Polites And Ody ♡✨

Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

✨ 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.

II ▷ 𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 — " orion's home "

part 2 of the 𝐥&𝐝𝐬 + 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 [other parts: zayne, rafayel, sylus]

— exploring Xavier as a father, both of your children’s relationships with you and their Dad, as well as delving into their passions and personalities

note: each LI has different MCs, meaning each child/ren of the other LIs have different mothers and aren't related

ᴛᴀɢꜱ: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, crack; xavier has some insecurities and secrets, recessive genes (take this as it is trust me), maybe a little canon-divergent bc of some hc inserts of xavier's myth lore, canon-timeline inaccuracies (?) bc of pop culture references, dirty jokes/references

❥ a/n: finally posted 😭 this has been in the drafts for too long.. if u want a tag in the next part, which is rafayel's, just let me know!! im planning on a permanent taglist post soon but i wanna finish this mini series first 🫶🏼 i apologize for the grammatical errors and if the character is a bit ooc as this is my interpretation of them. pls be nice c: and i absolutely appreciate every reblog and comments 🥺💗

0:03 ───|────────────────────────

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 has two sons, and definitely a present father to them. He never truly gave much thought about having kids with you in the first place, more content on having you all for himself. He wouldn't have a child unless you wanted one, seeing how you would look longingly at children and their families laughing together, and a part of him started to consider it as well. He's glad he did, because now he has his own personal constellation he calls home, you at the center, starlights that motivate him everyday. Given his own upbringing, he will never force his sons to do something they truly don't like and let them follow their heart’s desire. He had some insecurities at first, seeing he's never had a good relationship with his own father, fearing he might turn out the same as him. With enough reassurance from both you and his sons, he grew more confident that yes, he is a deserving dad and a great father despite the inevitable ups and downs.

𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 

The eldest son, looks a lot like Xavier mostly because he's got the same puppy eye shape and face structure, but oddly he doesn't get any of you or Xavier's eye colors

Xavier is taken aback the moment his son first opened his eyes, cradling him in his arms, his breath caught for a moment

It's something Xavier thought he'd hoped to never see again, ironically; a distant memory he's buried away, memory from home

But when Lance's eyes—a shade of forest green, gleaming into jade under the sunlight, like an eternal spring—look up at him with innocent wonder, the resemblance of his father’s eyes stops there.

Xavier can't help shedding a tear or two.

You didn't question it further, knowing enough about his past at this moment. The look of aching familiarity in Xavier's gaze was all it took to have some understanding

Xavier grew up being told he resembled his mother a lot more—his overall soft features and crystal blue eyes—something he was more grateful for, but genes sure are.. funny.

Lance loooooves Xavier's presence so much as a baby (even until his teen to adult but he’s never saying that out loud)

You would struggle putting him to sleep some nights alone when Xavier is somewhere on a solo mission

His cries seemed endless as you tried everything, from feeding him, to changing his diapers, to swaying him with a lullaby, yet nothing seems to work

Xavier comes home, utterly exhausted from his mission. He goes straight to Lance in your arms, sensing your own stress and exhaustion, wanting to help

You insist he needs to rest too, but the moment he's taken his son in his arms, the cries almost instantly settles down

“Sshhh, Dad's home now, baby. Let's sleep now, okay?” Xavier whispers as he gently sways him, the movement you were trying to emulate. He places a feather-light kiss on Lance's forehead, and like magic, he's asleep.

You stare at Xavier in awe.

Since then, it's been kind of a thing that Lance immediately just falls asleep faster in his dad's hold

Even when he grows into a toddler, he treats his dad like a beanbag (Xavier doesn't mind, not at all. It’s very welcome, encouraged even)

He would curl himself silently on his lap and immediately be knocked out. It was their shared routine. 

You have a dedicated album for those moments that’s honestly an accurate montage of Lance’s growth. Every week there's a new wallpaper of them on your phone

Your personal favorite was when Lance is holding onto him like a koala bear and Xavier's splayed over the playmat like a starfish, sleeping without a care in the world

But then Lance hits puberty

So it gets awkward from then on, since he was growing taller by the day, gaining inches above Xavier's own height

“My baby is so big now..” Xavier pouts playfully, ruffling his hair.

Lance sighs. “Dad, can you not say that.. please..” But he makes no move to stop him anyways.

Xavier gets slightly upset over it. In his perspective, he can never be too old or too big to be his nap time buddy

You and Xavier call him your baby even well into his teens much to his dismay

The more he grows taller, the more he's a victim of being mistaken for Xavier's older brother

It's funny at first but Lance is like “🤨 Isn’t he supposed to be 40 something?”

When both you and Xavier are away, toddler Lance was left to the trusty babysitter Uncle Jeremiah

It seemed like a hassle at first but Lance was so quiet, too quiet even sometimes just playing by himself.

Jeremiah would get him to open up by telling random stories from other planets and such

Lance's favorite was him talking about Lumiere's exploits, because it was so highly detailed unlike other stories.

Learned to make flower crowns from scraps. You get one every time you come to pick him up.

“Look, Mommy is princess!” Lance would say proudly as you hold him, wearing the daisy flower crown you received from him. 

Xavier smiles, leaning to place a kiss on both you and your son's cheeks. “No, Mommy is our queen, and you're our prince.” 

Best believe teen Lance is the no. 1 Hater when he catches you and Xavier being loveydovey. he just finds it so cringe.

He's giving you both a nasty side-eye as you laugh at his disgust

He's quite athletic, but he used to hop from sport to sport because he can't really a feel to what he likes the most

A natural genius, the one that sleeps at the back of the class but somehow still gets one of the highest grades in their batch 

He's unaware that he's the campus crush because of his weird intimidating but cool aura but in reality they have noooo idea he's a loser geek.

It’s really just his bitch resting face (courtesy of his mother), which image shatters when he smiles, bunny teeth and a small dimple on his cheek. 

Very reserved. Doesn’t keep secrets but won’t share about himself until you ask. Like he would casually tell you he survived jumping off a cliff and give no context until you ask.

More of a listener than a yapper, so he’s seemingly dry to talk to but will remember every single thing you say

He’s learned to read people really well–an empath if you will–an ability he inevitably developed when his dad had a vault full of secrets and masked emotions.

He was bluntly honest as a kid, growing more tact as he matures later on

Although he can take hints about what others feel/think, it doesn’t mean he’s a pushover if they’re crossing a boundary, He’s not a people pleaser in terms of he’s not trying to fit into whatever norm is going on, just doing his best to live true to himself

Other than napping, his favorite past time as a kid was sword fighting with the endless collection of lightsabers he's got, battling against you and/or Xavier

It kind of becomes actual training sometimes, and you BET Xavier's old ass be saying:

“When I was your age, I already know how to parry.”

You give Xavier a look. “Honey, he's 6.”

Star Wars becomes his personality for the inevitable part of his childhood

And you bet you were the one spoiling him with all that merch. Lance's favorite was the Millennium Falcon lego set. He cried opening that Christmas gift

Inherited his massive geekiness from you 

His core memory was sitting on Xavier's shoulders, his hands clutching his father's hair, you looping arms with Xavier side by side, as a Lego Star Wars parade marched on, fireworks in the background

Starstruck for an entire month after that

Loves it when you also tell stories about Lumiere at bedtime (unbeknownst to Xavier,) eyes twinkling and all.

Then he would also add his own stories he heard from Jeremiah, and you both just yap until you fall asleep

So respectful when he asks to borrow your Lumiere figurines.. and you LET him, which says a lot because those babies are expensive

Needless to say, Lance is also a talented swordsman, quite inspired to follow both of your footsteps as hunters

Your favorite memory of him was when you brought toddler Lance with you one time to the Hunter's Association, just to surprise Xavier for his birthday (yes, the man is still working, but you had a cake prepared for him and all)

The boy was a bundle of awe and wonder, loving how cool the hunters looked despite being shy to talk to them

He was literally being cooed and coaxed by your coworkers with candies and it was so cute to watch his round cheeks and ears become rosy from the attention

Xavier finally finished his mission, body growing heavy with exhaustion as he returned to HQ to fulfill his report. He settles down a bench, getting comfortable against the wall and about to lull into a nap when a loud voice echoes.

“Soooo, Lancey, who's your favorite hunter?”

Xavier shot up his seat, wide awake, the drowsy weight on his eyelids evaporated. He stumbled in his feet slightly from standing up too suddenly. Confusion knitted his brows. Why was his son here? Or was it another Lance?

He's now noticing the empty desks and his colleagues gathering around presumably his son. Slowly, he comes closer from behind, unnoticed by your officemates. 

“But I have more than one favorite..” Lance says, and Xavier's ears perched. He found himself tiptoeing over the crowd trying to spot Lance. A smile graces Xavier’s face after spotting Lance– eyes glued on the floor, hands fidgeting over the candies given to him. He was sitting on your lap, hugging him in place, and you were smiling from ear to ear, your gaze on your son. Lance was slowly getting more comfortable, the shyness seeping out of him.

“Oohhh, so if you have to rank them then, what would it be?” someone quips, and your coworkers hit the dude’s shoulder playfully for the ‘scandalous’ query. 

But it gets everyone curious, even both you and Xavier.

“Hmm.. it's Daddy and then Mommy and..” Lance mutters, and everyone is gasping dramatically, including you.

“Mommy’s lower than Daddy in your list?” You pouted in mock sulking, and it had Lance panicking a little.

“N-noo, Daddy's in third, and then Mommy is second, and then first is Lumiere!” 

Everyone's laughing and hollering now.. except Xavier.

You finally notice him, standing as still as a statue–clear, utter, guttural, mind-shattering distraught in Xavier's face, and it unfortunately made you laugh harder that your stomach began to hurt. You swear his soul left his body.

Lance was confused why it was so funny to everyone, nervously laughing, then he also spots Xavier. He beams, a vibrant signature bunny smile with his two front teeth, and Xavier almost forgets he didn’t just rip out his heart a few seconds ago.

“Dad!” Lance hops off your lap, rushing over to embrace him around his waist. Everyone was cooing at them, greeting Xavier a happy birthday but he didn't really register them. His ears were still ringing from the revelation.

Xavier bends to his knees, giving him a proper embrace back. Lance looks up at him, still smiling, until he notices the pout on Xavier’s face.

“Dad, don't be sad..” Lance pouts too, patting Xavier's had the same way his father would if he was upset. Xavier nuzzles against his tiny hands.

“But why is Dad in third place..” Xavier asks, and you're dying at the back because his puppy eyes were at work. Everyone else was snickering to themselves.

But Lance wasn’t Lance unless he says his truth.

Lance tilts his head, thinking to himself. “Because.. um.. I don't know if Dad can beat Lumiere..?”

(Cue a series of ‘oooohhs’, and you scold them, telling them to go back to their stations now, and they do after much persistence.)

“Lanlan—now Dad's actually sad now.” You try to intervene before your son continuously bluntly destroys his Dad's heart.

“But why? My dad is still the best Dad in the whole universe.”

Lance states it like an undisputed fact, and Xavier's heart swells so much it tightens his chest.

Because Lance wasn't Lance unless he's saying his truth. 

(Cue a series of ‘awwws’ from everyone in their desk cubicles.)

To him, that matters more than any hunter ranking. A deep part inside Xavier he's been holding for years is finally exhaled, filled in turn with relief. Lance never talks a lot, but when he does he really means it. In the void in Xavier's chest, was a star that burned brighter twinkling in the pattern of your laughter at that moment—he is another major star in Xavier's personal constellation, unabashedly warm and tiny, spring in his jade eyes and Lepus in his smile, contained perfectly in his embrace.

“Ah! I-I’m sorry—No cry!” Lance stammers as Xavier's eyes water, hands flailing on his face to wipe them, but Xavier thinks to himself that Lance has got nothing to apologize for.

Xavier just embraces him closer, face buried on his son's shoulder. He smelled of strawberry kids liquid soap and baby powder—home.

“Dad's very very happy, baby.” Xavier mutters, muffled by his clothes. “Thank you.”

“Happy birthday, my love,” You greet, inching closer with a lit birthday cake. The radiance of your smile in that moment couldn't be dimmed by anything.

Lance jumps excitedly in his grasp. “Oh yah! Happy birthday, Dad!” 

That declaration was the best birthday gift he could ever receive. 

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 — “Axel”, “Sandy”

youngest son, born 10 years after Lance

An unplanned baby (because of Freakvier) and the reason why Lance would give the both of you a nasty side-eye when you're both too lovey-dovey

“I thought Axel's favorite sleep buddy would be me, but now Lance has a mini-Lance the Koala Bear, part two.”

“Don't worry, honey. You're still my favorite pillow.” Xavier leans to kiss you, tender and soft, swallowing your giggles and the ‘you’re so cheesy’ you were about to say.

Lance walks in on that ill timing again, tangible disgust on his face, and with the meanest tone, he lets out—

“Ew.”

You're laughing, as Xavier pettily embraces you tighter, shameless that he's caught again. “You can knock you know, baby.” he says.

“Firstly, this is the living room. Second, one sibling is enough, please.” 

“Lance!” You throw a pillow at him, and he just catches it.

“I’m not joking, Mom!”

Incredibly touchy since birth, doesn't get lulled to sleep other than when he felt he was skin to skin contact every time

Axel is a mini you with freckles reaching until his back, matching your face structure and hair, big blue eyes like Xavier's, but a deeper shade, with hints of brown in the middle

The reason his nickname is Axel was because when he was in kindergarten to lower elementary, he kept misspelling his name as “Axelander”

You, Xavier, and Lance later understand it was because he is dyslexic

The nickname stuck because Lance was kind of a bully as a kid (aren't all older brothers really) and would never stop calling him that.

Axel never took it to heart though and finds it funny.

It takes a lot to actually upset him, because he's sometimes unnaturally optimistic about everything. Imagine Laios from Dungeon Meshi? Yeh. That.

Although Lance has absolutely 0 tolerance when other kids would bully him seriously with the nickname. That's only his privilege.

In actuality, Axel doesn't really realize he was being bullied at all and was just happy his peers were talking to him

Sandy was your nickname to him, because his favorite place in the playground park was the sandbox and he gets absolutely dusted quite literally.

Lance actually has multiple nicknames for him. These include but aren't limited to: “Axelander Sanderson the Great,” “Sandman Eater,” (he ate sand at one point) and his favorite, “Axelotle”

Does not care that you and Xavier call him their baby until his adulthood. 

The most creative comeback this boy can muster is.. “Uglancelot” and “Lame-cy” which doesn't even offend him it's just funny attempts

Despite that, he's actually very close to his brother even between you and Xavier, since he's taking care of him when you're both away on a mission

Unlike his brother and father, isn't easily sleepy; a light-sleeper.

His favorite pastime as a kid was recreating WWE moments on the mattress with any of you three.

And he looooves taking the Wanderer roleplay when they play swordfight with lightsabers

Because this baby’s special interest is Wanderers!

He would be listening to Lance and You rambling about Lumiere and he would ask more about what kind of Wanderer he defeated.

The little man's treasure was an encyclopedia of Wanderers he received from Xavier in his 10th birthday

He cried, yes. You took a picture and it's Lance's favorite one of all time.

Axel would bug you, Xavier, or Lance with questions or just asking help if he can't read a word properly the entire time

He has the whole contents ingrained in his memory since then. He can and will recite it given the chance just to annoy Lance.

Of course he ended up with more and more Wanderer related things, from books to figures to actual pictures

Learns to be secretive as hell because Lance tends to be super nosy when it came to his business and can read anybody like a book, a pamphlet even

Like father, like son I suppose

He still gets busted by dear bro though

Needless to say, this boy is loser geek doubled

Would be competitive as hell with video games against his dad and brother

The King of Rhythm Games, no one can beat him in that field.

Actually more of a social butterfly than Lance, but sometimes assumes everyone is his friend even when they're questionable people (why Lance gets worried sometimes), it was worse as a kid

Is not a people pleaser but pleased around people type beat

His comfort movie series is How To Train Your Dragon

Influenced his ultimate dream of befriending a Wanderer, preferably also a Dragon-type

Horrible with swords, but a great marksman from almost any long ranged weapon` 

Would playfully steal you away from Xavier when Lance is doing his 😒 face again at you both being.. sus

Has a trouble magnet streak, absolutely stressing the hell out of everyone, especially Xavier

But Axel’s puppy eyes are the puppiest to puppy eye no other puppy can actually eye, ever (this isn't making sense but that's the point), so he almost gets away with it every time

Like you think you already built a tolerance from both Xavier's and Lance's double kill puppy eyes when they're trying to get something they want

But Axel's puppy eyes are a whole other level. It was heartbreaking and knee buckling, and you know damn well that Lance and Xavier uses him as last straw 

And it still actually works to your dismay

The privilege as the youngest, Lance would grumble

Imagine having to live with three pleading puppy eyes everytime you say no. You must be a strong woman.

Xavier though? Well..

Xavier should be mad, really. He already knew this boy’s tactic very well. He can already hear both you and Lance berating him already in the future just after this.

Axel was left under Jeremiah’s care as per usual after school, as the boy absolutely loves the greenhouse and chattering with Jeremiah in general. You confirmed you would be home later than usual, Lance was preoccupied with training for the Hunter Licensure Examination, so that left Xavier with the task to pick him up from Philo. He planned to take Axel out to the arcade, something they haven’t gone to in a while and the 11 year old has been insisting on getting the new plushie for you when you get back. Xavier even went on a quick trip from the store just to get him his favorite yogurt drink, a small smile on his face.

Which slowly dissipated after the scene Xavier witnessed just outside the flower shop window

By one of the lounging tables, Axel was sitting rigidly, had his head drooping down that his hair masked his face, and his knuckles paling from squeezing his own knees. Across the table was Jeremiah, palms rubbing all over his face in what seemed like exasperation. 

When Xavier caught on his son slightly trembling, the confusion brewing in him quickly burned into something else.

“What am I supposed to tell your dad—” Jeremiah groans, but gets cut off by Xavier bolting inside, the welcoming jingles of his shop door rattling violently. The gardener paled before the all too familiar tempered glare Xavier was throwing him right now.

“Tell me what?” Xavier spat, hurrying over Axel’s side, placing a careful hand on his back, but the sudden contact made Axel jolt, his face shooting up to look at him–big eyes swollen red from tears and snot–and something was crumbling in Xavier’s ribcage, eliciting an eye twitch.

Slowly, he turned his head towards Jeremiah in an unnerving manner, a terrifying look in his eyes as he utters again, “Tell me what?”

Jeremiah swears he’s had more close brushes with death whenever it comes to dealing with Xavier instead of actual apocalyptic cosmic threats, and this was no different. After an elongated sigh, he began to explain the situation.

Apparently, Axel found a way to get into the Hunter’s Association Database through Jeremiah’s computer for more in depth information of Wanderers, and apparently it alerted an alarm system from HQ sending Jeremiah’s computer a warning that it would seize everything that was in that device–all including some access to.. their past, if they did not stop and identify themselves. Xavier didn’t need that part elaborated, knowing Jeremiah’s crucial role in their expedition, and in all honesty? Xavier didn’t really care much about matters pertaining to that after everything he has now, until..

“He used [Name]’s ID and account to log in.”

Axel stiffened, his arms wrapping around Xavier’s waist flinching into tension, face digging into his side. Xavier’s soothing caresses slowly drew to a stop when he registered what he just said. Dread crept in his nerves when he remembered earlier this morning how You were going frantic the entire time on where the hell You could have lost Your ID while running late.

“Axel..” Xavier sighed, petting his hair, “..baby, look at me right now.”

He didn’t, shaking his head as he started to hiccup again, keeping his face stuck on his side now damp with tears. Xavier pulled him away slowly, kneeling down to meet his son’s eyes, but now it was glued on the floor as he fidgeted in his seat in guilt.

“I’m not mad..” Xavier cupped his face, wiping his tears that slowly continued to tear in his heart. “Just tell me the truth and I will help, okay?”

“I-it’s–I–” hic, “I did–It’s true,” Axel sobbed, “I-I’m sorry–Sorry, Dad–”

“Sshh, it’s gonna be fine, alright? Let’s go home–”

“N-no!” he blurted, puffy, terrified eyes now meeting Xavier’s own. He clutched his father’s hands, shaking. “Don’t–don’t tell Mom, please?”

In all honesty, he was going to tell you the situation, as you both were past that stage in your relationship of keeping secrets–especially this kind. You already knew about his past, your shared ‘history’ with him, so this shouldn’t be that much bigger right?

But there it was, a pleading gaze of a deep blue–spheres of weeping Neptunes–eyes anyone can drown in. It drove Xavier’s instincts to just cradle him in his arms for as long as he can away from everything overwhelming–consequences be damned. 

He is a responsible father and a husband, but he is also just a man.

“Dad, please? I-I promise I’ll make up for it..” Axel continued to plead, sealing the deal for Xavier’s left resistance.

“Alright. But I’ll hold onto that promise right now..” Xavier gave him a stern look. “Don’t ever do something like this ever again, promise me, because I will tell your mother. You’ll have.. Different consequences for now, but.. I want you to remember this. Promise?”

“I promise.” Axel swore, calming down from his breakdown as Xavier pulled him into a proper embrace.

An exasperated sigh tore through their little moment, followed by a clearing throat. The two looked over to the source on the other side of the table.

“I think.. There’s also another one you need to say sorry to, baby.” Xavier nudged his son.

“I’m sorry, Uncle.. Please don’t hate me.”

And who is Jeremiah to do so when he looks at him like a kicked puppy who can do no wrong? He is also just a man.

(The two leave the shop after Xavier secured Jeremiah’s secrecy, going for the ice cream and arcade hang out like Xavier planned. He also made sure to clarify and sort the alarm with HQ with a quick call along the way. At the end of the day, they both go home in a happy note like nothing ever happened as Xavier returned Your ‘found’ ID.)

12:28 ──────────────────────────|──

ꜰᴜɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛꜱ !!

Lepus is the Hare or Bunny constellation. It was a bird turned bunny by the goddess of spring, Ostara to escape the hunter. It rests under the foot of the Orion constellation.

Orion the Hunter is a huntsman in mythology and is often referenced due to the Orion's Belt. He is cursed to be a constellation, forever stuck in the sky, hunting something he can never reach alongside his two Canis Majoris and Minor hunting dogs, all because of his arrogance

Axel was born in the Winter Solstice (December 22)

You can take these facts however as you please ☺️😌.. ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ

acc tags: @cordidy @dann-acalle thank you for your support and patience!!

Also I needed some real solars for his trials because he ONLY EVER GIVES ME BONFIRE OR BUNNY

I wonder if even after Odysseus returns, Telemachus still wakes up in a cold sweat some nights and goes to pace in front of his mother’s door. There’s light and loud talking and laughing and Telemachus grips his sword tightly, tense as he knows he can’t let anyone near.

The door opens and Telemachus jolts, turning to see a man standing in the doorway behind him. He lunges forward, but the man grabs his wrist and shoulder, disarming him and bringing him to the ground. He closes his eyes, bracing himself and feeling a burn in his throat. He failed. He can’t protect her. He-

Suddenly there are gentle hands on his face. A soothing voice replacing the cacophony that the prince realizes had never existed. He looks into his father’s eyes with shame, blinking back tears as the king gently takes him into his arms. Odysseus promises his son that he’s safe, brings him back to rest beside him and Penelope, and lets him have just a few hours of peace before it happens again.

Just thoughts.

⋆˚࿔ the best pillow 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

-the LaDS men cuddling with you and laying their heads on your lap (fluff)

୨ৎ── . Sylus

The living room was peaceful, bathed in the soft golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Sylus lay stretched out on the couch, his head resting on your lap, while a book was placed in his large hands. His white hair fell messily over his forehead, as his red eyes scanned the pages with sharp focus.

The low hum of music played from the speaker across the room, a slow, soulful tune drifting through the air.

You absentmindedly ran your fingers through his hair, scrolling through your phone, when you glanced down at him. “Hey, can I connect my phone to the speaker?”

Sylus didn’t look up from his book. “No.”

You blinked. “No?”

A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Listen and appreciate real good music, sweetie.”

You rolled your eyes, sighing dramatically. “You sound like an old man.” The comment made him smirk, but he didn’t respond, his eyes still on his book.

A slow, mischievous smile spread across your lips.

Sliding your fingers beneath the frame of his glasses, you gently pushed them down just enough to reveal his striking red eyes. Before he could protest, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss between his eyebrows, right at the root of his nose.

Feeling his body tense ever so slightly, you knew your 'attack' was effective. Bingo.

Sylus inhaled through his nose, his grip on the book tightening just a fraction. "I'm trying to read, kitten." he murmured, his voice as smooth as ever.

But you saw the way his ears tinged just the faintest bit red, the way his fingers twitched against the page.

A giggle escaped you and you felt him exhale, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

Sylus shifted, pretending to be unaffected as he grabbed his phone to check what song was playing.

That’s when you saw it. Your gaze flickered to the screen and your teasing smile softened. The playlist title was clear as day.

“Songs That Remind Me of Y/N”

When Sylus noticed where you were looking, his thumb casually covered the screen, as if that would make you unsee it.

You grinned, warmth spreading through your chest. “You big softie.”

He scoffed but didn’t deny it. Instead, he flipped the page of his book, still looking entirely unfazed. But as you glanced down at him, you caught it—the barely-there smile playing at his lips.

Sylus’ free hand moved from your tight to intertwine with your own hand, before bringing it to his lips and plant a soft kiss on your knuckles.

୨ৎ── . Zayne

The clock struck midnight as Zayne stepped into the apartment, exhaustion weighing heavy on his broad shoulders. His dark hair was slightly disheveled from running his hands through it all day, and his sharp green eyes, usually so intense, were dulled with fatigue. But despite the ache in his muscles and the relentless pull of sleep, he made his way to the living room—because he had made a promise.

And Zayne never broke a promise to you.

You were sitting on the couch, papers spread out around the couch and the coffee table, biting your bottom lip in concentration. At the sound of his quiet footsteps, you looked up.

"You're home," you murmured, a mixture of relief and concern in your voice. "Zayne, you look exhausted."

"I'm fine," he said softly, his voice gentle despite the obvious tiredness in his tone. "Let’s get this done."

You sighed, but didn’t argue as he settled beside you, his broad frame sinking into the cushions. He leaned slightly toward you, your shoulders brushing as he picked up a form and started filling it out with his precise handwriting.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence. But with each passing moment, Zayne's pen moved slower, his eyes blinking sluggishly as he fought the exhaustion clawing at him.

Then, without warning, his head dipped forward before he caught himself.

You turned to him, your lips pressing together in fond exasperation. "Zayne…"

"I'm awake," he murmured, but his deep voice was quieter now, softer, laced with drowsiness.

Another few moments passed, and then—he slumped.

His head rested against your shoulder at first, his body leaning heavily into yours, before he finally slid down, laying his head on your lap with a deep exhale. His dark lashes fluttered once before his breathing evened out, the exhaustion finally winning.

You glanced down at him, your expression softening. Even in sleep, he looked serious, but there was a rare peace on his face that made her heart ache.

Gently, you adjusted his position, letting his head rest more comfortably on your lap. You ran your fingers through his black hair, smoothing it back, with a featherlight touch.

With a small smile, you picked up your pen again and continued working in silence, letting him recharge. After a while, you feel a big hand gently squeezing your leg. “You’re such a nice pillow, you know that?”

Zayne looks up at you with only one eye open and a tired but fond smile on his lips.

“Look who woke up! Hi sleepy head.” you tease him, caressing his cheek gently. “I’m almost over with these papers.”

He nodded as a small yawn escaped his lips. “I’m sorry, next time I’ll be more helpful.” he whispered softly before falling asleep on you once again.

୨ৎ── . Rafayel

Rafayel stretched out across the bed, his head resting on your lap, his eyes half-lidded with contentment. The soft fabric of your sweater brushed against his cheek as he exhaled slowly, savoring the warmth of your presence. But something was missing.

Your fingers weren’t running through his hair. You weren’t teasing him with a sly remark. You weren’t paying attention to him at all.

Instead, you were glued to your phone, your delicate fingers tapping away at the screen. Occasionally, you let out a quiet chuckle, further fueling his mild irritation.

Rafayel pouted. "Babe." No response.

He shifted slightly, pressing his forehead against your lap. "Baaaabe."

Still nothing.

A smirk curled at the edge of his lips as an idea formed. He nuzzled against you, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he let out the most dramatic sigh he could muster, his broad shoulders rising and falling with exaggerated defeat.

"Are you really going to ignore your very handsome, very lovely boyfriend, who just wants a little attention?" his voice was laced with playful desperation.

You hummed absently, still not looking up. "Mhm. Sounds tragic."

Rafayel gasped, clutching his chest as if you had mortally wounded him. "Tragic?! This is abuse, beloved. I'm starving for affection."

You snorted, shifting your head the slightest to peer down at him.

“Put your phone down..” he murmured, drawing patterns on your thighs with his fingers.

He was pouting, so you followed his instructions. “Yes?”

A grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “Hi gorgeous.” he smirks, as you grab his pretty face between your hands.

“You really become a brat if I don’t give you attention for five minutes, don’t you?” you chuckle, brushing your thumbs along his cheekbones.

A pleased rumble vibrated from his chest as he closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.

"Yes," Rafayel declared, looking up at you with the biggest, most pitiful puppy-dog eyes his irises could manage. "Because my beautiful, sarcastic, heartless partner is ignoring me."

You bit your lip, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh. "You are so dramatic."

"And yet you love me," he shot back, smirking before going back to leaving pecks on her legs.

You feign a sigh, when you feel him playfully biting your skin.

“Ouch!” you immediately half-heartedly slap his forehead, while he laughs amused by his actions.

“Stop it or I’m gonna crush your skull.” you playfully glare at him, but he just shrugs.

“A nice way to leave this world, not gonna lie.”

He proceeded to nibble her thigh again, so you squeeze his head between your legs, chuckling.

“Now beg.” you challenge him, raising one eyebrow. But he simply cackled, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to your thigh. "You really think I’m gonna complain about this?"

୨ৎ── . Xavier

The door clicked shut softly and Xavier stepped inside, his frame carrying an air of quiet exhaustion. His light-colored hair was slightly tousled, his big blue eyes dimmer than usual, lost in some distant thought. He didn’t say a word.

You knew this version of him well. The one that withdrew into silence when something weighed on his mind. He was lost in his own thoughts, tangled up in emotions he didn’t know how to put into words.

So you didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Instead, you took his hand, gently tugging him toward the bed. Xavier hesitated for a second before letting you guide him, his shoulders relaxing just a little under your touch. You pulled him down until he was lying on top of you, his head resting against your lap as you softly ran your hands through his hair.

With a small smile, you let your fingers drift from his hair down to his back, as you began tracing invisible shapes against the fabric of his shirt. At first, you just doodled—little swirls, hearts, nonsense patterns—letting him feel your presence without forcing him to talk.

Then, slowly, you spelled out the words.

I love you.

A heartbeat passed. Then another. You felt his breath hitch ever so slightly, his tense shoulders easing as if a weight had been lifted. So you kept going, tracing a small heart at the end.

Xavier shifted, turning his head just enough so he could glance up at you, his deep blue eyes no longer clouded. A soft, almost bashful smile ghosted his lips. Then, without warning, he rolled over, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer in a way that was both shy and desperate.

His face was buried against your neck now, and you could feel his breath warm against your skin. Finally, he spoke—his voice quiet, but steady.

"…Again," he murmured.

You blinked. "Again?"

He nodded against you, his grip tightening slightly. A soft laugh escaped your lips before you resumed your gentle tracing of sweet nothings and hearts.

୨ৎ── . Caleb

Caleb sighed dramatically as he rested his back against the couch, his broad frame comfortably settled between your legs on the plush carpet. Your fingers worked gently through his thick brown hair, separating strands to weave into intricate braids. Every now and then, you’d clip a tiny butterfly or flower pin into place, giggling to yourself at how utterly adorable he looked.

He loved this. The feeling of your hands in his hair, your presence surrounding him. But there was one small problem.

He couldn't sit still.

His hands roamed absentmindedly, his fingers lightly tracing over the soft skin of your thighs. The warmth of your legs bracketing him was too tempting to ignore. Without thinking, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her knee, then another, higher this time.

You huffed, tightening your grip on his hair just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to warn him. "Caleb. Stop moving."

He grinned. "But you're so soft" he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along the inside of your thigh now. "How am I supposed to resist?"

You rolled your eyes, though he couldn’t see it. "You're not supposed to try to resist. You're supposed to sit still and let me finish your hair."

Caleb chuckled, but he didn’t stop. His hands squeezed your legs gently, thumbs stroking the inside of your thighs in slow, teasing circles. "M’sorry, baby," he muttered, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. "You're just really distracting."

"I’m distracting?" You scoffed. "You’re the one squirming like a hyperactive puppy while I’m trying to make you pretty."

"Hm..pretty, huh?" He smirked, tilting his head back against your stomach, his striking purple eyes gazing up at you. "Does that mean you're finally admitting you like playing with my hair?"

You flicked his forehead, making him laugh. "I've always liked playing with your hair. I just don't like when you make it impossible to finish."

"Okay, okay." Caleb raised his hands in surrender. "I'll behave."

"Good." You started braiding again, your fingers moving deftly through his locks. For about ten seconds, he actually sat still. Then his lips ghosted over your thigh once more, this time leaving a soft bite.

"Caleb!" He burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking with amusement. "I tried to behave, I really did," he said between chuckles. But then he finally stopped moving around and let you finish your masterpiece. “Wanna grab something to eat later?”

“But it took me so long to make these braids.” you pout slightly, already sad at the idea of having to remove all the cute clips from his hair.

“Who said I’m gonna take them out? Everyone needs to see what an amazing job you did!”

How the LADS boys would cuddle you

pairing: reader x Zayne, Xavier, Rafayel, Sylus & Caleb (separately)

cw: fluff, gn reader

a/n: This is my first time writing! (sorry if there are any spelling mistakes or other things!)

Zayne

There's nothing he loves more than coming home after a long day at the hospital, lying down beside you, and holding you close.

Loves putting his hands under your shirt for warmth while cuddling.

Hearing your heartbeat calms him and slowly lulls him to sleep.

Xavier

He lies on top of you with his face nuzzled in your chest breathing in your scent.

Falls asleep almost instantly. (sleeps like this for hours)

He loves it when you play with his hair and lightly scratch his scalp while he dozes off.

Rafayel

Spooning you while he holds tight (you're definitely struggling to breathe).

He'll whisper things in your ear (compliments, complaints, ...).

He loves to pet, touch and and play with your hair (will braid it if it's long enough).

Sylus

He has his arms wrapped around your back, slowly caressing your sides while you're straddling him. (Not in a seductive way, as much as he loves that.)

Your face is nuzzled in the crook of his neck as his head rests on yours.

(If the twins find you, they're definitely taking a picture of their boss-man napping with Miss Hunter.)

Caleb

His head is resting on your stomach between your legs while he has his arms wrapped around your waist.

His grip on you is tight but not painful so you can't escape. (again)

His fingers caress your back slowly as you both fall asleep.

He will occasionally look ap at you just to admire your face in silence.

𝔹𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕎𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕟

Pairing: LADS Men (All 5) x Fem!Reader Prompt: The moment they realise they want to spend their whole life with you Words: ~1.3k || 200-300 per LI Genre: Fluff, Comfort, Established relationship A/N: Highly recommend giving Urban Zakapa's "Nearness is to love" a listen to capture the mood! I need to be love like this smh

[ᝰ.ᐟ MASTERLIST]

⊱ 𝕏𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕖𝕣

Xavier has always wondered why he willingly abandons a good slumber and ignores the sting and soreness in his body just to see your face after every challenging mission.

“𝐷𝘰 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝘵 𝑚𝑒 𝘵𝘰 𝑐𝘰𝘰𝑘 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑠𝘰𝑚𝑒𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒?”

The lines of concern etched on your forehead deepen when he hasn't touched the porridge, all while swiftly checking to ensure you haven’t missed tending to any of his injuries.

He realises then, that you opening the door after the first knock, with a home-cooked meal waiting for him even before the first rays of dawn, is why he always seeks you out first.

This is the person he wants to witness a lifetime of sunrises with, the one he never wants to see weighed down by worry due to his line of work.

Words fail him, so he gathers you in his arms. Revelling in the way your body moulds perfectly against his.

“𝐼 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝘵 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑐𝑙𝘰𝑠𝑒.”

“𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙,” you chide softly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

The concern in your gaze tugs at something deep within him.

Xavier now understands what it is to be unconditionally loved—to be so genuinely cared for that someone would worry about his well-being above all else.

“𝐼 𝑝𝑟𝘰𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝘵𝘰 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝘰𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝘵 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 ℎ𝘰𝑙𝑑 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟𝑦𝘵𝑖𝑚𝑒.”

Your eyes soften. “𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑦, 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑑𝘰𝑛'𝘵 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝘰𝑛 𝘵𝘰 ℎ𝘰𝑙𝑑 𝑚𝑒.”

The sensation of your fingers threading through his hair is pure heaven, and as you hold him tighter, you express that this embrace requires no further validation.

⊱ ℝ𝕒𝕗𝕒𝕪𝕖𝕝

Bathed in hues of molten gold and fiery amber, Rafayel watches you set up the dining table with his aunt and Thomas, a scene he will cherish until his very last breath.

The laughter of his favourite people mingling with the rhythmic crash of waves is music to his ears.

“𝑅𝑎𝑓, 𝑑𝘰𝑛'𝘵 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝘵 𝑠𝘵𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝘵ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒,” you call out. Tucking your hair behind your ear as the salty breeze whips strands across your face.

If only he could immortalise this scene on canvas, Rafayel muses.

But he knows that a painting would never do justice to fully conveying the true essence of this beauty.

“𝛭𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝘰𝜈𝑒𝑑, 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝐼 𝑠𝘵𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑓𝘰𝑟 𝑎 𝑚𝘰𝑚𝑒𝑛𝘵?” The quiver in his voice doesn’t go amiss by anyone’s notice as he approaches.

Thomas quirks a questioning brow, while his aunt's gaze softens, her smile somehow knowing as she glances between the two of you.

Normally, he would have a response ready as Thomas quips about the champagne warming, but not this time. 

Not when everything else other than you fades into insignificance.

Overwhelmed with emotion, he pulls you in a tight hug as soon as you both are away from prying eyes, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“𝑇𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒,” his voice barely above a whisper, “ℎ𝘰𝑤 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝐼 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑓𝘰𝑟 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓, 𝑓𝘰𝑟𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟?”

You gently draw back and hold his cheeks, adoring the crimson spreading onto his face and ears, before murmuring tenderly against his lips, “𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝜈𝑒.”

At that very moment, it feels as though his heart might combust.

As if every whispered longing he's ever had has come true.

⊱ ℤ𝕒𝕪𝕟𝕖

Perplexed is what Zayne always imagined he would feel—wishing to spend the rest of his life with someone is a huge commitment after all.

But now, his heart overflows with nothing but contentment and peace.

With his glasses and book perch on his lap, he attentively listens as you animatedly vent about one of your coworkers, sitting cross-legged beside him on the bed.

“...𝐼'𝑚 𝑠𝘰𝑟𝑟𝑦, 𝐼 𝑠ℎ𝘰𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛'𝘵 ℎ𝑎𝜈𝑒 𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝘰𝑛. 𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝘵 𝑏𝑒 𝘵𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝘵𝘰𝑑𝑎𝑦.”

Zayne frowns, cursing himself as you mistaken his prolonged silence and composed demeanour for indifference.

Setting his stuff aside, he draws you closer, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead as your arms circle around him.

“𝐿𝘰𝜈𝑒, 𝐼 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝘰𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝘵𝑎𝑙𝑘. 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝘵𝘰𝑝 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝘰𝑢𝑟 𝘵ℎ𝘰𝑢𝑔ℎ𝘵𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝘵ℎ 𝑚𝑒.” 

A small content sigh leaves his lips as you nestle closer to him, the warmth of your embrace seeping into his very soul.

Long fingers gently stroke your hair as you voice out concern about adding to his mounting stress with your words.

“𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑐𝘰𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “𝑌𝘰𝑢𝑟 𝜈𝘰𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝘵 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑎𝘵 ℎ𝘰𝑚𝑒. 𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟𝑦𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝘵𝘵𝑒𝑟, 𝑑𝘰𝑛'𝘵 𝑒𝜈𝑒𝑟 𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝘰𝘵ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑒.”

Sometimes he wonders if he truly deserves the depth of love and understanding you provide, a treasure more valuable than any he has ever known.

He is not an easy man to love, yet you wholeheartedly embrace his complexities.

In that quiet moment, with the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtain, he knows with certainty that you occupy a space in his life that no one else can fill.

⊱ 𝕊𝕪𝕝𝕦𝕤

“𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑎𝑏𝑠𝘰𝑙𝑢𝘵𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑓𝑓𝘰𝘰𝑛!” your voice trembles with fury as you cock your gun at him. “𝑊ℎ𝘰 𝑖𝑛 𝘵ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝘵 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝘰𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑖𝑛𝘵𝘰 𝑎 𝘵𝑟𝑎𝑝 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑦? 𝑌𝘰𝑢 𝑐𝘰𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝜈𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑑!”

Despite having just slain dozens of degenerates and currently staring down the barrel of your gun, Sylus’s head is oddly silent.

The sight of his enemies’ blood staining your clothes, your hair tousling messily from its ponytail, and the blazing intensity in your eyes—every detail captivates him completely.

Fuck him, you’re perfect.

Exasperated by his grin, you continue calling him all the names in the book: reckless idiot, brainless fool, dumbass…

But he’s your idiot.

Sylus watches your eyes widen as he closes the distance between you, your mouth opening to protest, “𝐷𝘰𝑛’𝘵 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑘𝑖—” but before you can finish, he discards your gun aside with alarming speed, lips crashing against yours with a fervour that matches your fury.

It’s not a gentle kiss, it’s an explosion of emotions; a release of all the anger, fear, and love that has been building up.

“𝐼’𝑚 𝑠𝘰𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑓𝘰𝑟 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝘰𝑢,” he says breathlessly, resting his forehead against yours.

Strong hands pull you closer, and he smiles, sensing your fury starting to dissipate as you melt into his cocoon. “𝛢𝑠 𝑙𝘰𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑠 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝜈𝑒 𝑦𝘰𝑢, 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝘵ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝘵, 𝑛𝘰 𝘰𝑛𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝘵𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒—𝑢𝑠—𝑑𝘰𝑤𝑛 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑦.”

When you respond to him with another creative jibe, calling him a “𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑐𝑘-ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝘰𝑎𝑓”, his deep laughter booms through the room.

No one else can and will challenge him like you do, and he lives for it.

Caught in the back-and-forth of your wit and spirit, craving the spark you kindle within him with every word.

⊱ ℂ𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕓

“𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑏!”

The moment your wide smile graces your features upon spotting him down the store aisle, it robs out all the oxygen in his lungs.

Caleb has always known that this relationship is different from his past ones—the thought of seeing you in his future teasing his brain occasionally.

But when you skip to him, with excitement dancing in your eyes, it hits him that he will give everything just to witness that radiance again.

Every day for the rest of his life.

“𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝘰𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒!” You slip your hand into his and intertwine your fingers together. “𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝘰𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝘵ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝘵𝑒𝑚 𝘵ℎ𝑒𝑦’𝜈𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝘵 𝑢𝑝 𝑠𝘰 ℎ𝑖𝑔ℎ.”

He’ll let you lead him to whichever section of the market, and he'll damn well help you get whatever you want, even if it’s questionable whether you need it or not.

Another mini planter for your succulents? Sure, he’ll even buy all of the different designs for you.

When you ask him if he’s alright, noticing his dazed expression, he straight up pulls you into his embrace and kisses the top of your head, murmuring, “𝐼 ℎ𝘰𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝘰𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑎𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝘵𝘰 𝑔𝑒𝘵 𝘵ℎ𝘰𝑠𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑖𝘵𝑒𝑚𝑠.”

If he is misty-eyed amidst the bustling grocery store, it doesn’t concern him in the least.

You smile up at him in confusion, noticing the sentimental mood in his eyes. Standing on tiptoes, you give him a quick peck and melt in the warmth of his arms, feeling the beat of his heart against your cheek.

No other place feels as secure and comforting as being in each other’s arms.

⤷ ᝰ.ᐟ MASTERLIST

This is one of my fav xav arts i have seen ....🥹🥹

Its so gooood.. AHHHHHHHHHH

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.