This Has A Lot Of Little Details, Including: Polites' Microphone Has A Winion, Poseidon's Trident Is

I am very normal about him

Forget xavier I gonna make memes on xavier little stars instead ✨️

Bored 😴🥱 (My jobless behavior era 😌)

On a serious note why are we so similar collectively its scary like are our 🧠 brains wired alike ? 🤔

expect a lot of sylus shitposts throughout the next week or so

his birthday card is my new favorite thing. lord have mercy it’s so precious. but also heart wrenching?

i can only imagine what was going through his head when they were laying in the grass. the memories of him and his sorceress doing the same centuries ago. only this time, there was no sense of impending doom, no curse that threatened to tear them apart. this time, it’s just the two of them - like he always wanted. this time, it was peaceful. happy.

and the way he was so quick to tell her his actual birthday. everyone in the N109 zone, including the twins, have been guessing for ages. it seems everyone has yet to get it right. but when MC wondered? he answered immediately. he trusts her so completely, so implicitly. it’s like his heart and soul aches to share every part of him with her, and he won’t hesitate to do just that.

“you should know very well that i adore you. there is no love purer than mine.” when he first said it, i somewhat brushed it off. now though? i realize just how serious he was.

✨ Xavier |❄️Zayne |🎨Rafayel |🐦‍⬛Sylus |🍎Caleb

Dad!Xavier falls asleep all the time on the play mats during tummy time. You have a lot of pictures of the two of them snoozing together, Xavier’s hand on the baby’s back to keep them safe.

Dad!Xavier can and will eat the baby’s food out of curiosity. I mean, it’s right there and he wants to know what the baby is eating. They like this weird peas and carrots mixture so it has to taste good, right? You’ve also definitely caught him stealing the baby’s unfinished cheerios.

Dad!Xavier likes to take the baby outside and sit with them under the stars. He loves the way the stars reflect in their eyes. He'll teach them about them when the baby is older.

Dad!Xavier always manages to put the baby down for bed easier than you do. You don’t know how he does it but they could be crying up a storm in your arms and the second he takes them, they’re out like a light. It always makes him smile.

Dad!Xavier spends hours in the rocking chair. He likes to hold the baby against his chest and just rock for hours. You’ve found them asleep like that.

Dad!Xavier likes to lay on the ground with the baby and just listen to them babble. He adds an encouraging word here or there but he just loves the sound of their voice. The baby loves the sound of his voice too, especially for bedtime stories.

Dad!Xavier sometimes gets a little jealous of the baby. He knows it’s silly but the baby has all your attention and he misses you sometimes. He mitigates this by stealing your attention while the baby is asleep.

Dad!Xavier is NOT a good cook. You still cook for the most part but he steps up by cleaning more. It’s not perfect since a child tends to cause a whirlwind of mess but you both try and that’s all you can really ask for from each other when you’re raising a baby.

Writing sometimes feels like a strange disorder you just kind of cope with by being creative. Like your brain randomly decides to dump a million-piece puzzle in front of you and says, 'Solve this or we will never think of anything else, ever.' You toil away for years and by some miracle you solve it, and it's the most fulfilling, exhilarating feeling in the world. It's perfect. You did it. And your brain is like, 'OK, here's my idea for three sequels and a spinoff.'

Spring arrives... bringing... Lumiere!! ( •̀ ᴗ •́ ) و ✨

📖⬅⬅⬅

So I received this ask from anon:

I have recently had a very uncomfortable experience...I am a uni student and have to travel via train sometimes. I was in my seat, wearing headphones, and I could see in the reflection of a window that there were 3 guys looking at me and one of them was all spread out touching himself. Later, that man came to sit next to me and tried to talk to me or get me to look at him. I was just ignoring him, and staring into my phone and pretending not to hear him since I had headphones over my ears, but I could hear them talking about me. They kept daring each other to touch my hair and stuff like that.

Later when we had to get up to get off the train, they walked up to me and kept "brushing" theirs hands "accidentally" against me.

Thankfully nothing happened because they lost me in the crowd once I got out of the train but I was super scared they would follow me

I am so so so sorry you had to experience that. My heart was breaking as I read your ask🥺 I know exactly how that feels, to be completely helpless in those situations. I hope you stay safe always and be sure to always travel with a companion next time🥹

Here is the request for the LADS boys reacting to the events/finding out what happened to you.

You tell them what happened—the train, the way you were stared at, touched, followed. Your voice shakes by the end of it, even if you’re trying to keep it steady.

You didn’t want to make it a big deal. You just needed someone to know:

Zayne

He doesn’t speak at first.

But you see it—the shift. The stillness. Like something inside him tightens, coils too tightly to breathe. His face remains calm, but his eyes say everything. Fury, quiet and buried, held back by habit. By choice.

“They touched you?”

His voice is soft. Too soft. Like he’s trying not to believe it.

You nod.

He inhales slowly, jaw flexing as he exhales through his nose. Then his hand scrubs over his face, once, grounding himself. “Did you report it?”

You shake your head. “No. I was scared. I just… I just wanted to leave.”

His gaze flickers toward the floor, then back to you. “You did what you had to do. I’m not angry at you.”

He hesitates. Then quietly adds, “I hate that I wasn’t there. That you had to face that alone.”

You glance away, and he steps in closer. Not fast. Not overwhelming. Just enough to rest his hand gently on your arm, the warmth of his skin an anchor.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “tell me. Call me. Text me. Anything.”

His voice lowers, thick with the words he struggles to say aloud. “You matter to me more than you think. Don’t go through something like that alone again.”

Later that night, he doesn’t leave your side. He lets you sleep curled against him, one arm around your waist, the other brushing soft strokes through your hair. And every time you shift in your sleep, he murmurs something under his breath.

“You’re safe now.”

“I’m here.”

“They’ll never get near you again.”

The next morning, he drives you to campus.

Kisses your forehead before you get out of the car.

Then heads to the hospital.

It’s a quiet day, until three men are wheeled into the ER. Minor injuries. Nothing urgent. But Zayne hears them laughing. Whispering. Mentioning a girl.

The words catch his ear.

Train. Girl. Scared.

He stills. Completely.

He doesn’t ask questions.

He reads the chart, notes the names.

And when the others step out, Zayne lingers behind. Alone.

What happens next isn’t in the textbooks. It isn’t written into the Hippocratic oath. But he’s a surgeon—he knows exactly where it hurts. Where to press. Where to leave no trace.

Later, when a nurse asks why all three patients discharged themselves early and limped out without a word, Zayne simply nods and goes back to work.

He never mentions it to you.

He just holds your hand a little tighter the next time you walk through the city.

Sylus

There’s a pause.

Not hesitation—calculation.

A flicker in Sylus’s crimson eyes as he scans every word, every tremble in your voice, cataloging and analyzing it with terrifying precision.

You can almost hear the gears turning. Quiet. Lethal.

“Did you get a good look at them?” he asks. The question is sharp, deceptively calm.

You shake your head, voice small. “No. Just… their voices. One of them was touching himself. Then he sat beside me. Tried to talk to me. They were laughing. Daring each other to touch my hair.”

Sylus doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

But his jaw sets, ever so slightly. A muscle ticks in his cheek.

“Scum like that,” he says, voice low, “always think they’re untouchable. Like the world won’t notice when they disappear.”

He doesn’t pace. Doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. His fury manifests in stillness—in the way his fingers lace together too tightly, in the frigid control of his tone.

“You’re not taking the train again. Ever.”

“That’s not—Sylus, it’s not realistic—”

“I wasn’t asking.”

His voice slices through your protest like a knife. “I’ll walk with you. Drive you. Put a goddamn tracker on your coat if I have to. But you’re not going near that station alone again. Next time, they won’t even get close enough to breathe near you.”

Silence. Then something shifts in his eyes as they flicker down to your clenched fists.

His tone softens—but only slightly. “I know you were scared. And I hate that they made you feel powerless.”

He reaches out, knuckles grazing your hand. Careful. Controlled.

“But you’re not small. And no one gets to make you feel that way. Not under my watch.”

You nod, and he pulls away.

“Luke. Kieran,” he calls out, without raising his voice. His eyes stay on you. “Get her home. Stay with her.”

Mephisto swoops in and lands on the back of his chair, watching in silence as Sylus stands.

He doesn’t bother turning. “You were tailing her. Track them down.”

His voice is low. Icy.

And Mephisto launches into the air with a mechanical screech that echoes like the end of a countdown.

Within minutes, they bring them to him.

Three men. Faces bloodied, defiant—until they meet his eyes.

There is no grand speech. No threat.

Only Sylus, standing over them like death incarnate, sleeves rolled up, gaze as sharp as a blade.

He leans in, smile cruel and quiet. “Let’s see how untouchable you feel now.”

By the time he’s done, they can’t so much as whisper your name.

And Sylus?

He wipes the blood from his hands with surgical precision. Straightens his coat. And walks out without looking back.

You never hear their voices again.

Rafayel

He goes very still.

The kind of stillness that unsettles the air, that draws the light out of the room without a sound. His expression—usually teasing, theatrical, bold—shifts.

Not into anger. Not yet. It becomes unreadable.

Cold in a way that doesn’t suit his fire.

“They touched you?”

The words fall low, sharp. Stripped of all his usual lilt. Dead serious. Dangerous.

You nod.

His hands curl at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The crackle of heat that usually dances around him is absent. It’s quiet. Controlled. But the restraint is louder than any fury.

“Give me their names,” he says. “Or their faces. I don’t need both.”

You shake your head. Quiet. “I don’t want revenge… I just wanted to feel safe again. That’s all. Just… stay.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Not disappointment—never that. But something else. Like the desire to burn the world colliding with the aching need to be what you asked for.

He exhales through his nose. Shoulders relax just enough for him to step in.

Then his arms are around you, pulling you in, holding you so tightly you feel real again. His warmth wraps around you, not scorching—just steady, grounding. Like embers at your back.

“Then that’s what I’ll be,” he murmurs into your hair. “Your safe place.”

A beat.

“But if they so much as breathe your way again,” he adds, voice quieter, crueler, “I won’t be as merciful.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingers there. “You did nothing wrong, love. You hear me? I’m proud of you. And I’m so, so glad you’re here.”

Your voice cracks when you finally whisper, “I was scared.”

He tucks you closer to his chest, hand cradling the back of your head.

“I know, cutie. I know.” His voice softens like dusk, like waves kissing ash. “It’s over now. You’re with me.”

You fall asleep in his arms, safe in the heat of him.

And later—when the moon is high and your breathing is steady—he slips away. Silent. Focused.

CCTV footage. Street cameras. Reflections in windows. It doesn’t take long. He’s always been good at finding the shadows people try to hide in.

By dawn, three men are reported missing.

One is found knee-deep in a freezing river, babbling about glowing eyes and a voice that promised worse.

The others? Well.

Let’s just say they won’t be going near open water again.

And Rafayel?

He returns before you wake. Washes the blood off his hands.

And makes you tea.

Xavier

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then goes still—completely still.

The words hit him like a punch to the chest. You can see it in his eyes—the disbelief, the horror. Like something in him can’t reconcile the image of you—you—with the violation you just described.

“They were… watching you?” he repeats, slowly. “And they touched you?”

You nod.

Xavier’s breath hitches, his hand tightening ever so slightly at his side. He looks shaken—not by fear, but by the weight of helplessness. His voice comes quiet, almost broken.

“I—I don’t understand… how anyone could think that’s okay. How they could look at you and—”

He stops himself. His jaw clenches. It’s subtle, but telling. Xavier rarely shows this much emotion all at once. You see the storm gathering behind his calm.

Then, with careful control, he steps closer. His hand reaches for yours, warm and trembling faintly. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. That you were scared. That they made you feel small.”

He swallows. “You should never have had to feel that way. Not for a second.”

His eyes lift to yours, and they’re unwavering now. That quiet strength he carries, the kind most people miss—it sharpens into something else. Resolve.

“I wish I had been there,” he says softly. “Because I would’ve stopped them. I would’ve made sure they never looked at you again.”

Then, quieter—like a vow spoken into the space between heartbeats—

“You won’t ever be alone again. Not if I can help it.”

He holds you that night, as long as you’ll let him. A steady presence. A silent promise.

But when you’re asleep—peaceful at last—Xavier slips away. Quietly. Deliberately.

He tracks them down. It doesn’t take much.

He already had access to security feeds, transport records, street cameras.

He watches the footage once, then again, jaw tightening.

Then he finds them.

And Xavier doesn’t scream. He doesn’t threaten. He doesn’t need to.

All he says, in that low, even voice of his, is:

“You made her afraid. That was your first mistake. I won’t give you time to make a second.”

They don’t know what hit them.

And the next time you take that train, no one dares come close.

No one even looks at you the wrong way.

Not with Xavier walking beside you—quiet, composed, protective as ever.

But now, there’s something different in the way people step aside when he passes.

Something cold.

Something earned.

Love & Deepspace Men As Your Gym Instructor

pairings: sylus x reader, zayne x reader, rafayel x reader, xavier x reader, caleb x reader

A/N: A series of headcanons about the LIs as your gym instructor. Requests are very much open.

SYLUS

• Sylus isn’t just a gym instructor—he’s an executioner. He doesn’t train people; he breaks them. Every session is a test of survival, and he watches your suffering with just enough amusement to make you question if he enjoys this. “If you collapse, I’m leaving you here,” he deadpans as you struggle to get off the mat.

• He has absolutely no patience for whining. The moment you start complaining, he doubles the intensity of your workout.

“I think my legs are going to give out—”

“Perfect. Let’s add weights.”

• He’s unnervingly quiet when you struggle. No words of encouragement, no sympathy—just the piercing gaze of a man who expects results. You groan, dropping the dumbbells. He just stares. “…Say something.”

He blinks. “Pathetic.”

• He refuses to let you lift with bad form. He will physically adjust you without hesitation. Hand on your back, fingers pressing into your shoulders, grip firm against your waist. He’s indifferent to the proximity—you, however, are not. “Relax,” he murmurs, voice just above your ear. “You’re tense.”

• His personal space boundaries don’t exist—especially when spotting you. You’re struggling under a barbell, and suddenly, he’s there. Arms bracketing yours, voice smooth and unbothered. “Push,” he orders. You try, but all you can focus on is the way his breath fans against your cheek.

• He subtly tests your endurance just to see how much you can handle. He calls it training. It’s actually just entertainment. “You can take more,” he muses, adding another plate to the bar.

• Flirts without technically flirting. Everything he says could be taken as platonic—but the way he says it? Absolutely not. “You’re improving,” he muses.

You blink. “Wait… was that a compliment?”

He shrugs. “Take it or leave it.”

• Refuses to admit he cares, but it’s obvious in subtle ways. He’ll shove a water bottle at you without comment. Drag you to a bench when you look exhausted. You pant, wiping sweat from your forehead. “I’m dying.”

He clicks his tongue, tossing you a towel.

• Competitive to an unhealthy degree. You mention beating him at anything, and suddenly, he’s taking it personally. “I ran five miles today,” you say, stretching.

He glances over. “Make it ten next time.”

• When he does praise you, it’s rare—but devastatingly effective. It’s not often, but when it happens, it lingers. “Not bad,” he murmurs, watching you finish your set.

Your brain malfunctions. “Wait—what?”

He smirks. “Nothing.”

SCENARIO

You’re on the ground. Not sitting. Not crouching. Collapsed.

Sylus stands over you, arms crossed, entirely unimpressed. “Pathetic.”

You groan. “I literally can’t move...”

He tilts his head. “You have another set.”

Your glare could burn through steel. “Sylus. My legs are gone.”

He crouches beside you, gaze unreadable. “You’re fine.”

“I’m—” You gesture weakly. “—not fine.”

There’s a pause. Then—without warning—he hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you up like it’s nothing.

Your hands instinctively grab onto his shoulders, and for a second, the world tilts. His grip is steady. His voice, lower than usual.

“See?” he murmurs. “You’re still standing.”

You blink up at him, heart hammering. “I—”

He smirks, releasing you. You immediately stumble.

“Alright,” he says, stepping back, tone casual. “Next set.”

You hate him. You really do.

ZAYNE

• Zayne is a gym instructor with the patience of a saint and the intensity of a drill sergeant. He’s not the type to yell or get overly aggressive, but his expectations are high. If you slack off, he doesn’t scold you—he just looks at you. And somehow, that’s worse. “Again.” His voice is calm, almost indifferent, as you struggle through push-ups. “Don’t stop until you get it right.”

• He never sugarcoats anything. If your form is bad, he’ll tell you. If you’re being dramatic, he’ll call you out. But if you actually push yourself, he will acknowledge it.

• You pant, struggling to finish your reps. Zayne watches. “You’re stronger than that. Keep going.”

• The kind of instructor who gives subtle but sharp praise. He won’t shower you with encouragement, but when he does give a rare compliment, it sticks. “Well done,” he murmurs after you break your personal record.

• Prefers efficiency over flashy workouts. He doesn’t waste time with trends or gimmicks. He’ll give you a program that works, but you will definitely suffer. “No shortcuts,” he says, handing you a heavier weight than you expected. “Do it right, or don’t do it at all.”

• Not overly physical unless necessary. He’s not the type to adjust you constantly, but if your form is off, he will fix it—without hesitation. One hand at your lower back, the other guiding your grip. “Here,” he murmurs, voice close to your ear. “Straighten up.”

• Expects discipline, but isn’t completely heartless. He won’t let you quit, but he does notice when you’re genuinely struggling. His version of kindness? A short water break instead of immediate death.

• You groan. “Zayne, I think I’m dying.”

He hands you a water bottle. “Then hydrate first.”

• Completely unbothered by whining. Complain all you want—he won’t react. In fact, the more you complain, the more weight he adds.

• “My legs feel like jelly—”

“Then we’ll strengthen them.” He hands you a resistance band.

• Is meticulous about post-workout recovery. He doesn’t just push you—he makes sure you recover properly. That means stretching, hydration, and making sure you’re not being an idiot. “You better not skip your cooldown,” he warns.

You smirk. “Why? Will you carry me home if I collapse?”

His gaze flickers to you. “No, but I’ll make sure your next session is worse.”

• Doesn’t like distractions. If you come to the gym to chat or mess around, he’ll shut it down fast. “Focus,” he says when you start rambling between sets. “Or leave.”

• Gives zero reaction when people try to flirt with him. Other gym-goers have tried. He never takes the bait. You watch a girl giggle as she asks him for ‘help’ adjusting her form. Zayne corrects her stance in under five seconds, completely unfazed. “Done.”

She pouts. “That’s all?”

He turns to you instead. “You’re up.”

SCENARIO

You’re wheezing. Absolutely dying.

Zayne watches from the side, arms crossed. “You have five minutes left.”

You groan, gripping the treadmill’s handles. “I’m—gonna pass out.”

He tilts his head, unimpressed. “You said that ten minutes ago.”

“I meant it this time—”

The treadmill suddenly increases speed. You yelp.

“ZAYNE—”

He doesn’t react. “You’ll survive.”

You stumble, barely catching yourself. “You’re evil.”

There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Keep running.”

RAFAYEL

• Rafayel is the worst and best trainer you could have. He’s the type to look like he’s taking this seriously—clipboard in hand, stopwatch ticking—only to throw in something completely ridiculous halfway through your session.

• “Alright, time for squats. And if you mess up, I’ll make you do them while balancing a book on your head. Gotta work on that grace, cutie.”

• He is not a role model. Skips warm-ups, ignores cooldowns, and somehow never follows his own advice. He’ll sit there drinking an iced coffee while watching you struggle. “Push through the pain,” he says lazily, sipping his caramel macchiato.

• Absolutely makes things harder just to mess with you. If he sees you struggling, does he help? No. He makes it worse. “Oh, you’re having trouble with those weights? Here, let me fix that.” —and suddenly he adds more.

• Zero professionalism. If you start flirting, he will flirt back, and it’s a dangerous game. “You’re lucky I’m here to watch you suffer.”

You smirk. “Or maybe you just like watching me.”

He leans in. “And what if I do?”

• Overly dramatic when he works out himself. If you ever catch him actually exercising, he acts like it’s a life-altering event. “God, this is agony. Why do people do this?” —as if he’s not a personal trainer.

• Pretends he doesn’t care, but actually keeps a close eye on you. He’ll tease you for whining, but the second you actually look like you might faint, he’s already there, handing you a water bottle. “Tsk. You look pathetic.” A pause. “…Drink.”

• Loves making up fake ‘training techniques.’ Half the time, you don’t know if he’s being serious or just making things up for fun. “This exercise is called ‘suffering but make it aesthetic.’ Perfect for you.”

• Will absolutely let you take breaks if you bribe him. You want to sit down and do nothing? Cool. Just bring him a snack, and he’ll mysteriously forget how many reps you had left. “Fifty push-ups? Nah, I think it was… ten. Maybe five, if you’re cute enough.”

• Gets jealous if you take fitness advice from someone else. If you ever listen to another trainer, expect Rafayel to sabotage them in the pettiest way possible. “Oh, he told you to stretch like that? Ridiculous."

• The type to bet against you—then get personally invested when you prove him wrong. He wants you to fail, just so he can be smug about it. But when you actually push through? Yeah, now he’s impressed. “…Goos job,” he mutters when you finish a brutal set. Then, a smirk. “Do it again.”

SCENARIO

Rafayel leans against the squat rack, watching you struggle with your set.

“I swear—this feels heavier than last time,” you grunt, barely holding the bar steady.

He smiles innocently. “Hmm. Weird.”

You narrow your eyes. “You did something.”

“Moi?” He places a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “Darling, I would never sabotage my favorite student.”

You pause. “I’m your only student.”

“Exactly.”

It takes you a second before realization hits. “You added weight when I wasn’t looking, didn’t you?”

He hums. “Guess you’ll have to finish the set to find out.”

“…I hate you.”

He grins. “I love you too.”

XAVIER

• Xavier is terrifyingly efficient as a trainer. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t mock, doesn’t even look particularly invested. But somehow, he always gets you to push past your limits. “You said you were done? No. You have three more in you. Keep going.”

• His neutral expression makes him unreadable. You can be dying in the middle of a workout, and he’ll just watch with the same blank stare.

“Is this… supposed to be this hard?”

He blinks. “Yes.”

• Zero tolerance for excuses. You tell him you’re tired? He tilts his head slightly. “And?” Say your muscles hurt? “That’s the point.” Try to leave early? He will appear behind you.

• But he has an unexpected soft spot. The moment you actually can’t keep going, he’s already handing you water, fixing your form, making sure you don’t push past your limit. He won’t say it, but he’s watching closely.

• Deadpan humor that makes you question if he’s serious. “Xavier, I think I’m dying.”

He nods. “Yes. That is what training feels like.”

• He’s weirdly encouraging in a clinical way. He won’t shower you with praise, but when he does compliment you, it hits. “Your endurance has improved,” he murmurs, as if it’s just an observation. …But somehow, that makes you want to try even harder.

• Almost never raises his voice, but when he does? You listen. The one time you nearly drop a weight on yourself, his usual monotone disappears. “Stop.” You freeze, more from shock than anything. When you glance up, his eyes are sharp—focused entirely on you.

Then, just as quickly, he’s back to normal. “Fix your grip.”

• He doesn’t do ‘small talk’—but he remembers everything you say. You mention your favorite protein shake once, and a week later, he hands you one without a word. “Drink this. You’ll need it.”

• One time, when you were gasping for air on the mat, you look up to glance at your instructor for an approval, only to see him snoring on the floor.

• Stares at you a bit too intensely. You didn't want to assume, but you swore you caught him staring into your lower half when you were doing squats.

• He has a quiet but very possessive streak. If another trainer tries to offer you advice, Xavier is right there, staring them down. “She’s my student,” he says, and that’s the end of the conversation.

SCENARIO

You’re gasping for air, bent over after another brutal round of circuits.

“I can’t—” you wheeze. “That’s it. I’m done.”

Xavier watches you for a moment, then nods. “Alright.”

Wait. That’s it? No cold stare? No sarcastic remark?

You frown. “You’re not going to force me to keep going?”

He hums. “No. If you want to stop, you can stop.”

…You don’t trust him. “…But?”

He tilts his head, like he’s considering something. Then, his voice drops, just barely: “I just thought you were stronger than this.”

Your eye twitches. Oh. Oh, that bastard.

You grit your teeth, straightening up. “Fine. One more set.”

For the first time that day, he almost looks amused. “Good choice.”

CALEB

• Caleb is the ultimate ‘supportive but slightly terrifying’ trainer. He’s always smiling, always energetic—but somehow, that makes him even scarier. “C’mon, pip-squeak! Just one more set! You got this!”

…You’ve been doing ‘one more set’ for the last 20 minutes.

• He’s the type to bet against you just to make you work harder. “You? Finishing a full workout without whining? Nah, I don’t see it happening.”

…You push yourself just to prove him wrong.

• Runs next to you on the treadmill—effortlessly keeping up. You’re dying, but he’s jogging beside you, chatting like this is a casual stroll. “You hear that? That’s the sound of progress, babe.”

…The only sound you hear is your own wheezing.

• Looks like he’s playing around, but he’s actually analyzing every move. He’s laughing, teasing, but if your form is even slightly off? He’s immediately fixing it. “Tsk. You keep that up, and you’ll wreck your knees. Here—” He steps behind you, hands ghosting over your waist to adjust your stance. Too close.

• Not afraid to use distractions as motivation. If he catches you slacking? He leans in, voice dropping into something softer. “What’s wrong? Getting tired already? You know, if you do five more reps, I might have a reward for you.”

…You never ask what he means. You don’t want to know.

• Has no sense of personal space. He will absolutely drape himself over you if he thinks you’re resting too long. “Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just waiting for you to stop being lazy.”

• If you ever try to beat him at anything, he makes it a whole event. You challenge him to a sprint? He smirks. “Oh? You think you can keep up with me?”Suddenly, the entire gym is watching.

• He absolutely loves reveling in the thought that he's physically stronger than you, sometimes even asking for you to sit on him as he do push-ups. You never agreed.

• He gets way too proud when you start improving. The first time you lift heavier weight than before, he whoops—loudly. “Hell yeah, that’s my girl!”

…You pretend it doesn’t make you feel weirdly warm.

• If anyone else so much as glances at you? He notices. And suddenly, he’s all over you—grinning, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “So, sunshine. How about we grab a smoothie after this? My treat.” …He’s not asking. He’s staking a claim.

• Will not let you leave without stretching—and if you refuse? He personally helps you. “Fine. We’ll do it together.” Then he’s behind you, hands guiding your arms, breath way too close to your ear. “Deep breath. Good girl." You’re never skipping cooldowns again.

SCENARIO

You collapse onto the mat, sweat dripping down your face. “I can’t anymore.”

Caleb squats down beside you, grinning. “Oh yeah?”

You glare up at him. “I’m done.”

He tilts his head, considering. “Hmm. Shame.”

“…Shame?”

He leans in, smirking. Too close. “Well, I was gonna say—if you did ten more reps, maybe I’d let you pick where we grab food after.”

You stare. “That’s—”

“—Or,” he interrupts, voice dropping, “I could just pick for you. And you know I have awful taste.”

You groan. He’s the type to drag you to some all-protein, no-flavor nightmare.

He grins wider. “So. What’s it gonna be, pip-squeak?”

You sigh, grabbing the weights. “I hate you.”

He laughs, standing back up. “No, you don’t.”

Originally for my friend in the LaDs server I’m in.

After learning about Xavier's myth, finally, I'm feeling soft for him. Meanwhile I mostly started liking Xav more already because of my friend. So now I'm going to be soft about him on main.

When the light of the early morning sun filtered gently through the curtains of your apartment, you awoke to the feeling of an arm slung over your waist. Cradled gently in Xavier's arms, you carefully turn over to look at him. It wasn't as though seeing his sleeping face was uncommon, but it was as novel as the first time you'd been graced with the sight.

Despite his nature, Xavier always tried his best to be awake to spend time with you. Your hunting partner even had his notification volume at a decibel you were certain no one else ever would just to make sure he didn't miss your texts and calls when you were apart.

You couldn't help yourself and brushed your fingers over his forehead, brushing back the hair covering the skin there to plant a tender kiss on the uncovered area. A giggle had to be stifled when his nose scrunched a little and he pulled you deeper into his embrace, inadvertently forcing you to bury your face in his shoulder. There was a happy hum, barely there, when Xavier finished shifting you to be closer. The feeling was a bit ticklish as the vibrations of the noise rumbled in his throat.

You decided the dawn was too early to rise and begin the day, especially when your prince still yet slept. So you slowly sunk deeper into the peaceful quiet Xavier brought you and returned to the land of dreams to greet your lover. The noon sun would be next to bring you back to the waking world. Plenty of time to frolic in starlit fields with the man who would give you his everything just to make you happy.

The next you woke, the feeling of soft hands and softer kisses brought you into wakefulness. Xavier's fleeting touches gentling you into the waking world. "Good morning, my star. The night was long, but you were there in my dreams. So it wasn't too bad being asleep all this time," were the first words to light upon still sleep drowned ears. "Good morning, Xavier," you got out sleepily, smiling when he responded with another kiss; this time on the lips.

"We could stay here. There's still time," Xavier began. "Whatever you decide, whatever you want- I want that, too."

"We could. Buuut- I'm sure you're hungry by now," was your reply. Which was promptly met by a still bleary-eyed look of eagerness, your bunny-like boyfriend enjoying the idea of eating. "I've got you." And then you were being carefully scooped up into his arms and set down. He shuffled forward, holding you up while still rubbing the remaining drowsiness from sleep-soft features. The rest of the short noontime was spent in such a way. The two of you groggily moving together, Xavier taking care to hold up most of your weight and thoughtfully move thing and hand them to you when necessary. It was sweet. Your sleepy boy doing his best to help your equally sleepy self, holding onto you tight all the while.

He gave you a silent look of apology while you made breakfast, wishing he could do it for you. But while he was highly capable as a hunter, the kitchen was certainly not a battlefield he could brave. Which meant that whenever you caught glances of him whilst moving about the kitchen, you saw his eyes stuck to your form. Xavier's eyes never once strayed, watching you now that he was given the opportunity to stare. You were perfect in his eyes. So strong, so capable- Even able to do things he couldn't. You couldn't help matching his hopeless smile, teeth peeking out before your hand covered the upward curve of your lips. This was met with a pout and a certain hunter stalking towards you to move your hand. "Don't do that. I like your smile."

You were cheesing again. Silly man.

An entire day off spent together is a day well spent, no matter how you chose to fill those precious few hours.

A movie together, dinner, getting ready for bed...

Laying down with him, arms once again secure around your middle and face nuzzling into your nape with a tender "I love you", you wanted to do it all over again. All the simple and mundane days you got to spend with your shooting star that made all your wishes come true. You'd gather up all the stardust of the quiet moments together until next you could hold this fleeting star in your arms.

inspired by mine own Greatest Breakdown of the Century that took place last Wednesday