Caleb Xia Writes Fanfiction Abt Himself And Mc—send Tweet

rip caleb xia , u would have loved lego star wars, 2015 vine and apple’s find my friends feature

i love that ridiculous tiktok trend where it’s like “i’m so hungry i could eat [insert name here]” so bad , but at the same time if zayne looked me dead in the eye nd said “im so hungry i could eat edward cullen” i’d have to shoot him

WHEN I SAW NEW TRAILER I KNEW I MUST DRAW ZAYNE DAWNBREAKER BECAUSE IT SHOULD BE HIMMMMM

Yeah as some might notice I’m playing lads and really impressed with how the manage their characters

I hope that new chapter will be with DAWNBREAKER PLEASEEEEEEE

I drew this also for challenge between bunch of artist, and there were conditions that picture had to be mirrored and without white

And for this I went to draw in ibis…. It was hard I wanted to cry but I love the result hehe

"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?”

OH MY GOSH

🦮

mof zayne and couple outfit next week but i’m not strong/rich/prepared enough … ill kill myself

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. 

[STAGE LEFT]

a lonely court jester waltzes into the room…

i have only the coolest, most pure intentions in mind. i am not funny. i am not smart. but instead, a secret third thing:

20’s. spicy pisces. deeply regretful.

mdni. bigots dni. ppl who have the same first name as me: DNI!!!

love and deepspace centric

sometimes i do things. other times i—

carrd | strawpage | tag

yippee!