S/O With Depression- The Love And DeepSpace Men

Absence Makes The Heart

Xavier had really done it now.

You were used to him disappearing for hours, for days, sometimes even for weeks, all with no contact. This time, he’d been gone a whole month. And you vowed, if he wasn’t already dead, you’d kill him. Or worse. You’d simply disappear yourself. See how he liked it. 

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Xavier couldn’t find you.

At first, he thought you’d simply wandered off again. You had a tendency to be distracted by every street performer you heard, every afternoon market you passed by, every shop display you laid eyes on; any time there was anything that had life, that had shine, you were there, paying your time and attention to it. And he took great pride in being the only person who could find you, each and every time. Maybe you’d posted a picture of your coffee and he’d caught a glimpse of a partial store sign in the background. Maybe you’d mention that you were stuck in abnormally high traffic and he remembered a parade nearby. But either way, rain or shine, he’d find you, like it was always fate’s intention to have you back in his arms. 

But not today.

Today, it’d been three hours, forty-six minutes, and seventeen seconds, and he still could not find you. He was getting desperate. He’d been gone for an entire month and had done nothing but imagine the glow in your eyes or the curve of your smile when you finally welcomed him home. He never imagined that maybe one day he’d come home and you wouldn’t be there. 

He hoped he was just imagining things when he got a notice that your last transaction was a large withdrawal of cash; he prayed that there was still time for you to stumble through the doors, grinning sheepishly, as you admitted you’d caved and bought a farm, or something of the sort. But the clock ticked away, the sun set and rose and then set again, and you still weren’t home. 

He lay on your bed, trying to will you into existence beside him, as he clung to the lingering scent of shampoo in your sheets. He stared up at the ceiling, letting his thoughts consume him, not bothering to get up even to humor his growling stomach. 

Why had he stayed away so long? He couldn’t seem to remember now. There was always something for him to tend to, something that couldn’t wait, something that only he could do, but now, as he lay in your empty apartment, missing your warmth, missing your light, he wondered what it was that could’ve been so important that he couldn’t spare the time to check in and reassure you that he was okay. To reassure him that you were okay. And now he had no idea if you were even alive.

You wouldn’t answer his calls, you wouldn’t answer his texts. He wasn’t even sure you had your phone on you, because he couldn’t track your movements. What were you doing? Where were you going? What were you thinking? Were you mad at him? Of course you were mad at him. You always hated how he had a tendency to take on the world by himself, how he took risks no one else would take and carried burdens no one else would shoulder.

Wherever you were, however far you’d gone, he hoped that you were okay and that you still had room in your heart to forgive him. You were always forgiving him. Forgiving him for taking the last dumpling, forgiving him for oversleeping and missing your breakfast date, forgiving him for hiding his wounds from you. Of course, you gave your forgiveness in exchange for pinky promises of better behavior and bribery, but you’d always forgive him at the end of the day nonetheless. He wondered if you’d still forgive him now. Or if your forgiveness had an expiration date and he was just one month too late. 

When a week passed and you still hadn’t contacted him, he started to lose his mind. He was used to being alone, from going on missions alone, to traveling the soundless, boundless expanse of deep space alone, with his thoughts as his only constant companion. But you were always at the end of that path. You were always where he was trying to go, who he was trying to save. And now he was completely without you. And he had no idea what to do with himself. He swore to himself that if he ever saw you again, he would never leave your side. He would plant himself beside you, breathe when you breathed, walk when you walked, and be no farther from you than your own shadow; it was decided. Now, if only you’d show up. 

Frustrated by his own helplessness, he plopped down onto your couch, nestling himself among your many plushies. He looked at them for a moment, remembering the moment he’d won them all for you. You’d thrown your arms around his neck, beaming brightly, before declaring to everyone in the arcade that “Xavier’s the absolute BEST!” He smiled as he remembered the way he’d carried you in his arms like the bride he’d always intended for you to be, with the plushies sitting all snug on your stomach. Now he lay beside them, feeling a sense of loss. 

“I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” He asked a nearby teddy bear. 

He took the bear’s lack of response as a sign to continue. “I see now why she hates when I leave without her. This…this is terrible.”

The bear gazed on in what Xavier could only assume was sympathy.

Xavier sighed. “Do you think she hates me now?” 

The bear remained silent.

Xavier slumped. 

Then his phone beeped and nearly shattered the sound barrier. He’d been moping in silence all week and now that silence had finally been broken. He scrambled for his phone in an instant, almost dropping it in the process.

His screen only displayed one word: No.

He blinked at it. “No? What does that mean? No…you aren’t coming home? No, what?” He murmured to himself as he pondered the mysterious text. 

Another beep. No, I don’t hate you.

His eyes widened. He looked down at the bear. 

“You know something, don’t you?”

Silence. 

Trying to hide his smile, Xavier then flopped back against the cushions, using his arm as a shield over his face before proclaiming, “It’s a shame that I have no way of communicating with Y/N. I was just thinking I’d make her favorite meal for dinner.”

No response. 

Maybe she knew that despite his best intentions, whether it was her favorite or not, whether it was her kitchen or his, all his cooked meals had the same end result. Maybe it wasn’t enticing enough for her.

“I suppose I could just eat these plushies for dinner. There’s no one around to stop me if I just decided to chop them up into pieces and boil them into a stew.” He teased.

His phone beeped. You’re resorting to threats now?

He grinned at the bear, his eyes now finding the nanny camera that had been oh-so-carefully transplanted onto one of its buttons. “So, you coming home now?”

Are you sorry?

His eyes softened. “I am. Very sorry.”

You won’t do it again?

He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Well… I’ll do my best next-”

Xav. You won’t do it again. Or the next time I’m gone, it’ll be for much longer than a week.

He gave a resigned sigh before smiling again. “Alright, I won’t do it again. I won’t leave unless I talk with you first and I’ll take you with if I can.” He held his breath as he awaited your response.

The seconds felt like eons and the eons just reminded him of the space between the two of you. He wished he was holding you instead of clinging to your plushies for even a hint of your scent. He didn’t know what he’d do if you didn’t come home soon. If you didn’t answer him. If you didn’t forgive him. 

Fine, good enough. But stay out of my kitchen; you set it on fire last time. I’ll make dinner.

He let out a breath of relief.

You were coming home at long last.

Ko-fi

Support JustWingingLife

Support JustWingingLife

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @minasfwoopyponytail @ouiouimochi @inkytypewriter @tbaluver

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ Get out!

Pairings: Lads men x afab!reader part 1

Summary: Your 4 year old child, is fighting with their dad over you.

Tag: @teewritessmth @animegamerfox

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ Zayne

Life with Dr. Zayne was always interesting, to say the least. As a renowned cardiac surgeon, your husband was the epitome of composure—calm under pressure, precise in everything he did, and a man of very few words. He wasn’t cold, not at all, but he had never been particularly good at expressing himself.

Neither was your four-year-old son, Elias.

Where other children were loud and expressive, Elias was quiet—watchful and reserved, much like his father. He rarely spoke in full sentences, preferring nods, small gestures, or simple actions to communicate his wants.

And right now?

Right now, you were caught in the middle of a silent battle between the two.

Zayne, sitting on the couch beside you, reached out and lightly held your wrist, his way of silently reminding you that you were his wife first.

Elias, seated on your other side, scooted closer, grabbing your other hand and clutching it tightly.

Neither said a word.

You blinked between them, feeling the tension thickening. “Okay,” you sighed, rubbing your temple. “What is happening?”

Elias glanced at Zayne. Zayne met his son’s stare with an impassive gaze, sharp blue eyes unreadable.

It was an unspoken showdown.

Elias would get his Mama time.

Zayne would not be overthrown.

You would lose your mind.

“Zayne,” you exhaled, “you’ve been with me all day. Let Elias have some time.”

Zayne blinked. “I was at the hospital for fourteen hours.”

You frowned. “Okay, but before that—”

“I was sleeping.”

Elias suddenly gave you a tiny tug. See? He was saying. It’s my turn.

You sighed. “Alright, how about—”

But before you could finish, Elias abruptly stood up. His little hands patted Zayne’s knee—a silent gesture.

Zayne raised a brow.

“…What?”

Elias pointed toward the kitchen. “Water.”

Zayne’s brows furrowed slightly, but after a moment, he stood up and headed toward the kitchen. “Alright,” he said simply.

The moment he was out of the room, Elias moved fast.

With a determined expression, he bolted toward the door, slammed it shut, and—click!

He locked it.

You stared in shock.

Elias calmly walked back over to you, climbed onto your lap, and curled into you like nothing had happened.

You heard a soft thud from the other side of the door.

“…Elias.” Zayne’s composed voice sounded from the hall. “Unlock the door.”

Silence.

“Elias.”

Your son nuzzled into your chest, looking completely content.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying so hard not to laugh. “Elias,” you whispered, “that wasn’t very nice.”

Elias clung to you tighter.

“…I want Mama.”

You felt your heart melt a little.

A sigh came from behind the door. “Elias.”

Elias was completely unbothered.

“Elias,” Zayne repeated. “This is not how you solve problems.”

Elias blinked up at you, then whispered softly, “Worked.”

You snorted.

Zayne was silent for a long moment.

Then, he sighed. “Understood.”

Footsteps.

“…I’ll be in my office.”

Elias waited until the sound disappeared, then finally looked up at you, victorious.

You ruffled his dark hair. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

Elias nestled into you. “Mm.”

But you knew what that meant.

It was worth it.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Xavier

The twins were on a mission.

A very important mission. A mission that required stealth, patience, and strategy.

Objective: Get rid of Dad. Target: Xavier, high-ranked Hunter of the Hunter Association—a man feared and respected by his colleagues, and annoying to his four-year-old twins, Leo and Livia.

Why?

Because he was hogging their Mama.

Xavier, for all his reputation as a ruthless Wanderer hunter, was easygoing at home. Most of the time, he lounged on the couch, half-asleep, draped over you like a human-sized cat. The whole reason he did not quit his job was because he had you at the morning aswell, when you two left the house for work.

And the twins hated it.

“Mama should be ours,” Leo whispered to his sister as they peeked from behind the couch.

Livia nodded, her greenish-blue eyes gleaming with determination. “Dad needs to go.”

The two of them turned their heads, staring at the problem.

Xavier was sitting lazily on the couch, one arm wrapped around you, face buried in your shoulder, half-asleep as usual.

You were used to it by now. Your jealous of himself, touch-starved, sleepy husband clinging to you whenever he had a break? Completely normal.

But to the twins? Unacceptable.

Phase One: Distraction.

Livia moved first. She scurried forward, grabbing your hands. “Mama, I want hugs!”

Xavier lazily cracked an eye open. His grip tightened slightly.

“I’m hugging them right now,” he murmured.

Livia pouted. “Yeah, but I want my own.”

Xavier blinked slowly, looking half a second away from falling asleep again. “…I don’t see why we can’t share.”

Leo gave his sister a look. Plan A failed. Time for Plan B.

Phase Two: Use Dad’s Weakness Against Him.

Livia stepped forward, pulling on Xavier’s sleeve. “Dad.”

Xavier yawned, rubbing his eye. “Mm?”

“Mom’s hungry.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, no, I’m not—”

Xavier immediately sat up. “You should’ve said something earlier.”

Leo stayed perfectly calm. “You should cook dad. we all love it.”

Xavier stared at his son, silent for a long moment.

“…I should cook?”

Livia nodded furiously, her expression full of fake innocence. “Yeah, Mama loves when you cook! We love it too!”

You coughed, trying very hard not to laugh. That was a lie. The last time he cooked for the twins, a plate accidentally fell off the table and broke, and the food on the other plate mysteriously disappeared.

Xavier sucked at cooking.

Like, horribly.

The last time he cooked, he had somehow burned water. if that wasn't bad enough, he had melted the plastic off of pans you owned.

But, in his half-asleep state, he nodded. “Alright,” he muttered, standing up sluggishly. “I’ll make something.”

Mission Success.

As soon as Xavier disappeared into the kitchen, the twins latched onto you like leeches.

“Mamaaaa,” Livia whined, burying her face into your chest. “You were with Dad all day.”

Leo nodded seriously. “Unfair.”

You chuckled, ruffling their messy blond hair. “You two are too much.”

“Mama, I want all your hugs,” Livia grumbled.

“Me too,” Elias added.

You sighed, shaking your head. “You two are just like your dad.”

Just as the twins were about to settle in, the sound of something exploding came from the kitchen.

All three of you froze.

A moment later, Xavier walked back in, completely unfazed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“…I think I used the wrong burner.”

Leo and Livia groaned.

Mission Status: Failure.

I hope yall enjoyed this, I will write similar things to this in the future :)

Xavier girlies always seem so soft, until you find out how much they wanted to Outdom Xavier.

This brings comfort rn 😭😭😭

🗡️ “That time of the month again?”

because we all know that periods suck and characters are not immune to the horrors 🗡️ prompt list of comforting actions

Character A is bedridden from the cramps and Character B becomes their living heating pad (cuddles with arms wrapped around the waist >>>>)

B buys A their favorite chocolates a couple days before their period starts and keeps beverages with electrolytes on hand

A takes a day off to rest, bingewatch some episodes of a good show, and care for themselves (maybe do some yoga, and by yoga I mean curl up in the fetal position for a couple hours)

B thinks that making a nice bath for A will help and prepares everything for when A gets home (A laughs and explains why that’s not a great idea)

Searching for Shark Week’s episodes online to deal with shark week in person, but getting distracted by cute animal shows

B can’t be there for A in person so they send A $30 to cover extra snacks and/or medicine

Instead of getting emotional over posts online, A digs out an old book series and gets emotional over that (they are reliving their childhood, they swear it’s cathartic THEY SWEAR)

A can’t sleep with the back pain so B gives them a light back massage with several check-ins to make sure the noises are in relief and not pain

B keeps the lights dim and and TV volume low as A battles a headache

All meals are made with ahead of time and cravings humored (“You can’t just eat straight salt.” “I know that, which is why I’m putting all of it on this.”)

A asks for B to get more pads/tampons at the store, B calls and sends many pictures as they try to figure out what will work best for A

B quietly scrubs out any bloodstains from A’s clothes as they do laundry (and they’re really efficient at it, why are they so good at getting blood out of clothing—)

A snuggling up with their pet who knows the exact spot to be in for maximum comfy (B thinks it’s adorable and takes a picture to show A later)

“I’m sorry if I’m not really conversational right now…” “Dude you’re on your period and barely slept last night, you’re good. We don’t have to talk, we can just chill.”

B brings home a machine for homemade ice-cream and all the ingredients needed for A’s favorite flavor (they spend the evening making it and declare a “dessert before dinner” day for when periods strike)

Xavier is as fast as light

he may appear laid back, harmless and “tired” most of the time—but u have to understand he’s very attentive and quick on his feet, particularly when it comes to defending or protecting MC

so imagine Jeremiah getting too comfortable with you, and playfully says “fuck off..”

before you can respond, Xavier’s much quicker to bark back “watch it”, now fully awake.

In which Jeremiah would raise his hands in defeat “sorry, forgot he’s here—don’t fuck off then”

Poking Xavier and headpats ~ ♪(´▽｀)

📖⬅⬅⬅

===

Based on a quote in-game when you poke Xavier one too many times and he says he'll let you touch a plushie instead 🤭 But as we all know, Xavier being Xavier... he definitely wants MC's touch all to himself hehe

Hey Little Stars ✨

The Prompts are up! 🎊

XavMC Week 2025 will be held from [10th - 16th May]

Post your works from 10th onwards, and tag your creative works with: xavmc week 2025

RULES:

Any form of creative content is welcome 😊fanarts, fanfiction, video edits, image edits, cosplay, glint photobooth pics, socmed AUs, etc..

Post your creations with tag: xavmc week 2025 (late creations will be reblogged within 2 weeks after the event ends)

TAG NSFW CONTENT WITH 🔞 + OTHER APPROPRIATE TAGS

STRICTLY NO AI 🚫

XavMC content only (your own MC is fine). No other LI ship.

Have fun! 💞

For any queries, feel free to send asks 💞

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.

L&DS BOYS - LOVE LANGUAGES

content warnings: fem!reader, fluff, sfw headcanons

XAVIER - PHYSICAL TOUCH

Xavier knows he is smart, and witty enough. But when things get a little too real, he finds it hard to express himself.

And the feelings he has for you are the most genuine ones he has felt in his long, long life.

While he might not be someone who can wax poetic about his affection for you, he shows it in other ways, and physical touch in his favorite way to get his feelings across.

When you walk next to each other, he sticks close, arm brushing against yours. Occasionally, the back of his hand makes contact with your own. It's almost as if the tension builds and builds, until he finally connects your fingers, either intertwining your hands together or linking his pinkie with yours. No words leave his mouth. His touch says enough.

If the train is too crowded, he will pull you closer to him with a firm touch on the small of your back, making sure you don’t receive any unwanted bumps from strangers.

For a few weeks in your relationship, he developed a strange habit of pinching your cheeks and lightly pulling on them. You let him do it, knowing he would eventually move on and find some other part of you to focus on. Though the action did make your face heat up.

Another weird hyperfixation he has is nibbling at your fingertips absentmindedly. He plays with them often, but when he is distracted by a movie you two are watching, he will bite at them every so often. Sometimes, he is so focused on the screen that you doubt he even realizes what he is doing.

(He realizes. He just thinks every part of you deserves love. Don’t question it. It makes sense in his head.)

Cuddling with him is the perfect gift for your senses, stimulating you wonderfully.

Small nips on your skin, little lingering touches. He traces your skin with eager yet gentle hands, as if trying to memorize every curve and dip.

He buries his face in your neck and breathes in deep, and in that moment, bodies tangled with each other and the sheets, vulnerable and open, he will whisper, “I love you”.

It’s an affirmation more than a revelation, since his actions up until this point have all shown you that he really, truly does love you. So you whisper it back, trying to pour all your love into it, before slotting your lips together and using physical touch to convey your feelings right back.

RAFAYEL - WORDS OF AFFIRMATION

Rafayel is, in the simplest of terms, a yapper.

This man could talk for hours if you don’t stop him. About his art, about the meaning of life, about his experiences. He can express so much while also having an impeccable talent of being completely vague. Sometimes, you don’t even understand the things he says. And you’ve given up trying to decipher his every word.

But when Rafayel is talking about you, he makes himself abundantly clear. There’s no ambiguity about it; he loves you. And he will say it a million different times in a million different ways. Whether it be a bold declaration of how much his heart yearns for you, or endless teasing that is meant to rile you up and get a reaction out of you.

“I don’t think your talent lies in art, babe. It’s a good thing you’re a walking art piece yourself. No wonder I’m in love with you.”

“You’re leaving so soon? But I don’t think I’ve admired you enough for today. Don’t leave me!”

I’m impressed, Miss Bodyguard. You’re talented, and easy on the eyes. No wonder you captivated me from that very first day we met.”

Expect to wake up with a lot of voice notes on your phone. Minutes long. Sometimes rambling, sometimes actual ideas for new pieces that he wants to run by you. You better reply to all of them individually.

When you cuddle at night, you can talk for hours. No topic on earth is off limits with him. He will lay you down on a blanket on the beach, and as you watch the stars, he will tell you stories from olden times about star crossed lovers and tragic fairy tales. And he will turn to you, tell you how beautiful you are, how ardently he loves you, how he will never forget any moment he spends with you.

It’s almost like you can tell the exact moment he falls in love with you. Because he tells you. He never stops telling you. He voices his fears of you leaving him, he makes you promise you will never go away. He is clingy and he is whiny, and he is so endearing.

It’s hard to dismiss him when he is so loud about his love. And it’s hard to not fall for him just as he falls for you.

ZAYNE - ACTS OF SERVICE

This is an indisputable fact. Dr Zayne shows his love through acts of service.

He is intensely aware of your needs, and is miles ahead of you in determining what you require at any given moment.

It’s his way of showing you that he cares. He worries for you, and born from that worry is the urge to take care of you.

If you have had a long day, you will come home to a text from him saying he has ordered takeout and it will arrive at your house shortly, since he knows you are too exhausted to cook anything. It is always something different, but it is always food that he knows you enjoy. He will mix it with some healthy options too.

If you ever crash at his place, you will wake up to a tall glass of water and two aspirin on the side table, along with a note in his neat handwriting telling you that there is fresh cooked breakfast in the oven (he made it before he left for work).

Once you two are in a steady relationship, he keeps his house stocked with products you use. A spare shampoo and conditioner, toothbrush, a bathrobe of your size, a hair brush, you name it.

When you mumble something about the hand cream in your purse that is nearly running out, you will find a brand new tube next time you open the purse, and there is no need to even ask. You know Zayne put it there.

He is intensely observant. Even after knowing him for so long, it catches you off guard. He knows which of your clothes need to be dry cleaned and which ones are good for the washing machine. He knows which scents you use. Which products are harsher on your skin. He knows that contacts irritate your eyes after long hours of wearing them, so he keeps a small bottle of eye drops in your side table for that very purpose.

He scolds you for neglecting yourself, and he won’t hold back the harsh tone if he thinks your behavior is particularly destructive. To him, the best way to show love is to make sure your beloved is living the best life they can.

It is the littlest things, the tiniest details. And it shocks you, even after so long.

✨ 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.