’s riled up and flushed, his breath coming out in soft pants from the pleasure of feeling wanted. when you pull away, he chases your touch, and all it takes is an innocent giggle from you before he’s pinning you down and stealing your breath away, his tongue tangling with yours in passion and power.

xavier is confused and a bit discouraged when he realizes you never initiate—he thinks you just don’t want to kiss him. one afternoon, you find him sulking in bed, huddled under his comforter with the lights off. worried he’s sick or hurt, you ask what’s wrong, and he gives you 4 pouty non-answers before finally giving in. you can feel your face heat and gut tangle in guilt when he questions if you ever want to kiss him, and with one hand stroking his hair, you confess that you’re simply too shy to kiss him first. he responds with a blink and a whispered “so you do like me, then?”, and when you nod, he tackles you at the speed of light, pressing kisses all over your face before finally claiming your lips

a/n: anon who asked me if i’d ever write for zayne and i hinted at later this week this is not what i was talking about don’t worry, just an impromptu writing exercise to convince myself i’m not washed. also while this technically counts for xavier and raf i’m the least familiar with their cards so idk if/when i can write anything much longer than this for them (love them tho)

Real

rather have a headache from not eating, than feeling bloated from binging

Your bone structure is so positively stunning.

Why go through the struggle of covering it up by eating excess food?

• • • • •

Don't you want to feel the delicacy of your collar bones?

Don't you deserve to trace your fingers between your cheek and jaw?

I think so.

Feeling your hips peek out is a reward.

• • • • •

We've all been working so very hard.

I think it's high time you push through that last mile and experience the euphoria of pretty rib outlines, separate thighs, tiny wrists, and sleek fingers.

• • • • •

You were always meant to be thin.

• • • • •

Always meant to be lovely.

• • • • •

It's time to embrace it 🤍🤍

So cute!

drunken confessions | xavier

synopsis : After finals, you and your friends head to your usual barbecue stall to celebrate—only for your longtime crush, Xavier, to show up unexpectedly. A few drinks later, he drunkenly (and then soberly) confesses he’s in love with you, turning a chaotic, hilarious night into something unexpectedly sweet and unforgettable.

content : college!au, comedy, fluff, another crackhead energy writing

writer’s note : i’m enjoying this type of writing too much. I think i’ve watched too much How I Met Your Mother. (This is the fic version of this)

Finals were finally over.

You threw your arms into the air like a victorious gladiator leaving the academic coliseum alive. “Freedom!” you cheered, walking down the campus path flanked by your equally war-torn comrades.

“God, it’s finally over,” your friend moaned dramatically to your right, sounding like she was about to crumple to the pavement.

“Right? We have to celebrate!” the one on your left chimed in, already scrolling through food delivery apps as if her life depended on it.

You chuckled, adjusting your backpack like a soldier laying down arms. “You guys go ahead. I need to shower—get this stress off me. Usual spot?”

They both nodded, disappearing into the horizon with the determination of people about to inhale an irresponsible amount of meat skewers.

Cut to twenty minutes later, you emerged from your dorm freshly showered and wrapped in your favorite jacket—the one that made you feel marginally less like a zombie.

You made your way to the holy grail of campus hangouts, the barbecue stall.

Ah yes, the sacred grounds of burnt chicken, cheap beer, and emotionally unhinged exam rants.

You stepped into the familiar haze of grilled smoke and MSG, and two seniors waved you over, already parked at the corner table with a spread fit for a post-war feast.

You lit up immediately, sliding into your seat like it had always been waiting for you.

The food smelled divine, the beer was cold, and most importantly—finals were over.

Banter filled the air as skewers were devoured. Eventually, the chaos mellowed, and the group began talking about future plans—internships, travel, sleep, mostly sleep.

That’s when the friend to your right leaned in with all the grace of a gossiping gremlin.

“Maybe Y/N will finally confess to that cute upperclassman.”

You nearly inhaled your drink through your nose.

You smacked her arm lightly. “Xavier is just a friend,” you said with all the conviction of a bad liar, even as your face turned a spectacular shade of red that had nothing to do with the beer.

You sighed in relief. At least the subject of your ongoing emotional crisis wasn’t—

“Oh hey, look. It’s Xavier,” one of the seniors announced casually, tilting their head toward the entrance.

You froze.

You turned.

There he was.

Xavier—silver hair soft under the glow of the stall lights, hands in his coat pockets, that calm, unreadable face that haunted your thoughts way more than was socially acceptable.

The first time you saw him, you forgot what your own name was.

Your soul left your body.

You lunged for your friend’s arm like you were going down with the ship. “Why is he here??” you hissed in a voice three octaves higher than normal.

She shrugged, entirely unbothered.

“I dunno. He’s alone though. Wanna invite him over?” Her brows wiggled like the devil’s own dance.

“No—!”

Too late.

A senior had already stood up and was walking over.

You watched, helpless, as he approached Xavier.

Your stomach folded in on itself.

Xavier’s eyes scanned the table—and then, like fate personally hated you, they landed on yours.

He smiled. Just slightly. Just enough to ruin your life.

Then he nodded and turned to follow the senior.

You screamed internally, gripping your friend’s arm again. “He’s coming! He’s coming over here!”

Your friend leaned in calmly. “Don’t worry. Just act normal.”

You stared at her, deadpan. “I don’t have a normal.”

She snorted—loudly—and you could already feel impending doom approaching.

“Hey, you can sit here,” she chirped sweetly, standing up and offering her seat like a traitor with no conscience, despite the death glare you were very clearly aiming at her skull.

Xavier murmured a quiet, “Thanks,” before settling down right next to you.

Right next to you.

There went your pulse.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice so calm it made you want to simultaneously scream and crawl into the nearest dumpster.

You turned your head, smiling a little too stiffly. “Hey,” you replied, sounding more like a malfunctioning toaster than a functioning human being.

Then, in a move of pure survival, you downed the rest of your beer in one desperate gulp.

From your left, your friend immediately started snickering. Snickering.

You didn’t even look at her.

You just sent a slow, withering glare in her direction that said, I hope your next skewer falls in the dirt.

She only laughed harder.

Xavier blinked, a little amused. “Rough exam?”

“No,” you said, still trying to recover. “Just… social interaction.”

“Ah,” he nodded, like he understood completely. “Terrifying.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then your friend—not knowing the value of peace and silence—stage whispered, “Just kiss already.”

You reached for another beer. Or maybe a skewer. Or maybe a time machine. Anything to get you out of this.

“I hope you trip and fall,” you muttered loud enough for your so-called friend to hear, punctuating it with another desperate gulp of beer.

She only cackled harder.

Next to you, Xavier chuckled under his breath—quiet, warm, unfairly attractive.

You caught the slight curve of his lips as he picked up a skewer and took a bite, looking far too composed for someone who just sat next to a human panic attack.

“So,” he began, casually, like this was a normal night and not a social emergency. “What was your last exam?”

You blinked.

Brain, Say words.

Mouth, “…Yes.”

He paused, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yes?”

You cleared your throat, scrambling. “I mean—econ. Not yes. I didn’t mean yes. Unless… yes to the exam. But no to—uh, wait, what was the question again?”

Smooth. So smooth you were practically sandpaper.

Xavier raised an eyebrow, amused. “I was asking about your exam, not proposing marriage.”

You choked on your skewer. Your friend howled with laughter.

Somewhere deep inside, your soul quietly filed for early retirement.

A couple more beers—and the gentle numbing of your social anxiety—and you finally found your voice.

Actual sentences started leaving your mouth.

You laughed. You cracked a joke.

You even made eye contact.

Progress.

Xavier, for his part, listened attentively, nodding along and asking questions with that same soft interest of his.

The conversation flowed easier than you’d expected, the awkward tension slowly dissolving into something… almost comfortable.

Until his fourth glass.

That was when you noticed it.

His cheeks were flushed, just a little pinker than usual. His gaze lingered too long on things that weren’t all that interesting—like the table, your cup, your face.

He swayed a little as he reached for another skewer, missing it by a good inch and playing it off like the plate had moved.

If it were anyone else, you might not have noticed.

But it was Xavier.

And you totally hadn’t memorized the way he carried himself or anything.

His composure was still there, somehow—his tone even, his voice calm—but his body? Oh no. His body was absolutely staging a rebellion.

You leaned in slightly, brow raised. “Are you… drunk?”

He blinked at you, then squinted like he was trying to read your face through a fog. “I’m perfectly fine,” he said, placing the skewer onto his plate with the delicate precision of someone who had just lost depth perception.

You stifled a laugh. “That’s not even your plate.”

He looked down. “Ah.”

Your friend, now watching from across the table like this was premium entertainment, whispered, “He’s gonna confess. I feel it.”

You turned to her with narrowed eyes. “If he does, you better start planning the wedding since this’ll be your fault.”

“I’m not drunk,” Xavier insisted, his voice smooth and composed, like he was delivering a formal report instead of swaying gently like a tree in a light breeze.

You couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped. “Oh yeah? Can you still drink?”

He nodded—slowly, like he had to process the question through a slight fog—and then reached for his cup with the determination of someone about to win an Olympic medal in denial.

You bit the inside of your cheek, resisting the full-body urge to scream at how unfairly cute he was being.

All around you, the chaos was beginning to unfold.

Your friends and a couple of the seniors were starting to slump, leaning into one another with flushed faces and increasingly bold declarations of love for fried chicken.

One guy was trying to sing to a soy sauce bottle.

You were tipsy yourself—lightheaded, warm, giggly—but still functioning.

Xavier, though?

Xavier was in a league of his own.

He still sat upright, in that proper, princely sort of way.

A little hunched forward like he was concentrating deeply on not tipping over.

His fingers rested delicately on the rim of his glass, unmoving.

But his eyelids… oh, his eyelids were betraying him. Half-lidded, heavy, with the softest, dazed look. Like he’d drift off mid-sentence or start quoting poetic nonsense about the moon.

He blinked slowly, like the concept of time had just become optional.

You glanced at him—and promptly had to grip the edge of your chair to stop yourself from swooning like a Victorian lady in a corset.

Because this was criminal.

He was a soft flush of pink and sleepy eyes and subtle swaying, still trying so hard to be composed.

And you, poor mortal you, had to pretend like you weren’t enchanted by every second of it.

“You okay?” you asked, gently, quietly.

He turned to you, blinking slowly, like your voice was music.

“…Your eyes are really sparkly,” he murmured, out of nowhere.

You stared.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your friend across the table dropped her chopsticks in delight.

“What?” was the only semi-functional sound your brain managed to produce.

Xavier just blinked at you, slowly, like he hadn’t just casually dropped a romance-novel bomb in the middle of your beer-stained dinner table.

Your entire face ignited. Your soul, body, and spirit were currently rotating in a microwave.

You tried to laugh it off, punching his arm lightly in that awkward, ha-ha-we’re-just-buddies-right kind of way.

“U-Uhm, nice one,” you stammered, cheeks blazing, “Ha ha…”

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even pretend like it was a joke.

Instead, he kept swaying gently in place, silver hair a little messy, his blue eyes half-lidded but unwavering—like he was trying to memorize your face in 144p resolution.

And then, he did it.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, slurring ever so slightly.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Your brain rebooted. “I’m sorry, what?”

He tilted his head lazily, looking dead serious in the way only drunk people and toddlers could manage.

“No,” he corrected softly. “I am in love with you.”

It wasn’t even dramatic. No violin swell. No romantic sparkles.

Just Xavier, stating it like he was confirming his name on a test paper.

Your entire body malfunctioned.

Across the table, your friend audibly choked on her drink.

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out.

Mostly because your thoughts were somewhere between did he just say that, what do I do with my hands, and oh no he’s so pretty when he’s drunk this is unfair.

Xavier blinked at you again, that tiny sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “You’re really warm,” he added, like that was relevant.

You were going to ascend. Or pass out. Or maybe both.

All you knew was, finals were over, the beer was too strong, and Xavier—your Xavier—just confessed to you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Without warning, Xavier reached up—slow, a little wobbly, but with full drunken confidence—and gently tapped your cheek with the back of his fingers like he was checking if you were running a fever.

“Even your face is warm,” he mumbled, slurring just enough to make your heart explode.

You short-circuited.

“Y-You can’t just say stuff like that!” you blurted, eyes wide, voice pitched several octaves above sanity.

He blinked at you, completely unfazed, expression dead serious. “But it’s true.”

Your brain actually lagged.

Which part?

The part where he said he was in love with you?

Or the part where your face was warm?

Because frankly, both were devastating, but only one had you questioning the very fabric of your reality.

He was still staring at you—head tilted slightly, like a confused puppy but hotter—while your internal organs were folding into themselves like origami.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Failed.

Somewhere in the background, your friend whispered, “I knew it. I knew it,” like she’d just won the love confession lottery.

“I like being around you,” Xavier says, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Calm. Collected.

Unbothered by the fact that he’s casually dismantling your nervous system.

He pauses, gaze drifting downward to his hands like they just revealed a deep cosmic truth to him.

Then, in the same sleepy, matter-of-fact voice, he adds,

“I believe that also means… I love you.”

And that’s it.

That’s your cause of death.

Not the beer. Not the stress of finals.

But this. Xavier, casually confessing like it’s just another Tuesday.

You practically combust. “X-Xavier, s-stop!” you stammer, hands flailing like you could physically swat his words out of the air.

He frowns immediately, the expression so heartbreakingly sincere that you panic harder. “Should I take it back?”

“NO!” you blurt, horrified at the idea, mortified that you said it so fast.

He blinks, then—smiles. That slow, boyish, ridiculously soft smile that should honestly be illegal.

“Okay. Good.”

And with that, he flops sideways with all the grace of a tranquilized swan, landing directly on your shoulder like it’s the most natural ending to a love confession.

You sit there, stiff as a board, heart pounding loud enough to scare birds out of nearby trees, while everyone else continues drunkenly yelling about chicken wings.

Meanwhile, Xavier is peacefully nestled into you, blissfully unaware that you may never recover from this moment.

Ever.

You instinctively reach up and steady him when he starts to slump off your shoulder, your hand cradling the back of his head like it’s muscle memory.

He hums—hums—in approval, nuzzling a little closer like a sleepy cat that just decided yes, this is home now.

Externally, you manage a calm, nurturing expression.

Serene. Unbothered.

The image of someone who’s got it all under control.

Internally?

You are screaming.

Full-volume, running-in-circles, kicking-the-wall kind of screaming.

The kind where a tiny version of you is throwing confetti and another one is passed out face-down on the floor.

Because Xavier—Xavier—just confessed to being in love with you, smiled when you told him not to take it back, and is now peacefully passed out on your shoulder like you’re his favorite pillow.

You glance down at him, at his soft silver hair brushing your jacket, his lips parted slightly in sleep, and that barely-there smile still lingering like he fell asleep mid-dream.

You want to die.

You want to frame this moment.

You want to scream some more.

Instead, you just hold him a little tighter, letting your fingers rest in his hair, and pray to every celestial being that no one at the table is taking photos.

Yeah, they definitely are.

As the barbecue stall starts closing up, your friends slowly stumble out one by one, still giggling, hiccuping, and occasionally bursting into spontaneous song.

Xavier, meanwhile, is still half-asleep and draped over you like a very warm, very handsome weighted blanket.

You gently coax him to his feet, letting him lean on you as you guide him outside.

Your friends snicker as they pass, waving like little gremlins of chaos.

“Good luck!” one sings.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” another adds, immediately tripping over the curb.

“Wait—guys—seriously?!” you call after them, but they just cackle and disappear into the night like the unhelpful heathens they are.

You turn to Xavier, sighing. “Hey, can you still walk?”

He nods—slowly, dramatically—like a prince trying to prove he’s still fit for battle. You start leading him back toward campus, his steps wobbly but determined.

“I don’t know where your dorm is,” you murmur, glancing at him, half-expecting him to pass out again mid-stride.

Instead, he straightens up a little, eyes still sleepy but focused now.

Then he turns to you—completely serious—and says,“I can sleep with you then.”

You. Burn.

Not just blush. Burn. Entire face. Neck. Soul. Torched.

You stop walking, staring at him like he just suggested marriage and tax forms.

“W-What—Xavier—no—what?!”

He simply blinks at you, unbothered, totally calm. “You said you don’t know where my dorm is.”

“That doesn’t mean the solution is my bed!”

He tilts his head. “It’s efficient.”

You are seconds away from combusting. “You are not allowed to be drunk and logical.”

He just smiles sleepily. “Is that a no?”

You throw your hands up. “It’s a blinking red question mark, Xavier!”

And yet… you’re still guiding him toward your dorm.

Because let’s be real—you lost control of this night the second he said your eyes were sparkly.

After several chaotic, borderline slapstick attempts to keep him from collapsing against your doorframe, you finally manage to wrestle your key into the lock and swing the door open.

Xavier immediately leans all his weight into you like a dramatic Victorian faint.

“Thank God my dorm mate isn’t here,” you mutter, half-dragging, half-guiding him inside.

He makes a content little noise before unceremoniously plopping onto your bed—limbs sprawled like a cat who’s claimed a sunbeam.

You let out a breath, briefly debating whether you should be concerned or impressed.

You rummage through your desk drawer for your water bottle, muttering something about hydration and not letting attractive upperclassmen die on your watch.

“Okay, sit up, come on, just for a second,” you say, gently propping him upright with one arm while pressing the bottle into his hands.

To your mild surprise, he drinks obediently, eyes fluttering shut with every sip like water was the most spiritual experience he’s ever had.

You smile a little despite yourself. “There we go. Good job. See? You’re still alive.”

You set the bottle down.

Only to be yanked by the wrist a second later as you let out a surprised, “Whoop—!” And stumble forward—right into him.

He wraps his arm around you like it was part of his plan all along, his face now way, way too close, that ridiculous sleepy smile on his lips.

“I got you,” he mumbles.

You freeze.

Brain, Critical error.

Heart, Left the chat.

Entire body, Flushed like a broken toilet.

You stay frozen, hovering awkwardly over him while his arm stays wrapped around your wrist like it belonged there.

His grip isn’t tight—just secure enough to say don’t go yet.

“You’re warm again,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded but locked onto yours.

You open your mouth.

To say what, you have no idea—something stupid probably, like “so is the room” or “that’s called body heat, genius.”

But before you can embarrass yourself further, Xavier shifts, just enough so he’s sitting up properly.

And then he looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Not with that sleepy, slurred haze from earlier, but something quieter.

Steadier.

Like there’s still a buzz behind his eyes, sure, but his words… they come out clear.

“I meant it, you know,” he says softly.

You blink. “Meant what?”

His thumb brushes lightly along the inside of your wrist, absent-minded and devastating. “What I said back there. About being in love with you.”

The air in your dorm goes still.

Your heartbeat roars in your ears, and you’re suddenly aware of everything—his closeness, the smell of his cologne, the fact that he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded in this world.

“I’ve liked you for a while,” he continues, voice quiet. “You’re the first person I look for in a room. You make everything feel… lighter. I didn’t mean to say it like that tonight—like a drunk idiot.”

You swallow.

You can’t think.

You can only feel.

And you feel everything.

“But it’s true,” he finishes. “All of it. I love you.”

And there it is.

Real. Sober. Out in the open.

No laughter. No slurring.

Just Xavier, slightly flushed and slightly unsteady—but honest.

Your chest tightens. Your cheeks burn.

You don’t know what to say.

But he’s still watching you, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

And suddenly, it hits you.

You’re not screaming internally anymore.

You’re melting.

He watches you for a moment longer, as if waiting—maybe for a response, maybe just to make sure you heard him.

But when you don’t bolt out of the room or push him off the bed, something in his expression softens.

Then he smiles.

That small, satisfied, heart-wrecking smile like he just crossed the finish line of something terrifying and wonderful all at once.

Without another word, he tugs gently at your wrist, pulling you into him. You stumble forward—again—and this time, he wraps both arms around you in a warm, grounding hug.

One that’s a little loose, a little sleepy, but completely sincere.

And then?

He flops backward on your bed, dragging you halfway down with him.

“Goodnight,” he mumbles into your shoulder, already halfway to dreaming, his breath slow and even.

Just like that—confession dropped, walls down, chaos behind him—Xavier falls asleep holding you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You lie there, heart pounding, brain fried, limbs refusing to move.

Because you just heard the words I love you.

And now, you’re the pillow of the boy who said them.