⋆˚࿔ The Best Pillow 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Weight

hi this might be a strange ask😔 as a girly who bleeds like a faucet and experiences tremendous pain when on her period, i wonder how the Lads men would react to a blood stain when they wake up in the morning? And take care of their beloved having cramps and other symptoms... okay thank you!!🩷🩷

Period Stains + Period Comfort- The Love And DeepSpace Men

pairings in order: xavier x fem! reader, zayne x fem! reader, rafayel x fem! reader, sylus x fem! reader, caleb x fem! reader summary: when you stain the bed sheets/ blankets + period comfort genre: fluff fluff + comfort a/n: hihi anonnie! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ dun worry this is not a weird ask at all bc i genuinely think they're gonna be so caring this time (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡ the reaction to the blood stain is below the headcanons ! i hope it was alright and that you enjoy reading ! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

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Xavier:

This absolute angel will be taking care of you every single day of the week. He sometimes can get a little confused because your cramps can be unpredictable. Sometimes they fade away and other times they return immediately so he’s sticking by your side the entire time until every single one of them goes away. From snuggles to feeding you to your favorite meals and snacks until you need a little space from him. He hates to see you in pain and he’ll do everything he can to make this entire week easier for you.

He might go overboard on buying your favorite snacks that you two might not even finish the entire month. He might even buy something on his way there that reminded him of you as a little gift to make you cheer up

Whenever cramps hit, his hand gently spreads across your lower abdomen, soothing away the tension and untangling the knots in your muscles. He kneads softly and if it’s not enough, he’ll lay in between your legs, offering a comforting pressure and his warmth to relieve the pain away. He'll leave some kisses on your lower abdomen and stomach even though it might not fully relieve the pain.

When your mood swings hit, he’s never fazed at all. He’ll listen patiently, letting you talk through your feelings and every frustration that comes up. To him, it’s never a burden.

────

The iron grip that Xavier had around you in the morning was strong, even more so than usual when you try to slip out of bed. As much as you want to stay in his arms, you notice a glimpse of a faint stain at the sheets from last night reminding you of your period. Gently, you try to wake him up, planting soft kisses along his skin and caressing his cheek.

“Five more minutes..” He mumbles, nuzzling into your touch. A warm blush spread across your face as you told him that the sheets had been stained. Slowly, his eyes flutter open while loosening his hold on you. As you both got up and started to pull the sheets off, he stopped you, shaking his head softly. “It’s alright. Go freshen up,” He smiles softly, “I’ll take care of the sheets.”

You quickly freshen up in the bathroom, hurrying to change out of your pajamas and into your new ones, hoping to at least help Xavier with the bed. But as soon as you step out, the sheets have already changed and the bed looks as fresh as it did when you first laid down. Even the plushies on your side of the bed were neatly placed back.

Xavier soothes out the sheets, his focus shifting towards you the moment you walk in. His expression softens with concern, “How are you feeling? Does it hurt a lot?” Before you can answer, he’s guiding you back carefully toward the bed, his hand resting on your lower abdomen with a comforting pressure. “How about we order in  some food? Anything you’re craving? Pick whatever you want.”

Zayne:

When Zayne is around during your period, you don’t have to worry about anything. The house will be clean, meals will be made or delivered, and you’ll be fully cared for.

Despite his busy schedule, Zayne always makes sure to take care of you as much as he can. You don't have to worry about running out of supplies or sweets because he's already gotten them for you. and Zayne never runs out of sweets. He’ll go through his calendar to make sure you have everything you need before your period starts. He’ll have everything you need such as things like pads/ tampons, heating pads, or medicine to ease the discomfort.

Sore boobs? Bra is unclipped, removed, and his hands are quickly on them, kneading them softly and gently. Whispers in your ear, "Is this alright?" "How does this feel?" which makes ovulation come by way quicker

Whenever nausea hits you during your period, he’s quick to make you a soothing cup of ginger or peppermint tea, or anything that will help you settle your stomach. When hot flashes happen, he’ll become your personal ice back to help you cool off.

During his breaks, he’ll check in on you and to see if you’d like a sweet treat later when he gets home. Even if you don’t want any, he’ll make sure to pick something up for you.

He also shares some helpful tips he’s learned about menstruation, like how to position a pillow a certain way in between your legs to ease your cramps when he’s not around and when he is there, he’ll replace the pillow with himself. If you’re up to it, he might suggest some light yoga or some walking. He’s learned that certain stretches can relieve pelvic pressure and he’ll do them all with you.

────

Your eyes flutter open, the comforting warmth of Zayne enveloping beside you. His hand rests gently on the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles as he reads. You groan softly, a sharp familiar ache stirs on your lower abdomen, hoping it’s just a stomach ache and not the possibility that it might be the start of your period.

Zayne’s gaze shifts towards you, setting his book down on the nightstand. “Good morning. How are you feeling?” He asks softly. “Today could be the first day of your cycle. I suggest you freshen up and check.” Zayne had been tracking your cycles since the beginning of your relationships, his predictions had been right most of the time. The moment you shift out of bed, you felt that familiar discomfort flowing down between your legs, confirming he was in fact right.

As you move toward the bathroom door, he grabs a fresh set of clothes for you, closing the door behind you with a soft click as he tends to the small stain left behind on your shared bed. He had noticed it before you, not drawing attention to it so you don’t have to worry about a thing.

You quickly freshened up and changed, hoping he hadn’t noticed the stain but as soon as you opened the bathroom door, he was calmly tending the bed already. Before you could speak or apologize, he was already ahead of you. “I changed the sheets,” He said softly, “I’ll make you some tea.” He gently pulls you closer to him, pressing a soft and reassuring kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to stain the bed.. I should’ve cleaned it.” Zayne shook his head, his lips curving into a gentle small smile.

“You don’t need to be sorry for something you can’t control. It’s natural. Now what would you like for breakfast?”

Rafayel:

Rafayel becomes your personal heating pad, carefully using his evol to warm your lower abdomen just enough to bring you comfort and to get rid of your cramps.

Cuddles with lots of soft feather-like kisses that make you giggle from how it tickles but not to the point where you’re squirming uncontrollably. He playfully talks to your abdomen as he slowly massages it. “Free her! She’s had enough! Let me take her pain!” to lighten your mood during discomfort

Rafayel never misses a chance to shower you with compliments. He knows how you might feel icky or uncomfortable with yourself during this time so he makes sure to lift you up instead, reminding you how beautiful and strong you are. He’s not letting you forget how deeply he loves and appreciates you.

He’ll also have some medicine in stock if you need it, bringing you a cooling compress to gently press against your forehead whenever your head hurts/ hot flashes

Bubble baths with him are a must. He knows how intense your cramps can be from knowing how much your cramps affect you and he believes a warm bubble bath will help. He’s super gentle, running his hands through your hair while soft massaging your lower abdomen to provide soothing relief.

────

Your eyes flutter open, the soft sounds of seagulls calling from outside the window stirring you awake from your sleep. Rafayel is already awake, propped up on his elbow, his gaze fixed on you with a soft smile. He watches as you stir awake, his heart warming at the sight beside him.

“Good morning cutie,” The corners of his lips slightly crinkled at the corners as he watched you. As much as you want to soak in this peaceful and intimate moment with him, that sharp pain in your lower abdomen makes you curl further into a ball, a small groan escaping your lips. The discomfort makes your face scrunt up and Rafayel immediately notices. “Aww, is it shark week already?” He teases, gently cupping your lower abdomen before massaging it in slow, soothing circles. “How about a bubble bath? Maybe that’ll help.” 

The two of you slowly get out of bed, the flow of your blood makes the discomfort even worse. As you glance down, your heart sinks when you spot a stain on your side of the bed, making you feel a little embarrassed. Rafayel notices at the same time and gives you a reassuring smile as he reaches out to gently squeeze your hand. “Dun worry. I’ve got it covered. I’ll take care of everything.” He flashes a playful wink as he guides you toward your shared bathroom. “And I’ll make sure to take care of those sharks for ya later, promise.”

He helps you sit on the edge of the bathtub, adjusting the water to just the perfect temperature. While you settle in, he quickly leaves the room. You hear the soft rustle of the sheets being pulled away as he tosses them into the laundry bin and he later comes back holding a fresh set of clothes for the both of you.

“I’ll make sure the bed’s all fresh when we’re done.” He leans down, kissing your forehead, his lips lingering for a second before he pulls back. “I’ve got it all covered cutie.”

Sylus:

Sylus makes sure to put a lot of effort to make sure you were absolutely comfortable. He’ll provide as many meals, snacks, pillows, and blankets as you need. Whatever you want, he’ll provide it all for you. There’s no need for you to lift a finger or even a leg this week.

Anything you crave? He's already got it or it's on its way in a few minutes. If you want him to prepare a meal he'll make it for you or he'll get a personal chef to make it for the both of you so he can stay by your side.

If you’re dealing with a headache, he’ll close the curtains and dim the lights before pressing soft kisses to your forehead. After that, he’ll grab you some medicine to ease the pain and make you a cup of tea to make it all go away.

Sylus understands the pain you’re in and how sluggish you feel. Without hesitation, he curls up beside you, his warmth enveloping you. He showers you with gentle kisses, whispering soothing words.

He gives you all the massages you want. His large hands are heavenly on you, massaging any area that you want relief. It’s so soothing that it has your eyes fluttering shut as the tension melts away under his touch.

If any tears start to fall and you can’t explain why, he’s there by your side. He murmurs sweet things and reassurance to your ear and later pampers you if it makes you feel better.

────

You wake up to a dull ache in your lower abdomen, curling closer to Sylus to seek comfort in his embrace. Your limbs tangle together and though it should bring you relief, it doesn’t ease the sting. As you shift, you feel the dampness through your pajamas, your stomach sinks with the idea that you might’ve stained his expensive sheets.

Not wanting to disturb his peaceful slumber, you gently stir Sylus awake. His eyes flutter open slowly, his muscles relaxing to see you. “Hmm..? Since when did you start waking up earlier than me sweetie?” His voice low and raspy, pulling you even closer to bury his face in the crook of your neck.

You hesitate for a moment before explaining, “I think I might have stained the bed..It might be my first day..”

He pulls away slightly, “You think you stained the bed?” He places a hand on your lower abdomen, his fingers slowly try to massage the ache away. “How much does it hurt right now? Can you walk?”

You give him a small reassuring smile, “I should be fine..just uncomfortable.” His touch lingers for a little longer before he nods.

“Go change, I’ll take care of everything.” His voice stays calm and reassuring. Despite your offer to help, Sylus shakes his head with a gentle smile. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll get it done.”

By the time you return, Sylus has nearly finished changing the sheets. You walk over to him, trying to help smooth out the sheets, a small frown tugging at your lips as you worry about the stain going through the mattress. “What if I ruined the bed? I didn’t mean to..”

Sylus turns to you, a soft chuckle escaping him. He steps closer, his hand gently cupping the back of your head before pressing a soft kiss, his lips grazing your hair. “It's just a bed sweetie. Besides, what matters is that you’re okay. I’ll handle everything here. Just focus on getting some rest.”

Caleb:

Caleb is experienced in this area when it comes to taking care of you during your period. He’s been there since the very beginning of it all. He remembers exactly what type of pads/ tampons you use and it’s second nature for him to pick them up from the store without a second thought. He’s never uncomfortable walking through the feminine care aisle at all.

He makes sure to pick up the snacks you love and doesn’t hesitate to text you if you were craving anything specific so he can pick it up before he comes home. He also picks up ingredients for your favorite meals, knowing the comfort of a delicious home cooked meal will bring a smile to your face.

Speaking of food, he’ll prepare you some warm and comforting meals that he knows will help you feel better. He’ll make sure you eat every single bite, gently encouraging you not to skip any meals.

He’ll come into your room with a tray of ice cream, loaded with your favorite flavors and toppings. “Hey pip-honey, I got you some of your favorite ice cream. I’ll make you whatever you want. I can whip up a sundae for you even if it’s just a Thursday."

He hates to see you in pain, it breaks his heart. He’s silently cursing the universe for making you go through this, wishing he could take it all away. But for now what he can do is stay by your side, massaging you as long as you need. His hands are gentle and steady, warming up heating pads and placing them on your lower abdomen to give you some relief. As he does this, he softly murmurs sweet reassurances in your eat and that 'Caleb’s here to help you through it.'

Caleb handles your mood swings pretty well and has so much patience. He never minds if you’re feeling grouchy or irritable. Whenever your emotions get the best of you and you snap a little, he’s always there to listen, letting you vent about anything you have a problem with.

────

“Hey..hey pipsqueak..” Caleb murmurs as he brushes a lock of hair from your face. “Juust for a second.. I need you to wake up.” Your eyes flutter open and that familiar sharp ache in your lower abdomen makes you wince, instinctively curling into yourself. “Does it hurt? Do you want me to carry you to the bathroom?” You shake your head, not wanting to get up from his embrace just yet.

“mm..what’s going on?” You mumble sleepily.

“I need to change the sheets real quick,” His voice a little sheepish. “Then you can go back to sleep. I’ll make you some breakfast and you can stay right here okay?” You sigh as a gentle protest but nod. As you slowly sit up, the discomfort of the flow makes itself known as you make your way to the bathroom.

You’ve grown up together and something as natural as this could not make him see you any differently. He’s seen it all, the awkward moments, the cramps, the emotional and physical mess you’ve been through. Despite the discomfort you feel, he’s always there to help and tries his absolute best to make this easier for you. 

He quickly strips the bed, changing the sheets to something more comfortable and fluffing your pillows just the way you like them. By the time you step back into your room, freshly changed, the bed is already made up neatly.

“There,” He says with a bright smile as his gaze locks on you. “All nice and cozy just for you pipsqueak.” He pulls you back into bed, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Now, get some rest. I’ll take care of everything else.”

cr. for the divider @/ cafekitsune

a/n: also the caleb and the sundae part is a reference to a tiktok im still trying to find it bc i have to many edits saved-

here's a post i wrote that's similar to this! only all four of them for now When You're On Your Period

my other works if you want to check it out! Love And DeepSpace Masterlist Pg.1 , Pg.2

bored prince

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.

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

📖⬅⬅⬅

04/27/25; 01:00am

{ drabbles / headcanons }

[ spring kisses with them ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel, caleb

{ one smile, one kiss, two lonely hearts is all that i need now, baby | you’re on my mind every night, every day… }

you became drunk off the scent of flowers, giggling each time sylus teases you with their soft petals.

his gaze remain soft; rufescent eyes gazing down at your figure as they fill with adoration for you. holding the flower gingerly by its stem, he places the pink petals against your lips. a tickling sensation was felt on your skin, causing your lips to tilt up in a sweet smile that captivates your beloved.

the flower’s petals shift in response to the wind, the petals breaking from its stem before landing against your parted lips. letting out an amused chuckle, sylus removes the single petal from your lips. he takes a moment to admire it before pressing a kiss against it.

warmth courses through your veins at the sight as you lean up to frame at his face. with the single petal now floating away, he captures your lips in a sweet kiss before landing with you against the pile of flowers-

a sudden memory resurfaces, of dragon wings and the scent of datura flowers filling at the air as the crimson petals danced in the wind.

caught in a sweet dance, zayne takes your hand and guides you around the gazebo. with your dress flowing around you, you felt as though you were living in a fairytale.

surrounding you were the dizzying scent of flowers coupled along with the cheerful chirping of the birds. unbidden joy courses through you, with your arms wrapped around zayne’s neck (like it was the most natural thing in the world.)

his hands wraps themselves behind the small of your back, bringing you achingly close to him. his eyes were brimming with an unspoken devotion to you as zayne leans forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. the faint taste of macarons fills at your senses each time zayne moves his lips oh so lovingly against yours-

making all of your dreams come true within that single moment.

you swore that you lived to see xavier’s pouting face each time you pressed a kiss against your favorite plushie’s face, holding the bunny so close to your chest even as xavier tackles you back against the cushions.

he hovers over you, half-lidded gaze taking in your playful expression while looking at your slightly parted lips. with a gentle sigh of your name, your beloved leans in closer to you, ready to share a sweet kiss-

only to let out a grunt of disapproval when his lips met with the toy bunny’s face.

feigning a look of annoyance, xavier takes the plushie in his hand and embraces it for a few seconds before playfully punching it. his actions earn a gasp from you, and when you reach out to save your precious baby-

only to have xavier interlock your fingertips together with his, bringing you closer as your lips met with his. he kept you locked in a passionate kiss, with him silently begging you to open up to him. feeling the tip of his tongue pushing against your lips, you slowly open up to him-

the plush long forgotten now, you delve your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to you as you lay back whilst surrounded by the scent of him and spring flowers in full bloom.

the scent of wisterias were thick in the air as the petals blew over rafayel’s open sketchbook. his sketch was forgotten the moment you lay down with him on the grass, your fingertips gently tracing at his features.

the lemurian finds himself leaning into your touch, eyes taking in the beautiful sight of your smiling face. turning away from you for a brief moment, he sees a tiny wildflower with white petals and picks it. holding up the gentle bloom to you, you half expected rafayel to fasten it above your ear-

yet was left pleasantly surprised when he ends up placing it on your lips. only catching a glimpse of his playful expression, you gasp upon feeling him kiss you, moving the soft flower against your lips to cause a gentle friction you had never felt before.

and you quickly became addicted to it.

with your eyes clenched shut, you bask in the sensation of his kisses, never wanting this moment to end.

caleb had never looked so happy-

so free before this very moment-

and you wanted to burn this memory into your mind, never wishing to forget.

the boat sways within the lake, yet you found it comforting to lay in it with your beloved colonel. you had no idea how many hours he spent making sure your spring date was perfect-

ensuring your happiness above all else.

your whispered promises of forever lingers within the air when caleb takes you within his embrace, placing a kiss against your hair while softly calling you by name. you meet his gaze, feeling your heart racing at the sight of his crooked grin.

moments pass, and when you kept looking at him with such a soft expression, something shifted within him,

with his gaze narrowed, caleb leans closer to you, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss while under the canopy of the moss and trees.

{ you can say that i’m a fool and i don't know very much | but i think they call this love | oh, i think they call this love. }

end notes: this looks like a very cute banner, but i think i’ll skip this one for now if i can’t get sylus’s card with my free pulls (;﹏;) but have this unedited drabble in celebration for the new spring banner ♡

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

that night at 3:07 a.m. | xavier

synopsis : Sequel to 3:07 a.m.

content : angst(obviously), non-related to the game events, non-cannon, just purely xavier x reader but in our world :)

writer’s note : part one can be found here. I was inspired to write this peace thanks to the lovely @hiqhkey <3 you were right, the angst potential in this was wew. It took me awhile to piece together how to write this one because I wanted angst but I also wanted closure, I hope you enjoy this one as well :D

You came into his life like turbulence—unexpected, disarming.

And yet, your voice was the calm that followed the storm.

Xavier doesn’t remember how it began.

Maybe it was that first night. 3:07 a.m.

He had meant to call someone else—fingers fumbling, mind clouded, emotions in disarray.

But it was your voice he heard.

Soft. Quiet. A melody that lingered longer than it should have.

He didn’t hang up.

He listened.

And then he called again.

It became routine, though neither of you called it that.

He’d come home from work, shower, lie in bed.

Waiting.

Sleep never came easy for him.

But you did.

At 3:07 a.m., he would dial your number.

And you’d answer, always.

“Hey,” you’d breathe into the line.

His heart would falter, just a beat.

It wasn’t love. Or maybe it was.

He couldn’t name it, but it left him aching.

He wanted to tell you that your voice was beautiful, that it soothed something in him he didn’t know needed soothing.

But he never did.

Instead, he’d ask about your day.

You’d ask about his.

It was your thing—he calls, you answer.

No questions. No promises. Just presence.

But slowly, the lines blurred.

He caught himself thinking about you more. Wanting more.

But the words never came.

He’d see you sometimes—crossing the street, sitting in your favorite café by the window, head bowed in quiet focus.

He never waved.

Never approached.

Because 3:07 a.m. was sacred.

And he was afraid that in the daylight, it might mean something else.

Or nothing at all.

So he waited.

For nighttime.

For your voice.

—•

Then came a night that didn’t sound the same.

You answered, but your voice held sadness.

It rattled him, the heaviness of it.

He wanted to reach through the phone, hold you, take the weight from your shoulders.

But instead, he stayed silent.

You told him about a boy you liked.

His stomach turned.

He should’ve known. He should’ve seen it coming.

It was him. It had to be.

Still, he smiled where you couldn’t see.

And said, “Maybe he’ll come around.”

“Maybe,” you whispered.

If only he’d realized it then.

—•

“Do you think some people are just… meant to belong to each other?” he asked one night.

The question came unannounced. Raw. Honest.

You laughed, soft and almost shy.

But you didn’t answer.

And he didn’t press.

Neither of you ever did.

But that night, he told himself it was time to move on.

If you had felt the same way, you would’ve said something.

Wouldn’t you?

Still, the thought nagged at him, cruel and persistent.

You always picked up.

He opened his mouth. Almost.

But he swallowed it down.

“You still there?” he asked, knowing full well you were.

“Always.”

That word settled in his chest like warmth, and yet it ached.

“I saw a fox tonight,” he murmured. “It ran across the road like it didn’t care if it got hit.”

He didn’t know why he said it.

Maybe to see if you’d understand.

Maybe it was his confession in disguise.

“I thought about stopping,” he added, voice low. “I didn’t.”

Silence stretched between you. His breath hitched.

Then you said, “You never stop.”

His heart clenched.

“Maybe I should.”

It hurt, saying that. Like swallowing glass.

He changed the subject.

Pretended it didn’t mean anything.

And when your voice grew soft with sleep, he noticed—he always did.

“Go to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said, ending the call before you could reply.

His heart was racing.

In the dark, he whispered to himself, “Why didn’t I just tell her?”

But the moment had passed.

The weight of everything left unsaid pressed down on him, suffocating and sharp.

He sighed into the stillness of his room.

“Maybe it was never meant to be.”

But oh, it was.

It really, really was.

—•

Eventually, life got busier.

Or maybe he made it that way—chasing distractions just to drown out the ache in his chest.

He didn’t know what it was exactly.

Rejection? An answer he didn’t want?

All he knew was that your silence—your lack of anything—gnawed at him until it became unbearable.

So he filled his days with noise. With work. With anything that wasn’t you.

But the nights stayed quiet.

Too quiet.

When he came home, the stillness in the air was heavier than usual.

He moved through his routine on autopilot, then lay in bed with his eyes shut, pretending he could sleep.

Maybe, he thought, just maybe I won’t call tonight. Maybe she will.

But curiosity clawed its way in.

He peeked.

3:05 a.m.

He watched the seconds crawl.

3:06.

His thumb hovered above your contact.

3:07 a.m.

Before his mind could stop his heart, he called.

Tonight, he told himself. Tonight, I’ll ask her.

“Hey,” your voice came through, soft and steady.

Like you had been waiting. Like always.

“Hey,” he echoed, but the word felt fragile—smaller than he meant it to be.

“Rough night?”

“No. Just… long.”

The silence stretched between you, filled with everything he couldn’t say.

This was it—his window.

If he didn’t say it tonight, he’d let you go.

But then you asked gently, “Wanna talk about it?”

And he hesitated.

Why didn’t he just tell you?

He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Not really.”

“Okay.”

His mind swirled—What if she feels the same?

Will I regret this silence tomorrow?

Still, the words stayed lodged in his throat.

Instead, “Tell me something nice… anything.”

Because he wanted to hear your voice again. Wanted to feel close to you, even if you were slipping through his fingers.

And you did.

God, you did.

You told him about the dog you saw with its head out the window, tongue flapping like it owned the world.

You told him about the heart-shaped cloud that vanished before you could take a picture.

You told him about a song that reminded you of him.

His heart faltered at that—but still, nothing.

He only hummed, listening like it might be the last time he’d ever hear you.

“Do you think…” he started, then stopped. His courage faltered mid-sentence.

A pause.

“What?” you prompted, gentle.

His breath caught. “Do you think we’ll still talk like this… a year from now?”

You laughed.

And it shattered him.

Why was that your reaction?

“You’re the one who calls,” you said simply. “I just pick up.”

He fell silent. One beat. Then two.

“Yeah… I guess you do.”

He gathered what was left of himself. “I hope you sleep well tonight.”

There was a pause, quiet but heavy.

“Are you not calling tomorrow?” you asked softly.

His chest ached. That was his moment—his chance to say something real.

But instead, “I don’t know.”

And he ended the call.

Alone in the dark, he whispered, “I need to move on.”

A tear slipped quietly down his cheek.

The next night, he stared at his phone.

Thumb over your name.

Hovering.

He shouldn’t call. He couldn’t.

His heart wasn’t whole enough to risk it again.

So he didn’t.

He shoved his phone beneath his pillow and closed his eyes.

If she wants to talk, he told himself, she’ll call.

But a voice inside him whispered something else—Maybe she’s waiting, too.

Still, he forced himself to sleep.

No more.

—•

Day One.

He woke with a racing heart and reached for his phone.

No missed calls.

No texts.

Nothing.

The absence stung more than he expected.

And there it was—his answer.

You hadn’t called.

He sighed, the weight of regret and hopelessness pressing into his ribs.

That was it.

That was the end.

He got up and started his day, pretending he hadn’t waited.

Pretending it didn’t hurt.

But good god, it did.

Day Three.

He didn’t mean to look.

But at 3:07 a.m., his eyes flicked to the clock anyway.

His chest ached with a hollow kind of yearning, the kind that sits heavy behind the ribs and doesn’t say a word.

He didn’t call.

You didn’t either.

The silence had settled into something familiar now.

It used to be comfort. Now it was absence.

Still, he told himself, This is what moving on looks like. You asked for this.

But it didn’t make the loneliness feel any less real.

Day Five.

He passed your favorite café on his way home.

The table by the window was empty.

Or maybe it wasn’t—you just weren’t in it.

He didn’t stop to look too long.

That night, he didn’t touch his phone.

He left it across the room, face-down.

But at 3:07 a.m., he still turned in bed, waiting for the sound that wouldn’t come.

Week Two.

He met someone new.

She was kind. Confident. The type who smiled with her whole face.

She asked for his number first, and he gave it without hesitation.

Not because he was ready, but because he wanted to be.

They started talking. Messaging.

Late night conversations, but never at 3:07 a.m.

That time belonged to someone else.

Still did.

But he didn’t say that out loud.

Week Six.

He liked her company.

She laughed at his jokes, touched his arm when she smiled, remembered how he took his coffee.

She made things feel easier.

Lighter.

And yet—some nights, when the world had gone still and he was finally alone with his thoughts, he still reached for his phone.

Not to call her.

But to scroll through your old messages.

The short ones. The long ones. The ones where you sent voice notes because texting was too slow.

He missed you.

Quietly. Constantly.

Like background noise he couldn’t tune out.

Month Two.

He was dating her now.

Their photos lived on social media—her head resting on his shoulder, his arm around her waist.

His smile looked real.

People said he looked happy.

And sometimes, he was.

But he never told her why he always seemed a little quiet around 3 a.m.

Why he never answered calls past midnight.

Why his smile never quite reached his eyes when a particular song came on the radio.

Because there were things he had buried—like old postcards you never send but can’t throw away.

He didn’t talk about you.

But sometimes, when he was with her, and the world was soft and kind,

he wondered if you ever stared at your phone too.

If you ever hovered over his name and decided not to press it.

If you ever missed him at 3:07 a.m.

And in that wondering, he realized—He hadn’t moved on.

Not really.

Not fully.

He was just learning how to live with a ghost that still answered the phone.

—•

Month Six.

He proposed.

It was quiet, understated—just the two of them beneath a canopy of lights and the hush of the evening breeze.

She smiled. She cried. She said yes without hesitation.

He kissed her like he meant it.

And he did.

He meant it.

But as the ring slipped onto her finger, something stirred deep in his chest—an ache, dull and persistent.

Not regret.

Not quite.

Just something unsettled.

Something he hadn’t named.

Something left over.

Because even now, even here, part of him wondered if you ever thought about him.

If you’d feel anything at all when you found out.

If you’d feel… nothing.

And maybe that would hurt more.

Later that night, while she slept soundly beside him, his eyes flicked toward the clock.

3:07 a.m.

He didn’t know why he still looked.

Maybe he just always would.

Month Eight.

Healing came slowly.

Not like a breakthrough—just a quiet fading of the noise.

The days stopped feeling like a performance.

The silences became lighter.

He caught himself smiling more. Meant it more, too.

And he started seeing her not as someone who filled a space, but someone who fit.

He still thought of you.

But not always.

Not the way he used to.

There were moments—brief ones—when your name crossed his mind in the middle of a song, or when he passed that café window you used to sit by.

But it didn’t sting as much.

It just… lingered.

Like something that might have been.

Something gentle. Undefined.

A feeling, not a fire.

Still, on some nights, when the world was quiet and he couldn’t sleep, he’d wonder.

Did you ever think of him, too?

Month Ten.

The wedding planning began in earnest.

Color swatches, catering menus, playlist drafts.

She filled journals with ideas, kept Pinterest boards titled forever.

He helped where he could.

Smiled. Showed up.

Even laughed when she made him try three kinds of cake in one sitting.

It was real.

And it was good.

But some nights, when she’d doze off beside him with a notebook still open in her lap, he’d scroll through his contacts until he found your name.

He never pressed it.

He never would.

But part of him still paused there.

Not because he wanted to go back.

But because he still hadn’t figured out if he should tell you.

Not to ask for anything.

Not to confess anything.

Just… to let you know.

“I’m getting married.”

A sentence he rehearsed and never said.

And maybe he was afraid that if he did, you’d say, “I always thought you would call.”

Or worse—That you’d say nothing at all.

So instead, he locked his phone and turned off the lamp beside the bed.

He wasn’t in love with you.

Maybe he never had been.

But there had been something.

And it never quite left.

Almost One Year Later.

3:07 a.m.

The numbers glowed dimly in the dark, like they always did—unchanged, untouched.

He hadn’t planned to call.

He hadn’t even thought about it.

But somehow, he was already staring at your name.

Already pressing call.

The dial tone echoed once.

Twice.

Three times—Then a soft click.

You answered.

There was only breath on the other end.

Faint. Familiar. Present.

His heart stuttered.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Steady.

Silence.

He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

Still, nothing.

Just you, breathing. Listening.

Maybe frozen in place. Maybe waiting for more.

And he gave it to you.

“I just…” he started, and the words stuck, catching in his throat. He let them fall anyway.

“I’m getting married.”

The quiet thickened. Not even a gasp. No sigh.

Just your silence.

“I wanted to tell you myself.”

There was a pause.

Then, your breath barely above a whisper, “Why now?”

He let the silence stretch before he answered.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I kept thinking about you. About how I never said goodbye.”

Another pause.

Your voice cracked, just slightly. “I would’ve answered.”

His chest tightened.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

There was a long silence. Neither of you filled it.

He listened to the stillness like it was the last piece of a song he couldn’t finish.

And then, softly—like it cost you something, “I’m happy for you.”

His heart stuttered.

He hesitated.

There were words at the edge of his tongue—things he might have said if this were a different life.

But instead, all he gave you was, “Goodnight.”

And the call ended.

No goodbye.

Just the quiet click of something finally closing.

—•

The air was still.

Rows of guests sat under soft morning light, flowers swaying gently with the breeze, as music began to hum low and steady.

Xavier stood at the altar, hands clasped tightly in front of him, breath slow.

He wasn’t nervous—at least not in the way everyone expected him to be.

He felt the weight of the moment. The finality. The beauty of it.

And the ache.

Then—like a pull, a presence he couldn’t ignore—his gaze lifted.

And there you were.

Standing quietly near the back. Almost hidden. Almost not there.

But he saw you.

Your eyes met his, and the world narrowed.

Just for a moment, it was quiet.

Just for a moment, it was 3:07 a.m. again.

There were no smiles exchanged.

No nods.

Just something suspended between you—years of silence, almosts, and words that never made it past the throat.

But it was enough.

He understood.

So did you.

And then the music changed.

The crowd rose to their feet, turning.

She appeared—his bride, radiant and glowing, the embodiment of everything he had chosen.

He looked at her, heart steady.

And when she reached him, he took her hand with warmth, with care.

The ceremony moved forward.

Vows were spoken.

Promises made.

And when he leaned in to kiss her, he did so gently, tenderly, with a love that had grown slowly, earnestly.

Applause broke out.

The world opened again.

And when he turned, just for a second—just instinctively.

He saw you.

You were walking away, slipping through the crowd with that small, knowing smile on your lips.

The kind that said everything.

He watched you disappear around the corner, and it struck him.

That was your goodbye.

Not in words.

Not in tears.

Just in the way you let go—with grace, with quiet acceptance.

And maybe that was what you both needed.

Not closure. Not confession.

Just the soft acknowledgment of what once lived between you, and what would no longer linger.

He turned back toward the crowd, toward the life he’d chosen.

And the ache in his chest softened, like something finally exhaled.

Colonel! Xavier

• Colonel! Xavier whose appearance is deceiving. Literally a wolf in sheep's clothing. Everyone is afraid of him and the rookies who made the mistake of trying to over power him, well they are never seen again.

• Colonel! Xavier who joined the fleer the moment he knew Ever was working within the Fleer, he had made sure that you were safe even in this life. Who was not afraid of killing anyone who dared to even glance in your direction.

• His jealousy would reach even higher levels! For the safety of the Fleet workers, you stopped going to Skyheaven, but Xavier always knows if a male is trying to interact with you. Is that a drone following you?

• This man is even jealous of his own robotic arm. Do you like the arm more than him, so he tries to not touch with that arm. Even considering trying to find a way to grow a human arm so he could touch with his own skin.

• He likes taking you flying because it's only the two of you, there is no one else in the sky that can come between the two of you. Colonel! Xavier will wife you up so he can get frisky with you in the sky, I will bet that at least once, he turned the autopilot so you could ride his plane.

• Colonel! Xavier who can actually cook, the food could be better but at least he is not a hazard to society anymore.

• This version of Xavier would only pretend to take the chip in his head, only to be ripped off by his contacts, there is no way in hell that he would let someone else take the memories he had with you. He has remembered you for centuries and he will keep remembering you for millennials.

• Colonel! Xavier requests you to be the hunter on duty on Skyheaven so he could see you more often. If you ever need a partner, he would only allow females to come with you.

• Colonel! Xavier who hates incompetence, who is not afraid to downgrade subordinates for the minimal error. Even if the error was trying to talk with his adjutant about an important mission. His subordinates will try to find a way to contact you so you would call him down. Is he abusing them verbally? No problem, they will call you so he can talk with you and calm him down.

• Colonel! Xavier who can only sleep if you are with him, and will try his best to not be dead by next spring. He found you now and he is not willing to let you go.

• Colonel! Xavier is willing to give up his life to EVER as long as they never touch you. He will destroy them from inside. Do you think that Caleb was a little extra with Viper? With Xavier as the Colonel, Viper is not even allowed to have a thought about you, Xavier would know if Viper has a thought about you.

Valentine's Favourites

Xavier x female!reader

Genre: fluff

Warnings: 2,1k word, allusions to intercourse/suggestive topics

Note: fanfiction for my Valentine's Event

for masterlist and request info head to the navigation →

← how Jeremiah is doing ★ continuation of the evening →

~★~

Xavier was preparing for that day for weeks if not months. Finding a perfect spot, making sure that you'll be free from work, writing down the things he'll need to get; food, a gift, flowers...

You couldn't catch a glimpse of Xavier since the morning, when he left your apartment after staying the night, saying that he had some 'things' to take care of and he'll see you later.

You tried messaging him, but the only thing you got back in response was 'I'll see you later' or 'please be patient sweetheart'. You knew he was planning something, but you had little to absolutely no idea what that could be.

Was he planning something? A date perhaps? Maybe a gift? Did he do something stupid and needed to fix it without your knowledge? What was he doing?!

The thoughts were eating you up, but you knew better than to stress yourself out with his secrecy. After all: it was Xavier out of all people, he was full of mystery. You just hoped that he'll be safe.

Your day went by with you doing basic chores and being lazy, since you didn't have anything planned or today. You still had the prince of your heart in the back of your head, was he doing alright?

Deciding to try once more to get some information from him you picked up your phone, entering chat with him.

'Hey, you doing okay there?'

You turned off your phone about to put it back down and focus on the TV, but the moment the screen went blank you heard the sound of notification and in a second you turned it back on.

'get ready, I'll meet u in half an hour, dress comfy'

Instantly you shoot up from your seat, going to change your clothes still staring at the message from him.

Half an hour? Alright, but dress comfy to go where? Comfy as 'home-kind-comfy' or 'we're going somewhere when you don't need to dress up' or 'dress whatever you feel like, you'll still be pretty'?

Why were you overthinking this?!

It's probably just a simple date, right? So you want to look pretty without looking like you tried hard to look pretty.

HOLY YOU HAVE ONLY 30 MINUTES!

Instantly you started looking through your clothes, what is comfy but looks pretty and not like your home clothes? Let's try to look cute in half an hour, sure.

After looking through all of your clothes, with half of your wardrobe now on your bed, you were finally somehow satisfied with the results. Lucky you; did your make-up earlier out of boredom...

You were fixing your hair a little bit when the doorbell sound rang. Instantly you run towards the door, screaming 'a moment' on your way, and stumbling around your apartment at least twice.

Finally you made it to the front door, unlocking and opening them without checking the peephole first. There he stood, perfect like always, with a slight gentle smile on his lips that you returned instantly.

"Hello beautiful." his arms opened, inviting you for a hug and without wasting a second you found yourself in his embrace.

"Hi handsome." you giggled, giving his cheek a peek before breaking the hug.

"Get some shoes on, we're going out." you turned around to follow his instructions, bending over and unintentionally gracing him with the sight of your perfect ass.

He bit his tongue, memories of last night started floating around in his head, but the moment you stood up, ready to go with an innocent smile on your lips, all the improper thoughts left, his mind instead focusing on the present you.

"I'm ready." your high shoes clicked with every step you took while leaving your apartment. Hopefully he won't make you walk around too much...

Without words he took your hand, leading you to the elevator.

During the wait you hugged him close in the tight space, only with you two in it. He let you rest your head on his chest, in his head hoping for the evening to go perfect, his earlier exchange of words with Jeremiah replaying in his head.

"She'll be delighted. Trust me."

"It's just... Maybe she deserves someone better than me to spend her life with."

"Are you kidding me? For someone this smart you're really oblivious sometimes, aren't you?"

Xavier looked at him with a threatening glance, but Jeremiah was completely unbothered by it, still focusing on placing the stuff in the right places.

"She's crazy for you, last time you two came to Philo she was staring at you the whole time, like you were the only thing in the room, no actually, like you were the only thing in the world. Don't doubt yourself so much, my Prince." finally sparing a glance at Xavier he only smiled teasingly. He enjoyed seeing the always calculated and collected person being stressed over his love life.

"Xavier? We can get out now..." your voice broke him from his thoughts, the doors of the elevator were open.

"Yes, sorry." he walked out with you, hands still joined together.

You were walking the streets of Linkon, light conversion about work and life making the time pass faster. You didn't think about your destination, trusting him even if that would mean walking to the stars and back. You would follow him everywhere.

The sun was slowly setting, the warm light making Xavier look more eternal than ever, you couldn't help but admire him from the side, not noticing that he stopped and looked at you too.

"We're here." you woke up from the daze, your head instantly turned and you saw the edge of the forest before you.

"We're going there?" he nodded your head at your question. You looked down at your shoes, you were not prepared for that... "Alright." you braced yourself to try and avoid spraining your ankle. But then you got swept off your feet - literally "Xavier!"

"What?" he asked, acting clueless. He started walking with you in his arms, carrying you like a princess.

"I can walk!" your voice raised in shock.

"I know." was his only answer, not even looking at you, focused on the path ahead.

Knowing that there's no arguing with him you decided to get comfortable in his hold and admire him.

Damn he looked so hot all focused and calm, and all yours. You closed your eyes, your head falling to rest on his shoulder with your arms hugging his neck. You could fall asleep like this, but before your consciousness left for good he spoke once again.

"We arrived." you heard his soft voice right above your ear. Your eyes slowly opened, reviling the beautifully prepared 'tent' from some kind of see-through fabric, with lots of lights everywhere and a blanket(s) inside accompanied by various pillows.

You looked at him, he was carefully studying your reaction.

"You prepared this?" you smiled already knowing the answer. He nodded his head slowly.

"With a little help." gently he put you down onto the blankets. You took in the details of his preparations.

There was a small table beside you, you saw there was a small board with the photos you took together adoring it, beside it lying were snacks and a tiny box, wrapped up like a present. You looked around a little more, imagining how much time he spent here, preparing all of this for you.

"It's really pretty." your gaze returned to the owner of your heart, he sat down beside you, his eyes not leaving your figure for a single moment "Thank you Xavier." you took his hand into yours, squeezing it lightly.

"It's really nothing that impressive." instantly you made the 'zip it' move with your fingers. He smiled and chuckled quietly.

"It's beautiful here, and I know that it took you a lot of thought and time to prepare this, I'm so thankful to have you in my life." you sealed your words with a kiss to his lips, what was supposed to be a quick and sweet peek turned into a make out session the moment his hand flew to the back of your head.

You didn't complain of course. Eventually he pulled away, still caressing your hair gently, with one hand he reached for something behind you, a second later you saw a bouquet made out of what looked like a hundred little flowers, resembling a thousand stars shining in the night sky.

Your smile softened even more, he really did his best today.

With the bouquet now in your hands he moved away a little bit to reach for your shoes, gently taking them off for you. You couldn't help but coo at him a little bit, how could someone look so innocent and angel-like but in reality- hold on wrong thoughts.

Next two hours you spend on cuddles, talking about your past years and the memories you made together, sometimes pointing to the photos for reminders of various moments that passed. You were overjoyed with having him in your life, proud to hold his hand and announce to everyone that this perfect man is all yours.

The darkness of the night sky peeked at you, the moon listened to your stories intensively, sharing your intimacy, watching you with a silent promise not to speak of this moment to anyone.

You were lying down together, desserts he brought already eaten. Your bodies facing each other, the warmth and feelings in your eyes worth more than a thousand words.

Slowly he raised from his lying position, sitting at the entrance of the make shift tent and taking something from the small table into his palm.

He looked at you over his shoulder, soft gaze meeting your eyes, you looked at him with a silent question, but instead of words he graced you with his hand, gesturing for you to take it, which you did instantly, pulling yourself up with his help.

He brought you up to your feet, and walked a couple steps with your palm resting in his.

The grass gently tickled your feet, before he came to stop with you in front of him. The little box now in his other hand.

"I thought a lot those past couple of weeks." his gaze dropped from your eyes to his hand "I can't imagine my life without you in it. A thousand lifetimes are not worth as much as your love." his eyes came back to yours. His hand never let go of yours.

You were confused, not understanding what was happening, but then...

You saw his body slowly leaning down, until one of his knees met the ground. For a moment you still couldn't grasp what was happening. But then it hit you, your eyes widen.

"I know that this is unexpected, but believe me, it's been on my mind for the longest time. I didn't know how to ask you, if there ever will be a right moment, but then I decided to make a perfect moment myself." you squeezed his hand a little to let him know you are listening "I'm sorry that this is not what a princess proposal should look like... But I know that you value little moments much more than grand spectacles, and that's probably one of the reasons I fell so deeply in love with you. With you there are no expectations, no questing my ideas, you're always there to support me, cheering me on every time." you couldn't help but laugh a little, to which he responded with a small smile of his own "So, if you'll only grace me with the honor of having you as my wife, I'll be the happiest man in the universe." he opened the little box, a beautiful ring hid there, now showing to you the prettiest gem you ever seen.

"Xavier I..." you laughed, overwhelmed with emotions, you were not expecting THAT to happen today, how did he manage to hide his plans so well? "Of course I'll be your wife." in a split second the ring found itself on your finger, fitting perfectly. A second later you were snooped up into Xavier's arms with him spinning you around.

Your laughter was his absolute favorite sound in the world. He stopped his spins, but still held you in his arms, a kiss fell onto your lips, instantly you got lost in the feeling, you cling to him like to a lifeline. He hugged you tighter, not letting you move away for even an inch.

You didn't know what gods to thank for sending him to you, but you will forever be thankful for the opportunity to share your life with this man.

You pulled back for air, breaking the heated kiss, your hot breaths mixing. He still didn't let you go. For a moment you could swear you saw tiny lights flying around him.

"I love you my starlight." he didn't even let you say it back before coming back to launch at your lips. Oh how much you loved your innocent looking freaky fiancé.

✨ LUMIERE, OUR LORD AND SAVIOR ✨

Artist: @Vega23al_