Deepspacesnowpatrol - Unlucky Joker

Omg Zayne. You're so sweet🥰

zayne and his princess treatment

pairings: bf!zayne x fem!reader

warnings: none! no spoilers included 😋

Zayne is the epitome of a chivalrous gentleman.

You will not open a single door on his watch.

Your heels are hurting your feet? He’s helping you remove them, crouching on HIS KNEES while reminding you of the health disadvantages of your “beloved heels.” Then proceeds to carry your heels for the rest of your outing.

You don’t even mention you’re cold before he drapes his freshly dry cleaned peacoat over your shoulders — he claims you make a certain pout whenever you’re too cold.

Though his insomnia keeps him awake and often working most nights, he will almost always follow you to bed so you can fall asleep in his embrace.

To your surprise, he’s very affectionate. Though PDA is definitely kept to a minimum to both your likings, he still finds a way to touch you respectfully such as his hand always finding its way to the small of your back.

He drives and you are his passenger princess. (He saw a instagram reel with the reference and has not referred to you as anything else when in his car — coming from your stoic bf, this makes you giggle)

Your chair is always being pulled out and pushed in for you, to which you often follow up with “And they say chivalry is dead!”

You’re sitting on the couch next to one another except Zayne almost always moves your legs to lay across his lap.

A simple favor you ask of him is always replied with “Yes, my love.”

You’ve slipped into a dress and before you even think to ask, his tall frame is sauntering towards you zipping up the back with a chaste kiss to your neck.

He’s shaved and suited waiting for you to emerge from the bedroom for yet another hospital banquet dinner when you rush out glamoured up but barefoot with your heels in one hand and a earring in the other muttering something about how you were 'just about ready.' He replies by taking a knee in front of you and slipping your heels on either of your feet, then a kiss to your bare thigh. (You begin to realize how much you love this man on his knees in front of you…)

He’s quick to pickup on your cues and hints even before you notice them yourself. Often when you’re out at a gathering and he picks up on your tiredness just from your demeanor, he makes sure to be near you to lean on — whether it’s standing between his legs and using his tall frame as a wall behind you or curling into his side to rest your head on his shoulder.

He loves to kiss your hands and follow it up with “My lady” or “My love.” Mainly because of the blush that fills your cheeks each time..

read sylus' version here

requests open ❤︎

"i'll take a quiet life"

gentle moments of reciprocating their affection

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, sfw

cw: varying relationship stages, brief callbacks to child experimentation (canon compliant), zayne’s describes a poor relationship with food, heavy on dragon sylus sorry i wish i could be different, ur down bad and a little embarrassing in Xavier’s but he’s worse, author is still settling into character analysis for these guys so pls forgive any ooc

Your hunting partner excelled in many ways. His skill in the field was both undeniable and terrifying, his ability to fall asleep anywhere concerned you as much as it impressed you, and his calm demeanor even in the face of the most stressful situations set your mind at ease whenever you fought alongside him.

The only area he truly lacked in, in your humble opinion, was in his ability to give a straight answer about anything to do with himself or his personal life.

He was, in many ways, a vault of information for everything from the history of wanderers to arbitrary and niche subjects that a normal person would have had to spend a lifetime studying to be able to reference as easily as him. If you had a question about nearly any subject, your walking encyclopedia of a partner likely had the answer ready to deliver to you accompanied by a yawn and that sleepy blink of his eyes. 

Answers about himself, however, were much harder to come by. He never declined your inquiries outright, but he had a litany of creative and mildly infuriating ways to dodge the question. He was very adept at distracting you, often with food or confusing questions of his own. You once asked him what he did over the weekend and he pulled a bag of your favorite candy out of his pocket to offer to you, waited until you started munching on it happily, and then just said “and what about you?” as if he had already answered your question. You were also highly suspicious about the timing of his naps on the train to get to missions – always falling asleep right after you try making small talk about where he grew up or his family. 

It's not like you didn’t want to respect his boundaries. He was probably just a very private person or a secret criminal and either way it was ultimately none of your business. It’s just that it was a little difficult to jump into battle alongside another person on a daily basis and trust them to have your back when you couldn’t even get him to tell you about his hobbies. Nothing to do with the way your heart sped up a little seeing him at his desk in the mornings at all. Completely sensible and utilitarian curiosity.

So, rather than continuing to pester him for answers you decided you would simply observe him to get to know him better. Admittedly, as far as subjects for study he was an interesting one. And very nice to look at.

You learned quite a bit about the sleepy man through your observations, jotting down everything you learned in a small, unassuming notebook you kept on hand during work hours. 

For example, he spends an hour in the break room every day eating concerning amounts of convenience store ramen and reading random books about obscure subjects like 101 Facts About Wooly Mammoths and Dating Advice for Older Men. Always a different book, and he always manages to finish it by the time his self-imposed break is over. If anyone tries to make conversation with him during that time period, he will pretend to fall asleep. You’re honestly starting to believe he has narcolepsy or something. Or just very selective hearing.

Contrary to your initial assumptions, he also does have a sense of humor. All of his jokes are told with his usual flat affectation and could easily be mistaken for serious comments, but once you start to look so closely at him it’s easier to pick up on the subtle, teasing drawl at the end of his quips or the way his nose twitches a little with the effort not to smile when he’s messing with you. 

You were in the middle of conducting a very serious investigation about his various micro expressions one night when the two of you stopped by a crepe stand on your way home from work. 

You had already been to the crepe stand a few times a few times with Tara. It was a cute little business run by an older man and his son who had recently graduated from university. You had rambled to Xavier enthusiastically about how they were the only place that had your favorite combination of fillings and how you were craving something sweet, and he had only nodded and said “mh”, which you had learned to translate as enthusiastic agreement.

The owner’s son happened to be running the stand that day and was just as friendly and outgoing with you as always, winking at you when he asked if you wanted your usual. His easygoing smile had faded, however, with a quick glance behind you before he busied himself with making your crepe.

You turned around in confusion, only finding Xavier with the same mild, spaced out expression as always looking innocently off to the side. 

A few minutes later, you dutifully hand over a delicious looking savory crepe filled with meat to the silver-haired man before looking over your own, practically salivating over the combination of fruits and cream. He stared it with what you had recently identified as confusion before looking to you imploringly.

“Not sweet?”

“Oh!” you flustered a little, realizing how presumptuous you had been in ordering for him, “Sorry, I just thought- you prefer savory to sweet right? I mean, when Jenna brings pastries in you always take a croissant instead of a donut-,”

You cut yourself off before you could start listing all the different ways you had been a total creep recently.

“I can get you a sweet one if you prefer,” you whispered out, trying your best to look completely unaffected.

A soft huff left Xavier’s lips, and you looked up to see that gentle half-smile he sometimes gave you and a very soft look in his eyes.

“It’s fine,” he assured you, “I do prefer savory things.”

The second half of his sentence, oddly enough, was accompanied by a very smug glance at the owner’s son who looked rightfully confused and possibly a little nervous.

Armed with your contrasting crepes, the two of you chose to stroll and eat, enjoying the gentle spring breeze that blanketed the evening as you walked. Absentmindedly, you mentioned the owner’s son again in passing, praising him for his skill in creating the perfect ratio of fillings. Xavier suddenly made a face you hadn’t seen on him before.

A tiny twitch of his nose, similar to when he was trying not to laugh, but followed by a miniscule pout before he took a rather aggressive bite of his crepe as if it had done something to offend him personally.

Your fingers twitched with the urge to whip out your little notebook to record this breaking update in your investigation but refrained for the meantime, tilting your head to the side and studying him closely.

“Is something wrong with your crepe…?” 

He froze, glancing down at his food contemplatively.

“…Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I’m done,” he declared bluntly, turning to glare at your almost finished crepe with equal hostility, “Are you done?”

“I mean- I guess?” You blinked at him.

“Mh.”

Wordlessly, he took your crepe from you and ambled off to find a nearby trashcan. You took the opportunity to whip out your notebook to catalogue all the new data you had collected. 

The nose twitch was multipurpose – sometimes indicating amusement and sometimes indicating… irritation? And the tiny pout. Did he have a stomachache? More information was needed.

You were so wrapped up your excited theorizing that you failed to notice the presence of someone coming up right behind you, peering over your shoulder to read the words you were jotting down.

“I don’t have a stomachache,” a deep voice rumbled directly in your ear, causing you to shriek and fling the notebook further down the sidewalk. It scraped against the concrete before flopping pathetically next to a storm drain. 

You whipped around in abject horror only to find Xavier’s face two inches from yours, looking at you with an unreadable expression. 

“That was not at all what it looked like,” you lied blatantly, eyes darting between him and the notebook.

“What did it look like?” he asked mildly, his face betraying nothing of his current mood. He was still close enough to you that you could count all of his individual lashes and make out a few tiny scars along his jaw.  

“I’m not stalking you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not.”

“Mh.”

Xavier didn’t press the subject, instead going over to retrieve the notebook. Mortification rolled over your entire being as he began rifling through the pages. You wished a car was driving by so you could throw yourself in front of it.

“It’s seriously not as creepy as it seems,” you sound delusional even to yourself, “I just wanted to get to know you better.”

While you were panicking and wondering how soon you could transfer departments, Xavier was staring down at the pages filled with your cute handwriting in contemplation.

It would seem that he had underestimated you once again. 

Finding you in this lifetime, as a dying star well past its expiration date, he hadn’t been expecting much in the way of your relationship with him. It was simply an impulse he could not ignore – the honor of being close to you. He sought out your brilliance and would always endeavor to orbit around you but it was hardly even a thought in his brain that you would be drawn to him in the same way. Not when he was so tired. Not when he could only offer you a beautiful afterimage of what he had once been.

He should not have doubted you. In every life, you were always the only one to really see him. The only one to even bother looking beyond his blinding light. After so many years of existence and so many different identities, he only ever really saw himself through the reflection of your gaze. He was a fool to have assumed your soul would falter even if he was scattered across the galaxy instead of whole as he once was. 

“Forgive me,” his voice was hoarser than his usually airy cadence, his gaze more focused than you were used to when he looked over at you.

Confusing as it may have been, you didn’t need your notebook to identify his current expression. When Xavier finally looked back at you, the way you had been looking at him all these weeks, it was impossible to mistake the devotion in his eyes.

Rafayel turned the conch shell over in his hands, letting out a thoughtful hum as he let his fingers dance across the spikes. The outside was a gradient of pretty blues that melted into a soft pink closer to the center. A small sticker with a price that had been hastily covered up with marker stuck to the side. The artist’s eye twitched minutely at the sight of it clashing against the otherwise pleasant color palette, already using a sharp nail to carefully peel it off.

“Isn’t it pretty?” you gushed a little, a self-satisfied grin tugging at your lips as you pointed at the shell as though couldn’t see it, “If you put your ear against it, you can hear the ocean!”

He let out a petulant scoff at this, eyes narrowing at the conch shell like it was guilty of scamming you and he was about to put it on trial.

“It’s lying to you, cutie,” he scowled a bit, as though the conch had advertised this gimmick itself, before pointing dramatically at the waves crashing right outside the glass of his windows, “and did you lose your vision or something? The ocean’s right outside if you want to listen to it so bad. …Maybe if you visited me more often you’d-,”

“No, shut up, I know,” you rolled your eyes and nudged him a little before brightening again, “but still – it really sounds like waves! Besides, I thought you could take it with you when you go on your trip for that client meeting. I looked it up. There aren’t any beaches nearby, the whole city is landlocked. I figured you might get homesick or something. Now you don’t have to!”

Rafayel stared at you. Things had been strange the whole morning, starting from when you showed up at his doorstep lacking any of your usual complaints about his antics and without any coercing on his part. 

You had come to visit him of your own accord? You had looked up the geography of his business trip because you were worried about him getting homesick? He mentally scanned through all the elaborate schemes to get your attention he had acted out recently, wondering which one of them had prompted such a reaction from you. He had been so busy with a new series for a very annoying client the past few weeks and he couldn’t think of anything he had done recently that would have warranted this. So why?

“Besides, it kinda looks like your eyes, right?” You said off-handedly, only half paying attention as you adjusted a setting on your watch, casual as if you hadn’t just said something that made his already rapid heartrate speed into overdrive and the tips of his ears flush a pretty red.

Just when he thought he was starting to get a handle on this version of you, that he had figured out the proper tune to draw you closer, you decided to change the rules of the game again. He supposed he should have been used to it by now. Every version of you always managed to shatter his expectations as easily as you breathed. As unpredictable as the ocean, and just as beautiful to him. But honestly, what was a fish to do? How was he supposed to ever prepare for you?

“Are you trying to win employee of the month or something?” he scrambled a little, whipping his head to the side and trying to keep the squeakiness out of his voice, “I won’t be giving you a bonus for it. Just so you know.”

You scowled at this, glancing away from your watch and trying to swipe the conch shell out of his hands.

“Whatever. If you don’t want it just say that,” you huffed as he held it out of your reach, still without looking at you.

“Be quiet,” he sniffed haughtily, holding the shell up to his ear and pushing you away gently by your forehead with his other hand, “I’m listening to the ocean.”

“I thought you said-”

Insufferably, he hushed you and closed his eyes under the guise of concentrating so you wouldn’t see the softness of his expression. All he could hear was random ambient sound, not even close to the vibrant complexities of the sea that encompassed his birthplace. Even still, as he pictured you carefully rummaging through different shells at the pier market and comparing their hues to his eyes, he had never felt closer to home. 

As much as he'd like to pretend he was the siren ensnaring you into his trap, he was well aware that that honor belonged to you. Regardless of the time or the place or the bodies you both inhabited, your song was a tune that could never be erased from the core of his being and one he would always walk towards willingly. How annoying.

For a man who lived his life with complete precision, who planned out every day with strict control and little room for superfluities, it was nearly impossible not to notice even the slightest changes in routine.

As such, every tiny alteration you made to his otherwise balanced life was meticulously documented and filed away. Not with annoyance or disapproval, as some might expect, but instead with the intention to figure out how to best accommodate for your whims without disrupting his own routines or, infinitely more abhorrent to consider, burdening your own carefree sensibility with his neuroses.

Pausing in the doorway to straighten out the shoes you had haphazardly kicked off on your way in. Making sure you had a glass of water next to your daily iced coffee so that you wouldn’t get dehydrated. Carefully holding onto your hand and keeping you steady as you insisted on walking across the side of a bridge rather than the sidewalk next to him. Despite the stoic expression and steadfast seriousness he exhibited while preforming these simple tasks for you, he did not consider them to be a burden. It was a privilege to bear witness the vivacity you brought into his world.

He was content, in this way, to watch you bulldoze through life with reckless abandon and dutifully reorganize the chaos you left in your wake. It was enough to feel the brilliance of your warm light soak into his cold skin. He would remain steady and controlled for the both of you.

You were, however, a little less content with this arrangement. Zayne was steady. Constant. A stone pillar for you to rest against when you couldn’t handle standing up on your own. You loved this about him, but he wasn’t infallible. Wasn’t impervious to desire and indulgence. You loved this about him too. You just wished he could learn to love it about himself.

You knew your boyfriend loved sweet things. It was something you often teased him about, mostly joking in every respect besides the potential cavities. To be honest, you found it endearing and loved to see evidence of the gentle, sweet man hidden beneath his frosty exterior. 

The only thing that really concerned you about the doctor’s habit was that despite his propensity for baked goods and sugary candy, he didn’t actually seem to enjoy the process of eating them very much at all.

It was often during times of stress that he’d make a detour by the local bakery after a long shift. He would eat pastries as quickly as possible, a stark contrast from his usual habits that left little time for savoring the flavor. It almost seemed like an uncontrollable urge, a shameful impulse that he wanted to push through as quickly as possible. As utilitarian as one could be while digging into a strawberry shortcake. 

Zayne was a tempered man, driven by the ideology that if he lost even an ounce of control, he wouldn’t be able to stop the spiral. He wasn’t someone who could integrate indulgence into his routine halfheartedly. There was no true enjoyment to be found from acquiescing to his desire, only a temporary slip that would be accompanied by unfulfilled resolutions to abstain in the future.

You disagreed.

The two of you had a nice, cozy dinner together every Friday after work. Usually consisting of takeout, often delayed due to both of your hectic schedules, and sometimes taking place on the uncomfortable wooden benches outside the hospital but you always made it happen without fail. 

One night after a good meal with lighthearted conversation about your respective days, you retreated to Zayne’s fridge and returned with a miniature cake and an excited smile.

Zayne stared. It was a pretty cake, artfully piped cream and strawberries between layers of sponge cake with a delicate dusting of powdered sugar on top. His brow twitched minutely, mentally scanning through significant dates or anomalous recent events that could have prompted such an extravagance as you carefully removed it from the plastic bakery box. 

“…What’s the occasion?” he finally asked with great reluctance, disappointed by his own inability to decipher what he was missing.

“Hm?” you blinked, setting out two dessert forks and keeping your countenance deliberately casual, “No occasion, it just looked good.”

He stared at the cake as if it held all the world’s secrets.

“Did something happen today?” he pressed on, carefully assessing your mental state as if expecting you to suddenly have a mental breakdown.

“I had a craving for cake, that’s what happened,” you shrugged, not waiting for him before digging your fork into the side of dessert.

He watched as you savored your bite of cake with simple contentedness, no hint of stress or shame about the enjoyment you took from a useless indulgence. Not giving in to any kind of uncontrollable urge or distracting from any kind of emotional need. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake.

“You aren’t going to make me eat this whole thing by myself, are you?” you pouted playfully at him, making the puppy dog expression that always got you an exasperated huff followed by the immediate entertainment of whatever you asked for, “It doesn’t taste as good if we aren’t both enjoying it.”

Zayne, as always, weighed out his options out. If it was for you, maybe it was okay. As always.

He picked up the fork and took a slow bite.

After that night you had decided this was now an inherent part of your weekly routine, showing up with brightly colored macarons, beautifully decorated tarts, and decadent chocolate creations depending on what caught your eye at the bakery. You started calling it your ‘mandatory sweet treat’ and continued the tradition without fail. Always eaten in tandem with a balanced meal and shared slowly over happy conversation. A celebration of your bond rather than a shameful impulse. 

Zayne continued to tell himself that he was just playing along with your whims as usual. After all, how could it be wrong when you smiled so sweetly at him as you handed him his fork? 

It wasn’t until one week, when you stumbled into his house flustered after an unusually difficult mission and no time to stop by the bakery before closing that he finally had to admit his own enjoyment for the activity.

There was a brief silence after dinner was finished that week. He stared at the cleared table as if expecting something delicious to appear out of thin air. When it didn’t, he cleared his throat and clasped his fingers together on the table with his usual sense of decorum. 

“…No sweet treat today?” he asked ruefully.

You couldn’t contain your grin, whipping out your phone immediately to scroll through bakeries and ice cream parlors that stayed open late for sugar fiends like your adorable boyfriend.

Something had shifted recently. A tiny change in your dynamic that pricked ever so slightly at the center of his chest. Like everything else with you in this new lifetime, he tried his best not to sink his teeth into it and drag it forcefully out into the open. Used all his self-control to let you tend to it on your own terms and pretended not to notice. 

In hindsight, maybe the first change had been after he showered in your apartment for the first time. He had taken a polite amount of your body wash, trying his best not to infringe on your hospitality like a normal, human house guest, but as the scent of it (the scent of you) rolled over him his pupils had dilated. Fingers clenching against the bottle with the minute tingle of claws that no longer existed trying to come to the surface.

Smelling like you, knowing if anyone else walked by they would associate him with you and you with him, fed that deeply hidden instinct he tried so hard not to bother you with. You had scarcely gotten over your disgustand he was going to do his very best to keep it that way, annoying and primal dragon brain be damned. 

But still, just this once. Just this little thing would be okay, right?

Before he knew it he was drenching himself in the scent. Indulgent and greedy and marked by you. 

When he confessed nonchalantly to having used your entire bottle of body wash, playing it off as a taunt and hoping you didn’t notice the faint flush of his cheeks, he expected your usual annoyance or scathing remark. Some sort of sly dig that he could latch onto and use to keep your attention on him. It was the game this version of you liked to play, and like every version of himself he was happy to indulge. 

Instead, you had just hummed thoughtfully. Eyes a little distant as though ruminating over something in your head. The switch up made him tense just a little. Wonder if you could see through to the most feral part of him and if you would scorn him for it.

“You’ll have to give me a bottle of yours, then,” you said instead, eye contact oddly intentional for the moment, “to make it even.”

He almost jolted in place, clenching his fists at his sides for just a moment before relaxing.

She doesn’t know what it means. How could she? Swallow it down. Keep pretending that you can be human.

“Your negotiation skills have improved, kitten,” he speaks mildly, instead of pinning you to the couch the way he wanted to, “I suppose fair is fair.”

The second shift came in the form of a necklace, elaborately encrusted with bloodred rubies and sparkling diamonds. It rested in its glass case at an underground auction, the gleam of it against black velvet activating that familiar desire to possess and hoard away treasures so that nobody else could have them. He pictured it laying delicately across your neck and had to stop the rumble that threatened to emit from his chest. 

He sprung it on you right before an undercover mission to gain intel about a powerful protocore, one of many he had sought out and curated to spend a little more time with you. Tried to feed you some line about how you needed to fit in with the wealthy crowd you were attempting to infiltrate that night.

He expected you to remark about the exorbitant tastes of the uber rich or fluster about the idea of accidentally damaging such an expensive item and try to force it back into his hands. Both reactions were equally endearing to him, as was everything about you.

Instead, you only looked at him with that same thoughtful expression, allowing him to gently drape it over you and fasten it while narrowly avoiding the urge to take a deep inhale of the back of your neck. 

You examined yourself in the mirror, fiddling with the stones delicately, but your gaze was on his reflection behind you when you spoke.

“It’s pretty,” you spoke simply, your tone of voice one he hadn’t heard from you before. Something more gentle, not quite complacent but almost approving.

As if you were praising his tastes. Praising his hoard. Accepting his courting gift.

It was more difficult than ever to swallow that rumble back down again. The reaction was new, but you couldn’t possibly have understood the delusions you were feeding. Stay human. Keep letting her come to you. You already used up all your luck the first time around, you have to be more careful now.

His eyes scarcely left your neck for the rest of the night.

It wasn’t until days later that the final thread of his self-control snapped. The intel mission had taken longer than expected, and you were staying in his house to avoid the tedious commute from Linkon. A practical solution, he insisted to both you and himself, nothing to do with the primal desire to keep you firmly in his territory. 

He could scarcely pinpoint how it had happened, but sometime during your quiet evening routine of reading next to each other on the giant, plush couch in his living room you had ended up curled between the couch’s arm and him. You weren’t pinned down by any means, but you were entirely engulfed by his larger frame. If someone were to walk by they would not even be able to see you beyond him.

Completely covered on all sides. Protected from threats. Guarded by him. Nothing could touch you tucked so deeply into his territory, surrounded by him and his hoard and completely at ease.

Despite his most sincere efforts, he couldn’t stop the rumble from finally emitting from his chest. Couldn’t stop the deep purr that vibrated throughout him and rolled over you. 

He froze. Cut himself off from making any noise and, for a moment, even breathing. It was with great hesitation that he forced himself to meet your gaze. Fearful of the disgust and reproach that clouded your first meeting in this lifetime making a reappearance as you finally recognized the part of himself, he tried to keep buried for you.

Instead, that curious expression scanned over his face. Your head tilted to the side just a bit. Tentatively, you reached for his hair from where he was resting against your side and began running delicate fingers through it. His breath hitched. You glanced away from him, returning to your book but keeping up your gentle ministrations.

His purring started up again. A tiny smile twitched at the corners of your lips.

Caleb dutifully held the umbrella above your head as though he was getting paid for it, but you caught his gaze drifting to the puddles collecting near the sidewalk multiple times. Your mind drifted to rainy summer days when you were kids, sloshing around in puddles and competing to see who could slosh the most water at the other before Gran would poke her head out the front door to scold you both inside. Something twisted in your chest. Without thinking much further about it, you ducked out beneath the umbrella and took a flying leap into the nearest puddle, delighting in the small splash kicked up by your boots. 

“You trying to catch a cold, Pips?” Caleb’s tone was shrouded in playfulness, the way it always was around you, but underneath it was a brief waver, a sharpening of his gaze that revealed the true panic he felt at even the possibility of harm befalling you under his watch.

 The hypervigilance that couldn’t differentiate between a mild sickness and the sight of your battered, tiny body strapped to a white table. 

“So what if I do?” you challenged him then, hopping to an adjacent puddle and trying to keep the intention out of your voice. He flinched, as if you had just said something absurd. Opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again before trying to adjust to something more casual. Teasing and relaxed instead of the phrenetic and overbearing mess he tried so hard to hide from you.

“If you get sick you’ll have to skip the congressman’s dinner, and I’ll have to go alone. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” 

Right. An annual, stuffy dinner party where a bunch of government officials got together to talk about boring politics and pretend it was necessary to use four different forks for one meal. Half of them actively held grudges against Caleb for his unprecedented skyrocket to authority within the fleet and the other half thought he could be manipulated into granting them favors because of his youth. None of them deserved his time, you thought petulantly, not in the way you did. 

“So come get a cold with me,” you rebutted, tilting your head to the side playfully, “Then we can just stay home and play video games all day instead.” 

Caleb paused at this. You could practically see the cogs whirring in his brain as he tried to reconcile his pathological need for your safety with the temptation of staying inside with you all day, just the two of you, maybe curled up together on the couch as you ate snacks he would carefully prepare for you as he nurses you back to health, maybe sick with the same germs. His head tilted to the side like a puppy who had just heard the words walk, treat, and good boy in succession. 

 “…I bet we could even knock out a whole Lego set before we get better,” you sweetened the deal. 

Caleb practically flung the umbrella onto the sidewalk at this, giving no warning before launching himself into the puddle next to you and causing a significantly larger splash. You shrieked in both offense and thrill and splashed him back, reveling in the delighted laugh the usually curated man let out. The grin on his face was a little more crooked and uncontrolled than his usual teasing smile, the shrewd look in his eyes when he looked anywhere besides you just the tiniest bit lighter. It wasn’t a lot, but you were grateful for any amount of levity you could offer to him. Listening to the sound of his unrestrained laughter, something in you settled just a bit. 

For all his intelligence and capability, Caleb’s perception of himself was skewed by his self-imposed reluctance to ever look in the mirror. Caleb believed he was a feral wolf, with teeth too sharp to be filed down and starved by his trauma in a way that meant he’d never feel full again. So instead, he tried his best to show you a puppy. Docile and obedient without any appetite for vengeance or destruction. Someone who could curl up at your feet without you getting scared he’d sink his teeth into you the way he wanted to. You were the only one that knew he was neither.

Caleb was not the perfect, golden boy he spent so much of his life curating for you. He also wasn’t the cold, unfeeling weapon of destruction he desperately tried to hide away from your sight. He was something in between, childlike in his rage and his joy in equal measure. Calculating, certainly, and more than a little manipulative, but the end goal had always been to protect the both of you from a world that had never been as kind as he deserved. Caleb was not a monster, as he thought, or a perfect shield, as he so desperately wanted you to think. He was just a man, and once just a very scared boy. Just yours. And you would spend the rest of your life trying to prove that to him.

nurse for a day

synopsis: who knew a sick doctor could be such a handful? 

tags: stubborn zayne who hates being sick, reader takes care of him anyway, sleepy delirious zayne, fluff fluff fluff, humor(?), suggestive for .5 seconds word count: 2k 

a/n: i personally think i ate with this one 

It was quiet. Too quiet. 

As you slink through the seemingly empty house, ducking into shadows like you’re on a stealth mission, you really wish your boyfriend weren’t so damn stubborn. 

On your earlier phone call, Zayne had tried admirably hard to mask the nasally tone in his voice—to pretend like his frequent coughs were simply him “clearing his throat.” But you knew better.

He doesn’t get sick often—what with knowing exactly how to prevent it, and all—but when he does, he detests it for several reasons. The most pressing one, at the moment? You love when Zayne is sick.

Not because you think he deserves it, not because you want to see him suffer, but because you get to play nurse. After so many days being taken care of and scolded by the best doctor in Linkon, you finally get to return the favor. 

Except Zayne isn’t particularly…appreciative of the favor. You’re a very strict nurse, he’s frowned at you several times before. You tell him over and over again that you only want him to feel better, but that doesn’t stop him from holing up in a bunker every time he comes down with something. It’s the only time he avoids you. 

And now, he’s hiding from you. In his own home. 

You know he’s here. When you arrived, his freshly washed car was sparkling in the driveway, a full mug of jasmine tea was still steaming on the kitchen countertop, and various office supplies were left scattered across the coffee table. As if he’d heard you coming and frantically abandoned ship. 

You’d searched the usual spots: his empty bedroom, so pristine it looked like a hotel cleaning crew had stopped by; the walk-in closet, to make sure he hadn’t disguised himself among the hangers; and his study, where there’d been nothing but heaps of paperwork threatening the desk’s structural integrity. 

He’s being extra sneaky this time, you scoff to yourself as you tiptoe around upstairs. Room after room, and no endearingly, adorably, annoyingly stubborn doctor inside. 

But then, pressing your ear to the laundry room door, you hear it. 

The unmistakable crinkle of a candy wrapper.

You’ve never felt so lucky that Zayne reserves his self-control for you and not sweets. 

With a deep breath and a crack of your knuckles, you jiggle the doorknob slightly before bursting into the room. The man inside, hunched over the floor next to a tissue box, jumps at the sudden noise before freezing in place. And then, slowly, shyly, he spins to face you with the wide eyes and stuffed cheeks of a disgruntled hamster. 

Zayne has spent enough time with you to know what the unimpressed look on your face means: Explain yourself. 

“I don’t remember you knocking,” he sniffles curtly, unable to hide the way his stuffy nose constricts his throat. The rosy blush on his cheeks is the only indication of his guilt. 

“I don’t remember signing up to date an escape artist,” you shoot back, satisfied with his resulting wince. “What are you doing all the way in here? Was the space under the desk in your study not suitable this time?” 

“Just wanted a—”sniff—“change of scenery,” he jokes lamely, gesturing to the sleek washer and dryer towering over him. 

Sighing, you crouch down in front of him, taking in the wall of chocolate wrappers barricading him in. “Is the idea of me taking care of you really that bad? I’m just trying to help.” 

“That’s exactly it,” he says dryly. “You always help more than what’s needed.” 

At that, your eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to cut through bone. His bones, if he’s not careful. “Excuse me?” 

“I mean,” he clears his throat, grimacing at the dull burn in his sinuses, “You always help me exactly how I need it, and more.” 

“That’s what I thought you said. Now, come downstairs so I can give you the medicine you need, Dr. Zayne. And hand over the candy.” 

It was no secret that Zayne loved sweet things. The confiscated tub of chocolates sitting on the counter was evidence enough. 

But as you look down at his frowning face, cup of chemically red liquid in hand, you can’t help but wonder if it’s because Zayne loves sweet things that he hates taking medicine. 

Once he’d finally trudged into the kitchen, you’d sat him down on a barstool before fishing the dreaded bottle out of the cabinet. “Why not a lozenge instead?” he’d asked. “One of the citrus ones.” 

You hadn’t fallen for his trap, of course. But as he eyes you like he’ll make a break for it any second now, a weary part of you wishes you had. 

“You know,” you lean in conspiratorially, “they say if you plug your nose, you won’t taste it as much.” 

“Illness doesn’t make me a fool,” he mutters bitterly. “I, more than anyone, know how fruitless that trick often is. It doesn’t even work on the kids in the pediatric ward anymore.” 

“And why would a 27-year-old man need the same encouragement as sick children, I wonder?” you crack slyly. 

Zayne looks away, taking a sudden interest in the floor tiles. 

Snorting, you double-check the dosage in the medicine cup and hold it out to him. He regards it with abject misery, his big, hazel eyes staring up at you pleadingly, and you feel a crack in your resolve.

“Fine,” you grumble, pivoting to raid the pantry behind you. Retrieving the most acceptable pastry you can find—there are about 7 different options—you set the blueberry muffin on the island in front of him. 

At the peace offering, those hazel eyes light up slightly, driving out some of the pallor on his face. With a deep breath, Zayne grunts softly before downing the liquid like a shot, shuddering at the aftertaste. Eyes closed in a lasting grimace, he reaches blindly for the muffin before you push it into his grasp, and he sighs in contentment when he bites into it.

Running a hand through his dark hair, you can’t help but grin fondly. 

If only the pediatric ward could see him now. 

After Zayne recovered from the horrors of modern medicine, he’d sullenly asked for more tea, since the batch he’d made earlier was cold now. Pinching his cheek, you’d sent him to sulk on the living room couch so you could keep an eye on him. Which had worked, for several minutes. You’d gathered the ingredients, and he’d flipped blankly through a journal, intermittent sniffles reassuring you of his presence. 

But as you gawk at the abandoned sofa, you realize he must have ducked you while your back was turned. 

Yep. Definitely an escape artist.

With a frustrated growl, you hurriedly plunk the tea bag in and listen for signs of movement. Hearing the faint clicks of a keyboard, you stomp up the stairs to his study, not caring if the drink in hand sloshes over the rim of his favorite penguin mug. Serves him right.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you snap, setting the cup on his desk to put your hands on your hips.

“Working,” he answers with an innocent upturn of his lips. 

“I mean,” you clarify, “what do you think you’re doing when you should be resting?”

Too distracted to keep typing, Zayne switches his attention to the stack of papers before him. “I feel much better already,” he lies flatly, breaking eye contact when yours bore into his. 

As an incredulous laugh escapes you, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What would you say to one of your patients if they tried to work through an illness?” 

“I’d say that as a medical professional, I only have the jurisdiction to advise them on the best course of treatment. Once out of hospital care, it’s up to them to exercise judgment and decide if they’re able to work or not. Like I’m doing now,” he retorts, and you almost commend his ability to bullshit such a polished answer.

“Right, of course,” you entertain him sweetly. “So is that why you just scrawled your signature through the bottom of that confidentiality agreement?”

With sluggish alarm, Zayne jerks his head down to survey the damage, and sure enough, his swooping penmanship has rendered the contract illegible.

“How could I have missed the signature line?” he whispers, face aghast with disbelief. “I…I don’t even know what…”

“I do,” you sing triumphantly, walking around to haul him up from his armchair. “I know exactly what’s wrong.” 

The main reason Zayne hates being sick isn’t the symptoms. It isn’t the unneeded pity, the inopportune sick days, or even the insidious slide of what tastes like poison down his throat.  

No. Unfortunately, for your stubborn snowman of a boyfriend, the main reason Zayne hates being sick is simply of his nature: cold medicine makes him terribly drowsy. 

Its heightened effect on him is just like his alcohol intolerance—something in his genes just can’t handle outside influences. 

So as you lead him back to rest on the sofa, laying his head across your lap, it becomes clear you’re now dealing with an oversized koala. 

“You smell nice. I think. I can’t really smell anything,” he murmurs into your navel, tickling your skin with his rhythmic deep breaths. 

“Mm. You smell nice too, under the medicine scent. Like jasmine tea.”

As you gently massage his scalp, he burrows into your stomach, lifting his head up seconds later as if remembering something. 

“Did you d’something different with your hair today? Looks nice,” he slurs, blinking at you with sleep-laced eyes. 

“Yep!” Nope. “Thank you for noticing, Zaynie. So observant even when you’re sick,” you coo, rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

With a delirious hum, he smiles softly at the praise before his gaze lands on your chest, rising and falling above him. “You’re very…warm,” he whispers, baby pink tongue wetting his lips. But just as he leans up to nuzzle into you, you stop him halfway. 

“Oh no, you don’t,” you chide, catching him by the scruff. “Not right now, at least.” 

A quiet sigh is his only resistance, and as he slumps back down, he brings a hand around your waist to leave a lingering kiss on your stomach. 

“Are you tired, Zayne?” you ask, cradling his head in your palms to meet his clouded gaze.

“Mm. I’d like to go to bed now.”

As you turn off the bedside lamp, preparing to leave Zayne in peace for the night, feverishly warm hands pull you down onto the mattress. Lying beside him, you flutter your eyes closed as he presses a tender kiss to your cheek. 

“Aren’t you worried about getting me sick?” you question, raising a brow in the moonlight. 

Chuckling, he shakes his head languidly. “Sinus infections aren’t contagious,” he yawns. “But even if they were, transmission would only give me the chance to look after you in return.”

“Are you sure? Someone once told me I’m too stern of a nurse. I’d hate to be the same way as a patient.” 

Zayne frowns contemplatively as he rests a hand on your hip. “Even though your methods are…involved,” he swallows, “I appreciate the consideration you’ve shown me today. Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Approval from the illustrious Dr. Zayne,” you whisper, gently tapping his reddened nose. “I hope this means he won’t hide from me next time.” 

As he winces, you can almost see the events of this afternoon replaying in his mind. “If he can help it, there won’t be a next time. But yes, I won’t hide from you again. I truly do feel better with you here beside me.” 

“And you’ll feel even better with proper rest,” you remind him. “Sleep. I’ll stay right here until you do.”

Finally relenting, he turns on his side, holding you to him like a child with a teddy bear. 

And though he’s never believed in them before, when Zayne wakes the next morning, nose clear and fever broken, he thinks you might be a miracle worker. 

"saint bernard sits at the top of the driveway"

Caleb prides himself on being your favorite tool. You just want your favorite person.

pairing: calebmc / caleb x reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff if you squint, sfw

cw: negative self-worth (caleb), mentions of death

You hug him differently now. 

You used to bury your face in the crook of his neck, declaring what a “good riddance” it was whenever he left for university and that he shouldn’t bother coming back to visit again unless he brought snacks. Your face hidden away and your voice muffled so he couldn’t make out the way you pouted at the thought of him leaving. He had memorized the shape of it pressed against his skin.

It was a sensation he’d held on to as desperately as the rest of that seven percent in the time that he was away from you. He'd press down on the spot you used to lean into until it hurt trying to feel half as alive as he had been from the feeling of your mindless touch.

So, of course he noticed immediately that you now rest your head against his chest whenever you’re hugging him goodbye.

He couldn’t figure out what had changed at first – cataloguing it as one of the many new pieces of you for him to add to his codex. One more page for him to pore over like his very own holy text.

It wasn’t until recently, when you were saying goodbye after a long weekend in Skyhaven that he noticed the tiny taps of your fingers against his back as you hugged him. The action seemed subconscious. Someone who wasn’t so deeply attuned to everything about you may not have even registered it. The taps were steady and specific, almost familiar in a way that was difficult to place.

They were mimicking the beats of his heart. 

He looked down at you, your cheek and ear pressed firmly into his chest and just slightly to the left, eyes fluttered shut in concentration. As if trying to memorize the rhythm. Reminding yourself it was there.

Something painful and yearning threatened to whine its way out of him. His jaw clenched with the effort to hold it down.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy for you after he died. He had been so worried about all the little things he had done for you burdening you after he was gone. Phone calls to insurance companies you’d have to handle now. Documents and bills you’d have to take care of.  Fruit you would have to cut for yourself. Would you even bother cutting your apples into little animals before you ate them? Would you miss it? Would you find someone else to take care of you?

 He was sure you would grieve. Feel the ache of his loss like a carpenter losing his favorite tool. Be forced to relearn how to navigate the world without him there to carve out a gentler path for you. 

It had never occurred to him that you would just miss him. 

Find what’s broken. Fix the problem. Promise to sort the rest out later. Forget that promise while you’re crash landing again. 

Caleb lived his life mechanically. He knew how to be a good tool – the only tool you’d need. It was how he guaranteed you’d let him stick by your side. He didn’t bother looking inwards, examining the chaotic, nebulous mess that resided there. There was nothing worth salvaging in there. Nothing useful to you. 

If he could not be needed, he would be used. It never occurred to him that he might simply just be wanted. 

“No need to bother listenin’ to that, Pips,” he couldn’t stop himself from mumbling out, trying for teasing but instead coming out strained, “Your Caleb’s in working condition. No maintenance necessary.”

You didn’t smile.

“Remember when I threw my backpack at the wall and your entire shelf of model planes crashed on the ground?”

He looked at you in confusion but couldn’t stop the amused smile that pulled at his lips. You had cried for hours after that particular incident. Cried even harder when he had just ruffled your hair and thanked you for taking them apart because he’d been meaning to build them again anyways. 

“And when I hid your permission slip for your class field trip to the zoo because I was scared of taking the train to school alone? Or when you had to stay after school for hours longer than everyone else for an entire basketball season to practice because I crashed into our basketball hoop when you were teaching me how to drive? Or when I tried to do your laundry for once and you had to wear a pink dress shirt to school for a whole semester?”

“Pips,” the memories brought an endeared laugh out of him rather than annoyance, “what are you-,”

“You loved me anyways, didn’t you? Even though I sometimes made your life harder. You loved me just because I existed?”

The question was almost incomprehensible  to him. How could he ever feel anything besides love for you? Didn’t you know how much you mattered to him? Didn’t you know you were the only thing that mattered?

“Of course,” his voice was hoarse as he tried to make you understand.

Your eyes closed again. Your ear returned to rest against his heart once more. Your fingers resumed their gentle tapping.

“So then how come you’re the only one who gets to?”

Where Hearts Live + Grassland Romance

"I recall Sylus's fondness for Linkon's blossoms in the spring. I wonder if the vibrant, autumn leaves are just as charming to him. Besides... who can resist the aroma of roasted chestnuts from a Linkon food street?"

so what if I want to have total control over every single thing at all times. just let me lol

Fem ! Caleb again hehe

Someone on twitter said that she would try to sync up their periods,, canon

OH MY GOSH