Jazzy. 30 Years Thriving. Hopeless Romantic. Ladies' Lady.
this is my personal blog for love & deepspace ( delusions ) fixations. aesthetics, writing & my beloveds writing will be shared here, and my photobooth addiction. as such minors do not interact. i am cringe & free, therefore know you've been warned prior to you scrolling further.
you ever wake up and think to yourself, "damn, imagine having a wifey like @cutiecore" but then i gotta pause because then i realize that i don't have to imagine because she already is my wifey 🩶 and she's such a blessing from universe, i love her so bad 🥰
I hate constantly having the mindset ( anxiety ) that all your friends hate you and that your writing sucks. When in reality you're worrying your lovely friends and they're just waiting to write / spend time with you again.
LIKE WHAT DO YOU MEAN?? YOU WANT TO WRITE WITH ME?? Little ole me? I cry.
Summary: It was your anniversary with Caleb. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC?
Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Caleb
Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Also I don't think any of these men would ever be the type to actually willlingly forget it. So I had to adapt the request a bit.
The scent of bergamot and cedarwood floated through Caleb’s apartment in Skyhaven, softly curling into the corners of the room like invisible ribbons. You lit the last candle on the side table and stepped back to admire the glow. Warm, golden, flickering light danced across the walls, illuminating the soft decorations you’d put up over the last hour. Not too much, just enough.
You didn’t want extravagance. Just meaning.
On the coffee table, resting atop a matte-black runner, lay a gift box wrapped in old flight maps you’d collected—each marked with places Caleb had once spoken fondly of in fleeting, quiet moments. You’d even managed to find a tattered map of Skyhaven from years ago, folded neatly beneath the ribbon. Inside was a handmade leather band, engraved on the inside with:
“Wherever you are, I’ll follow the stars to find you.”
Your handwriting.
You’d cooked his favorite—well, your closest approximation of it. No one could match his level of cooking after all. He always smiled, teasing you about your stubborn refusal to believe he didn’t care for dessert anymore. Still, you made the chocolate torte. Just in case. Just... in case. Everything was cilantro free, of course. You didn’t even like cilantro much before, but now you hated it. Anything he hated, you hated with him. Silly, maybe. But love does that.
The clock on the wall chimed softly.
19:00.
He said he’d be back by 18:30.
No message. No call.
You told yourself not to panic. Caleb’s schedule was unpredictable. He was the colonel of the Farspace Fleet, and that meant long days, critical decisions, last-minute emergencies. You knew that.
But not tonight. Not this night.
This night wasn’t an afterthought. It wasn’t just a date on a calendar. It was the first anniversary of a secret love built in the spaces between chaos.
A tiny beetle figurine carved from stone sat on the corner of the table, an inside joke between the two of you. He always lit up when he talked about his childhood obsession with Jurassic-era beetles. You used to tease him for it, but tonight you had carefully painted a set of hand-made ceramic beetles—one for each month you'd spent together and arranged them in a neat line down the mantle.
You glanced at the door. Nothing.
You told yourself to be patient. You were good at being patient. When he left on missions for weeks without contact. When he disappeared into classified operations. When he looked haunted and wouldn't tell you why.
By 20:12, your thoughts started to wander. Maybe something had come up? Maybe a fleet emergency. Maybe wanderers, Maybe…
Lina.
You hated yourself for thinking it. For imagining her. Her laughter, soft and bright. The way his shoulders always seemed to ease a little when she was around. The way he looked at her. Like he was still trying to memorize her face. Like she was something sacred.
You weren't stupid. You knew their history. The childhood they shared. The death he faked. The life he left behind.
You told yourself that the things he shared with you were real. The nights he’d let you trace the scars on his chest, every metal seam and human ache. The mornings he woke up mumbling your name. The trembling in his voice when he first told you, "You make me feel like I still have a heart."
But now the silence was starting to scream.
At 21:46, you stopped sitting. You stood in front of the food like it would suddenly summon him back, then paced. You tried messaging him—just once, just a small "Are you alright?"—but it stayed unread.
Maybe he forgot. No. Not Caleb.
Maybe he had a reason. He always has reasons.
Maybe you’re just a placeholder. ...
You sat down slowly on the couch, picking at a corner of the throw pillow you bought last month just because he said it looked "weird but kind of cute." That was you too, wasn’t it? Weird. Kind of cute. Not Lina.
Your eyes drifted to the tiny box you had placed on the table—your gift to him. It wasn’t much, not something you could buy from any real store. And then there was the box—small, simple, hand-carved. Inside it was a gift: a fragment of a meteorite you’d collected from the lab. Embedded in a thin ring of reinforced alloy, it was something solid, something real. You’d even written him a note, which you reread now, fingers trembling slightly.
To my gravity in the chaos, One year ago, I thought you were a ghost. One year ago, I didn’t know I could still believe in something so... alive. Thank you for choosing me—every day, even if no one else knows it. Yours, completely.
But maybe... maybe he didn’t want that.
At 22:19, you blew out the candles.
The air felt heavier now. Thicker.
You didn’t cry. Not yet. Not while there was still the chance of a knock on the door, an explanation, an apology. A breathless "I’m sorry, I couldn’t get away," and an arm around your shoulder.
But 23:02 came.
And went.
And with it, the last flicker of your excitement turned to quiet ache. You picked up the beetle figurine from the table and turned it over in your hand. You chewed on your bottom lip and pulled your arms around yourself, sinking into the edge of the sofa, your heart thudding too loudly in your ears.
You didn’t think you’d ever be a part of his world. Not with Lina still lingering in the shadows of his past — of his soul. But you had hoped… foolishly, maybe… that you'd made a place for yourself too.
Another hour passed.
You tried to distract yourself. Rearranged the silverware. Lit the candles. Unlit them. Checked your messages — nothing. Not even a standard “I’m running late” or one of his half-sarcastic "Try not to miss me too much" texts that always made you roll your eyes.
Your chest was starting to ache now.
You walked over to the large window, the lights of Skyhaven glowing like stars beneath your feet, and pressed your forehead against the cool glass.
Your fingers curled around the edge of your sleeve. Don’t spiral, you told yourself.
But then the whisper in the back of your mind rose louder — What if he’s with her?
He was always like this when it came to her.
It made sense. Lina had returned back to his life not long ago. She was a Deepspace Hunter now pulling danger around her like it belonged. Maybe she needed him again. Maybe he couldn’t stay away.
The worst part?
You couldn’t even hate her. You couldn’t blame her either.
You only hated how much of your soul curled inwards at the idea that when she called… Caleb still went.
You weren’t supposed to know. Not really. Not officially. But rumors had a way of finding even those meant to remain invisible. And you… you were invisible.
A secret, he said. To keep you safe.
The fleet didn’t know about you. Lina didn’t know about you. You were the girl tucked in the shadows, behind blackout protocols and security layers. He’d told you it was the only way. He’d told you the world he lived in—the things he did, the enemies he made—meant he could only protect one thing by keeping it hidden.
But belief was harder when your hands were cold from untouched plates, when your heart was heavy from unopened doors.
You imagined him smiling at her. The girl from his past. The one who knew him before the scars, before the mechanical arm, before the shadows. The one he never had to hide.
A bitter thought curled at the edge of your heart. If she’s sunlight, then what does that make me? A phantom in orbit?
You knew how his voice softened when he talked about Lina. How there was a different kind of ache in him, reserved just for her. He never denied their history. Never told you not to be jealous. He just looked at you with that same distant pain.
Maybe he had a good reason. Maybe something went wrong. Maybe he was out there saving the world again.
But maybe he just... didn’t choose you today.
The worst part?
You weren’t angry.
You were devastated.
The lock clicked.
You didn't move. You couldn't.
Your back remained pressed to the couch, the softest light of the starlamp casting shadows over your face as the door creaked open.
He entered like he always did—quiet, calculated, calm. But this time, you didn’t run into his arms. You didn’t say his name like a sigh of relief.
You didn’t say anything at all.
“...You’re still awake,” Caleb’s voice was low, uncertain. And tired.
You finally looked at him.
He wasn’t in uniform. His flying jacket was tossed over one shoulder, dark hair tousled as if he’d run his hand through it a hundred times. But his purple eyes—they were scanning the room. Seeing the set table. The cold food. And then they found you. His purple eyes met yours—sharpened by fatigue, but not empty of emotion. Not even close.
“I had to handle something,” he said, like it explained everything. Like four hours of silence on your anniversary could be fixed with a sentence.
“Was it Lina?” you asked softly.
His jaw tightened. “She was in Skyhaven.” He said it like that should explain everything. “Pip-squeak.. I mean Lina... She showed up without clearance. Asking questions. Getting close to restricted areas. I had to—”
You laughed. Bitter and broken. “Of course. Of course it was her.”
“She was risking her safety. She doesn’t understand what she’s walking into—what the Fleet is hiding—what’s at stake. I had to get her out without raising suspicion.”
A beat passed. You stood up, slowly, your movements deliberate.
“And you had to be the one to protect her?” your voice was calm. Dead calm. “Even if it meant giving up tonight?”
Caleb's brows knit together. “It’s not about her. It’s not like that—”
“Then what is it like?” You threw your arms out, a hollow laugh escaping you. “Because to me, it looks like she’s the one you protect in the open while I sit in the dark hoping you remember that I exist.”
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he said tightly. “But I couldn’t tell you the truth either. Not with what’s happening in—.”
“You mean the truth that you’ll always run to her?” you whispered. “That no matter how much time passes, or what we build, she’ll still come first? Because she knows the version of you before the metal and blood and ghosts?”
He frowned, stepping closer. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” you snapped, the dam breaking. “Tell the truth?”
“She was risking her life. I couldn’t ignore that.”
“But you could ignore me.” Your voice rose. “You could ignore the messages, the calls. You could ignore the fact that I planned every little thing today so you’d have even just one moment where you weren’t a colonel or a protector or a soldier. Just Caleb. Just my Caleb.”
“I am yours,” he said tightly.
“Then why do I feel like I’m always in second place?” Your voice cracked.
“Don’t,” he said sharply, his jaw tightening.
“Don’t what?” you stepped forward. “Tell you how it feels to always be second? To be your secret? I’ve lived in the shadow of your guilt, your duty, her—and I’ve accepted it. I never asked for more. I never asked for all of you. But this?” Your voice cracked. “Tonight? This was supposed to be ours.”
Silence pulsed in the room like static. Caleb’s face was unreadable, his right hand clenched so tightly the bionic servos whirred. He flinched like you'd hit him. His voice dropped, lower now, rough around the edges. “You do exist. You're the only thing I think about when I'm out there. I keep you hidden because it’s the only way to keep you safe.”
You took a step back. “You keep me hidden because you’re scared. Of what people will say. Of what she’ll feel. Of what it means to admit that you’ve moved on.”
His face twisted, frustration bleeding into his expression. “You think I haven’t moved on? You think I don’t want the entire galaxy to know that you’re mine?” He took a step toward you, but you didn’t let him close the gap.
“Then why Caleb? Why are we still a secret? Why is my name the only one you never say out loud?”
Silence stretched, thin and cutting.
“I waited,” your voice cracked, soft and splintering. “I waited all night. For you. For us. And you weren’t there.”
“I’m here now—”
“It’s not enough!” you snapped, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. “It’s not enough to show up after everything. I needed you when it mattered. When the candles were burning down. When I felt like a ghost in your life!”
His voice turned soft, almost pleading. “I’m doing everything I can—”
“I don’t need everything,” you whispered, heart splitting, “I just need you.”
Caleb’s mouth parted like he wanted to say something—like he was about to offer you some perfect, rational answer. You didn’t let him.
“Happy anniversary, Colonel.”
And with that, you grabbed your coat, storming past him, leaving behind the warmth, the gifts, the cold dinner, and every unsaid thing between you.
CALEB'S POV
The door slammed. The sound echoed like a bullet through Caleb’s skull.
He stood there, unmoving, breath stuck in his chest like a collapsed star. The starlight lamp flickered on the corner table. The food—her food—cold and untouched.
A year.
One year and he hadn’t even made it to the table.
He wanted to believe he had done the right thing. That protecting Lina—his Lina—was the correct choice. She was family. She was his responsibility. She always had been. Ever since they were children, when she scraped her knees chasing beetles and he carried her on his back. She was part of the life he left behind, the one tethered to memories, to ghosts, to everything he lost.
But then there was you.
The one who made this place feel less like a battlefield. Who waited for him. Who knew the darkness in him and still traced it with fingers that didn’t flinch. Who looked at him like he wasn’t some broken, weaponized shadow of a man.
And he left you. On your anniversary.
The room was a shrine to you. Your changes, your warmth, your effort—it clung to everything like a ghost. He picked up the ring box with a hand that was part metal, part guilt. His thumb brushed the note still folded neatly beneath it.
One year ago, I thought you were a ghost.
He sank onto the couch, the note clenched in his fist, breathing shallow.
You’re not wrong, he thought. You should hate me. You should have left long ago.
But he couldn’t change what he was. A protector. A weapon. He had promised himself, long before the explosion, that he would always be Lina’s shield. She was his past
But you...
You were everything he wanted. Not duty. Not history. Choice.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
You looked at me like I was still human.
And he had let you down.
The moment he realized you were gone, really gone and panic rose like ice in his throat. He stood too quickly, heart slamming into his ribs.
He picked up one of the beetle figurines, fingers trembling—not from weakness, but something far more dangerous. Regret. The kind that strangled you from the inside out.
Lina had found her way into danger again. She always did. Stubborn, reckless, determined to pull truths from the walls even if they buried her. She reminded him so much of the past, of the boy he used to be—of home.
And still.
She wasn’t the one who had waited for him in the dark.
She wasn’t the one who stayed, quietly patching up the pieces of a man the world thought dead.
Lina’s not her.
His head dropped. A breath slipped from him—frustrated, anguished. And then he moved. Like a switch had been flipped. He was already out the door.
The silence was suffocating, thick and heavy, as Caleb stormed through the corridor, rage simmering beneath his skin. The weight of his own failure pressed down on him with every step—he had been so damn stupid. How could he have left you alone? How could he have done that on your anniversary?
His breath quickened, chest tight with guilt, his mind racing through the possibilities. You were still in the city, somewhere. He had to find you. He had to fix this.
But then—
A soft sound broke through the tension. A muffled footstep. It was faint at first, like a whisper against the metal floor. Caleb’s heart skipped in his chest, a sense of foreboding crashing over him. It was faint at first, like a whisper against the metal floor. Caleb’s heart skipped in his chest, a sense of foreboding crashing over him like a wave. His instincts, honed for years in the fleet, went on high alert. Something wasn’t right. He froze, his eyes scanning the darkness of the lower docks.
And then he heard it—you.
Your voice. Weak, nervous, then a snap of contempt.
“Huh?”
“Didn’t think the Colonel had such bad taste.” The voice was low, unfamiliar—and dangerous. “Thought you’d be prettier,” he said, smirking.
Caleb's blood ran cold. His hands clenched, and his breath hitched. The voice was unfamiliar. The tone was too casual, too predatory. He recognized that kind of arrogance. His pulse hammered as his body shifted into autopilot—every fiber of his being screaming at him to move.
Without thinking, he bolted toward the sound, adrenaline flooding him like fire. He couldn’t breathe. His body moved faster than his mind could process, and as he rounded the corner, the scene unfolded in front of him.
A man—tall, smug, his uniform carelessly worn—was standing far too close to you. His eyes gleamed with malice, his grin stretched too wide. Caleb’s heart slammed into his throat as the man reached toward you, and in the span of a breath, Caleb was there.
He collided with the man’s side, the force knocking him off balance. The sound of their bodies hitting the ground was brutal—like a crash of stars falling from the sky. Caleb’s right arm swung and was a blur of motion—twists, jerks, a sickening crack as Caleb slammed his fist into the man’s ribs.
“You touch her,” Caleb snarled, his voice low, vicious, practically inhuman, “and you forfeit your life.” His evol pinned the disfigured man to the ground.
The man wheezed, scrambling to get to his feet. Caleb didn’t let him. He launched forward again, metal fist crashing into his chest with a sound like breaking glass.
You stood frozen nearby, the terror in your eyes driving Caleb further into that manic edge of rage. All he could think about was how close he’d come to losing you.
The man dropped to the ground, broken and bloodied, barely breathing. But Caleb didn’t stop. He grabbed the front of his collar, lifted him halfway off the floor.
“You thought I wouldn’t know?” His voice trembled with fury. “You thought you could lay a hand on her and walk away?”
The man whimpered something unintelligible, but Caleb didn’t care.
“I warned everyone—you don’t touch what’s mine.”
The man fell to the ground again in a heap, gasping, blood oozing from his mouth. But Caleb wasn’t finished. His eyes burned with the image of you—vulnerable, hurt, his failure etched into the lines of your face.
“You breathed near her,” Caleb snarled, each word dripping with contempt, his voice a growl of a man on the edge of losing everything.
The assassin laid motionless, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, too broken to do anything more. Caleb stood over him, fists clenched at his sides. An in another instance, the man was gone, sucked into a deep black void as Caleb watched.
And then he saw you.
You were there—frozen, eyes wide, lips parted. His world went quiet as his heart slammed against his ribs, the realization of what had just happened sinking in. You saw it all.
The tremble in your hands. The shock in your eyes. The confusion.
Shit.
Caleb felt a sickening twist in his gut. He didn’t know why he was so... angry. His whole world was colliding into pieces. He had failed you.
His chest tightened, and without thinking, he stepped toward you, but his body was unsteady. The violence, the rage, it all turned into something colder, sharper. The panic wasn’t in his body anymore—it was in his mind, clawing at him.
“You—” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t think.” His voice cracked, raw, as he reached for you, his hands trembling. “You—are you okay?” His voice barely formed the words. His breath came too fast, his head spinning with the need to hold you, to never let go, to protect you from every horrible thing in this world.
You didn’t speak at first. Your eyes kept flickering between him and the bloodstains on the pavement.
“Who was that?” you asked, your voice shaky.
“An assassin,” Caleb answered, his tone turning bitter as he looked down at the spot where he had just pulverized a man. “Someone sent to kill me. They wanted you too... to hurt you. Use you as leverage.”
His voice cracked again. The weight of what he was saying, of what had almost happened, hit him like a freight train. He couldn’t stop the violent rush of emotions anymore.
“I couldn’t let him touch you,” Caleb whispered, his eyes searching yours.
But you were still staring at him, still frozen. Your body was tense, stiff, as if you were afraid to move. Caleb’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
“I should’ve been there sooner,” he said, voice raw, broken. “I shouldn’t have let you walk out. I should’ve... I should’ve—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t find the right words. Instead, he rushed forward, grabbing your arm, pulling you against his chest, his grip fierce, desperate, the overwhelming need to hold you nearly suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice strained with emotion. “I swear to you... I won’t let anything happen to you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not even me.”
His breath was shaky as he buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. The scent of you—of safety, of the only place that ever made him feel whole—was like a drug, and his mind spun in circles. He could feel the tension in your body, could feel the way you were still holding yourself back, the way you were still questioning everything.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated, a mantra now. He could feel his heart beating erratically, his pulse hammering in his ears.
But then, something shifted in you. Something in your expression softened. You didn't pull away. You didn’t scream.
“Caleb...” you whispered, your voice barely a breath.
His voice cracked. “Are you hurt? Please—tell me you’re okay.”
Your hands came up hesitantly, resting against his chest. His heart stuttered at the contact. You weren’t pulling away.
“Caleb...” your voice was soft, uncertain, but there was no rejection in it. "I am not hurt... not physically."
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes—his own were raw, stormy with regret and something deeper: fear. Not of you. But of losing you.
“I know tonight is unforgivable,” he said quietly. “I know I messed everything up. You made this day something beautiful, and I...” His voice shook. “I ruined it.”
You stared up at him, eyes searching his face. For a moment, you didn’t speak. And then your hand lifted tentatively, cautiously—and brushed his cheek. The soft touch nearly brought him to his knees. He leaned into your palm instinctively, his entire body aching for that warmth he thought he had lost.
His jaw clenched. “I know. I know today… what I did… what I didn’t do—leaving you alone like that. I was supposed to protect you, and I—damn it—I nearly lost you.”
His voice cracked again, trembling like a fault line.
“You didn’t lose me,” you said softly. “Not yet.”
Caleb’s heart seized.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you more than the sky above us, more than every secrets I’ve had to keep. I know I failed you tonight. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness right now, but if you’ll let me try—really try—I’ll make it up to you.”
You lowered your gaze, your hand still resting on his cheek.
Caleb felt a tremor run through him at the thought. He had lost so much—so many pieces of himself, and if you were to leave... he wasn’t sure how he’d survive it.
His eyes softened as he continued, his gaze unwavering. “I know I’ve crossed lines, pushed you too hard... but I’ll do better. I’ll draw boundaries. I’ll protect you, the way I should’ve before, the way you deserve. You’re not just my responsibility. You’re everything to me. I’ll keep you safe, I swear it. I’ll make sure you never have to feel like today again.”
He let his forehead rest against yours, eyes closing briefly, trying to steady his own racing heart. "Please," he breathed out, the word a plea that carried the weight of everything unsaid. “If you’ll have me—if you’ll let me—just give me the chance to make it right.” His voice shook with the vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show, his usually controlled demeanor cracking under the strain of his need for you. He drew in a shaky breath and opened his eyes, meeting your gaze. “I know I’m not easy to love. I know I’ve been... wrong. But please,” his voice was low, almost pleading, “give me a chance to prove that I can be the man you deserve. That I can make it right.”
Caleb’s heart thudded painfully as he awaited your response, his body tense, waiting for any sign—any flicker of forgiveness, of hope. His mind screamed at him to fix everything, to reassure you that he would never let something like this happen again.
“I... I can’t promise I’ll forget this,” you murmured, your voice small but steady. “But I’m not going to leave you.”
His chest tightened, but he nodded, his eyes full of remorse. “I know,” he said, his voice breaking with sincerity. “I’ll respect that. I’ll listen. I promise. I just... I just want you to be safe. And I want you to know that I will always be here. Always.”
You held his gaze, searching for any signs of insincerity, but there was none. He was real. He was here, vulnerable, and for the first time, you could see the depth of his love—his obsession—but also his regret.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. “But I need time. I need to know you’ll ne here… You’ll be transparent with me and draw boundaries…”
Caleb's eyes softened, the tension in his body easing, though the yearning was still there—quiet, but ever-present. He nodded, slowly, the weight of your words settling in. “I’ll be all of that. For you. For us.” He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours again, his voice barely a whisper, “Just... let me make it up to you. Please.”
You sighed, the weight lifting a little from your shoulders as you let yourself lean into him. The fear, the doubt, the anger—they were still there, lingering, but you felt a small flicker of hope.
You closed your eyes, sighing shakily against his chest. You still didn’t pull away.
Not forgiven. Not forgotten.
But still here.
For Caleb, that was everything.
The night was still broken. The world still dangerous.
But you—alive, warm, trembling in his arms—you were still his star in the blackness.
He just held you, tighter this time.
And you let him.
AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!
//an OOC post in which i ask for assistance, a thing i hate to do.
so, i had a full-blown mental breakdown on the 13th. the kind where you rethink your entire existence and maybe consider disappearing into the void for a bit.
i took a leave of absence from work (which, trust me, wasn’t easy), and i’m waiting on disability benefits to process. in the meantime, my last paycheck was mysteriously short, because apparently chaos likes company.
i just paid rent. my meds were increased. i have a therapy session and a psych visit coming up—both with $60 copays i really need to make. also need groceries, because shockingly, air doesn’t count as a meal.
normally being broke doesn’t rattle me too much (capitalism is a joke anyway), but this time it’s hitting harder. i live in a state where wages don’t even pretend to keep up with the cost of living, and i absolutely hate asking for help. but here we are.
if you’re able to donate—even a little—it would help so much. and if not, a reblog/share would mean a lot too
ko-fi is the easiest way for me to accept donations.
thank you for reading this far. i wish i didn’t have to write it.
thinking caleb thoughts,,, soft... i hate it here and not posting on my side blog so jdnsjdjdjd
the day of your child's birthday that happens to be his birthday as well, caleb is busily getting your kiddo's birthday party set up and everything while you're deep in slumber, he's got the banner up, even managed to go to the store to get cake and by the time he's gently waking you up, he's all bright eyes and face, a gentle smile on his lips as he kisses your forehead.
"morning sleepyhead, the kids are gonna be here soon. you should get ready, everything else is all done, don't worry about it."
then the party begins, the kids are running about, and it's time to blow the candles of the birthday cake, caleb jokingly saying he forgot a cake for him, since he was too focused on preparing the birthday party for your child, so he'll just share with them.
all the children are practically wiped out from all the fun of running around, playing games, eating cake and opening presents. little by little everyone begins to file out of your place until it's just you, caleb and your child. he tells you to go tuck them in while he cleans up a bit and that he'll meet you upstairs.
you're tucking in your child when caleb shuffles in quietly, but your child is still awake, wanting to get hugs from you both, and it warms his heart knowing your child wanted to wait for him before falling asleep.
you two head back downstairs, laughing and throwing confetti at one another, at some point you manage to swipe frosting on his cheek and now you're running and he's chasing you until he uses his evol to pull you into his arms, despite your whines and accusations of him obviously cheating.
"oh, come on, pipsqueak... you don't actually hate it when i do this, right?" and there's that smile of his, bright with his purple eyes shining with so much adoration for you.
"no... no i don't, but you still cheated, you and your damn evol."
"you love me," he teased and smears the icing you got on his cheek by him nuzzling his cheek against yours.
"caleb!" you laugh, playfully pushing at his chest.
"am i wrong?"
then with a sigh, grabbing his face and stealing a kiss from his lips, "no, you're not. happy birthday, caleb."
and he's sweeping you off your feet (literally) heading upstairs to your guys' room with a big ass smile on his face, while your cheeks are heating up as you play with his dogtag until he shuts the door behind the two of you.
Plot: Rafayel wants to go swimming with you but your insecurities have other plans. Based on this request
Pairing: Chubby! reader x Rafayel
Note: Rafayel and reader are not in a relationship but there is an implied mutual attraction.
Content warning: insecurities, self depriciation, body image issues, angst (hurt-comfort).
Sylus version: More to love |
It was another scorching day in Whitesand Bay, the heat wrapping itself around everything like a heavy blanket. Rafayel’s studio, though large and open, was still stifling, the heat seeping in through the windows, making it nearly unbearable. Yet, his energy remained constant, almost too infectious. He bounced around the space, flitting between his easel and a pile of freshly painted canvases, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
“You’re awfully quiet today,” he teased, leaning against his easel with that insufferably cocky grin. “Thinking about me, aren’t you? Go on, admit it.”
You rolled your eyes, masking your discomfort with a half-hearted laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He chuckled, moving closer until he was just a breath away. “Oh, but I don’t need to, cutie. You already do it for me.”
You watched him from your spot, marveling at his effortless grace. He was in his element, his dusky purple hair falling into his face as he dabbed at the canvas with a brush. Occasionally, he’d glance back at you, a sly smile curving his lips.
“You know,” he began, his tone teasing, “you’d make the perfect muse. Why don’t you let me paint you sometime?”
You laughed softly, a sound you hoped didn’t betray the nervous flutter in your chest. “I don’t think I’d sit still long enough for you to finish.”
Rafayel turned, raising a brow in mock disapproval. “Nonsense. You’re perfect just as you are. Besides, I think I’d enjoy the challenge of capturing your essence.”
It was always like this with him. Playful. Flirtatious. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room, even though you’d seen firsthand how easily he dismissed others. People fawned over him—his talent, his charm, his looks—but Rafayel never seemed interested. Yet with you, he was different.
But you couldn’t help the doubt that lingered in the back of your mind. What if this was just his way? You wanted to believe he was just being playful, that he didn’t mean it the way your heart desperately wished he did. Because how could someone like him—a vision of elegance and charisma—see someone like you in any other way?
You crossed your arms, tugging the fabric of your shirt tighter around you, as if it could shield you from his gaze. Rafayel always had a way of looking at you like he was trying to peel back layers, like he saw something you couldn’t. And it terrified you.
And then there was your body. Stretch marks, rolls, flabs. All the things you tried so hard to hide. Around Rafayel, you were especially self-conscious, always careful to cover up, to deflect attention away from yourself. He was an artist, after all, a man who revered beauty in all its forms. Surely, someone like him couldn’t find someone like you truly beautiful.
“Earth to you,” Rafayel’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you blinked up at him to find him staring at you, his hands on his hips.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, offering a weak smile.
“Sooooo, are you ready?” Rafayel called out, glancing over his shoulder at you. He leaned against the doorframe with that devilish grin of his—flirtatious and yet utterly carefree. You glanced up from your position by the window, attempting to push the self-doubt creeping into your chest as he beckoned you over.
“Ready for what?” you muttered, not eager to engage. The last thing you wanted was to deal with another one of Rafayel’s whims.
“A swim, cutie.” he declared, his voice light and teasing. “The ocean's calling us, don’t you think?”
You stiffened, already feeling the weight of the impending conversation. Swimming. Bathing suits. He’d see more of you. That thought alone sent a wave of panic rushing through you. No, I can’t—
“I—uh, I don’t know…” You trailed off, shifting uncomfortably. "I’m just not feeling it today."
“Oh come on,” he pouted, pushing away from the doorframe with exaggerated dismay. “It’s way too hot, and we could both use a break. Besides, I promised we’d do something fun today.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to avoid looking at him too long. What if he looks at me differently? Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. You’d been covering up around him for so long, hoping he’d never notice the things you tried so hard to hide.
“I don’t have my swimwear with me,” you quickly said, the excuse feeling weak as the words left your mouth.
Rafayel raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean you don’t have it? I’ll buy you one at the boutique down the road. They’ve got everything.” His voice was laced with amusement, but you could feel a twinge of impatience creeping into his words.
Your heart skipped a beat. No, no, no. I can’t do that. Not with him seeing me like that…
“I’m just… not really in the mood, Rafayel,” you stammered, avoiding his gaze. “You go ahead, I’ll just...Keep you company on the beach.” You swallowed, your palms growing clammy. “I… I don’t feel like it. Maybe another time.”
“Another time?” he echoed, his tone flat. Then his voice softened, laced with curiosity. “What’s going on with you, really?”
“I said I’m not in the mood—”
“Don’t lie to me.” he interrupted, his playful demeanor gone. His gaze was sharp, piercing, as though he could see every thought running through your mind. “What’s wrong?”
The dam broke before you could stop it.
“I just… I can’t, okay? I don’t want you to see me like that!” The words tumbled out, fast and frantic. Your breathing hitched as panic clawed at your chest. “I’m… I’m fat, Rafayel. I have stretch marks, rolls, flab—whatever you want to call it. And you… you’re you. You’re perfect. Handsome. And you flirt with me, but that’s just who you are, right? You wouldn’t actually—how could you? Look at me!”
Your voice cracked, tears welling in your eyes. You couldn’t stop now, even if you wanted to. “People like you don’t see people like me. Not really. And I don’t blame you, because who would want to? I’m not beautiful. I’m not anything. I’m just…” You trailed off, choking on the lump in your throat. “I am a whale. A big whale. People would look at us and wonder what someone like you is doing with someone like me. And you’re an artist! You see beauty everywhere, but what happens if you look at me and realize I’m—”
“Stop.”
The single word cut through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, sharp and unyielding. You froze, choking back a sob as you dared to meet his eyes. When you finally dared to look at him, Rafayel’s expression startled you. His playful smirk was gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded. His jaw was tense, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked… offended. No, furious.
“Are you done?” he asked, his voice low, trembling with restrained emotion.
You nodded, your heart sinking. Of course, he was angry. Why wouldn’t he be? You’d made a fool of yourself, ruined whatever fragile dynamic you had with him.
“Come with me.” He stretched out his hand, his movements sharp, deliberate.
“What?”
“Come. With. Me.” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument.
Hesitant, you placed your hand in his. His grip was firm, almost too tight, as he led you across the studio to a corner you’d never paid much attention to. A cluster of canvases sat there, each covered in white cloth.
Without a word, Rafayel grabbed the edge of one cloth and yanked it away.
Your breath caught in your throat.
It was a painting. Of you.
Not an embellished version of you, not some idealized fantasy, but you as you were. Your stretch marks, your curves, every detail you hated about yourself—it was all there. But somehow, in his brushstrokes, it was beautiful. They weren’t altered. They were you. Raw, honest, and breathtakingly beautiful. You were beautiful. The woman in the painting looked almost like an ethereal goddess, with all the features you’d tried to hide—your soft curves, your round face, the way your body naturally flowed—on full display. You barely recognized the figure, as if it wasn’t you at all.
There you were, sitting by the window, the sunlight kissing your skin. There you were again, lost in thought, your features softened by a dreamy expression. In another, you were laughing, your smile radiant, your body draped in soft fabrics that celebrated every curve, every line, every part of you that you had always tried to hide.
“This,” Rafayel said, his voice breaking the silence, “is how I see you. Do you even hear yourself?” His voice was low, trembling with an intensity you hadn’t expected. “You think I’d look at you—you—and see anything less than perfection? You think I’d waste my time on someone who wasn’t worth every second of it?”
You turned to him, your lips trembling. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
“Every brushstroke, every color—I poured myself into these because I wanted to capture you. You. Not some distorted version of what the world says you should be. You, with your stretch marks, your rolls, your everything. Do you know how beautiful you are to me?” He uncovered another, and another. Each one a masterpiece, each one of you.
“This,” Rafayel said, his voice rough with emotion, “is how I see you. Not some distorted version of yourself you’ve convinced yourself I’d be ashamed of. This.”
Each one, a depiction of you—each angle, each pose, each moment captured with breathtaking beauty. You stared at the paintings in disbelief. He hadn’t changed anything about you. He hadn’t smoothed over the imperfections, hadn’t tried to make you look like someone else. He had captured you, exactly as you were, and in a way that made you look… beautiful. You were beautiful in every stroke, every shade of color he had used.
He stepped closer, his gaze softening as he looked at you, still reeling from the revelation.
“This is how I see you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. His fingers brushed against your cheek, almost reverently. “As for this… whale business? Humans like to forget that whales are majestic creatures. Powerful. Graceful. They’ve been admired for centuries, not ridiculed. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Fishes come in all shapes and forms, and yet are beautiful. As are you. Your shape, your insecurities do not blemish your beauty in my eyes, they enhance it.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding. “I… I didn’t know.”
He gave you a small smile, that same devilish grin now softened with something far deeper. “In Lemuria, you’d be worshipped. Not shamed. You are beautiful, just the way you are, and I’m not going to let you forget that. You deserve to be seen, really seen, for all the beauty you have to offer. Every inch of it.”
You turned to face him, your vision blurry with tears. “You really think...?”
“I don’t just think it,” he interrupted, cupping your face with both hands. “I know it. In Lemuria, you would be the most beautiful woman to exist. Sought after. The very definition of beauty. And even if the entire world disagrees, it doesn’t matter, because to me, you are a work of art. And no matter what or who I paint, nothing could ever compare to you.”
His thumb brushed away a tear that rolled down your cheek. “So don’t ever insult yourself like that again. And stop hiding from me. Stop hiding from the world. Because you’re perfect exactly as you are. Understand?”
You nodded, your heart swelling with a mix of emotions you couldn’t even begin to name.
Rafayel smiled then, soft and genuine. “Good. Now, about that swim...”
You laughed through your tears, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a little lighter. A little more... beautiful.
AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!
Summary: Sylus wants to spoil you rotten and takes you shopping. But things don't go as planned in the fitting room as your insecurities take over.
pairing: Chubby! reader x Sylus
Note: Sylus and reader are in an implied relationship. This is based on this request.
Content warning: insecurities, self depriciation, body image issues, slightly suggestive towards the end, angst (hurt-comfort).
The boutique’s soft lighting bathed the room in warm, golden hues, casting a glow on the endless racks of designer clothes that stretched before you. Sylus had dragged you out here, his hand firm on your lower back as he guided you into the posh little shop without a word of protest allowed.
“Indulge me, kitten,” he’d said with that signature smirk of his, his silver hair catching the sunset through the boutique’s large windows. “Pick something you like. No limits.”
As if limits had ever existed when Sylus was involved. He was a man of excess, of extravagance, and he was determined to spoil you rotten—even if you argued you didn’t need it. But you relented, knowing there was no saying no to him when he had his mind set. As you browsed through the aisles, your fingers brushed over silken fabrics and embroidered hems, eyes catching on the occasional outfit you usually would pick for yourself, only not in a store like this. Maybe he just liked to see you in pretty things. Maybe he liked watching you fumble over making decisions. But no matter the reason, you couldn’t help but feel a slight warmth bloom in your chest as you picked up a few pieces that caught your eye. His attention was there, but only just.
And then you saw it.
A little black dress, understated yet elegant, with faint red accents that shimmered subtly in the light. It screamed Sylus in every way: sharp, refined, and impossible to ignore. Your chest tightened with a flicker of excitement as you imagined yourself in it, standing next to him in his usual immaculate attire. He’d look at you the way he always did, with that blend of teasing confidence and a softness he reserved only for you. You could picture how well you'd complement each other, the two of you so flawless together that you felt almost… untouchable.
Grabbing it from the rack, you added it to the pile of clothes you’d picked for yourself and headed to the dressing rooms. The velvet curtain whispered shut behind you, enclosing you in a quiet little space with a single mirror framed in warm lights. The changing room felt cold and sterile as you slipped into the dress, carefully pulling it over your body. It should have fit perfectly—after all, you’d picked it out. It was your choice. But as you zipped it up, a knot tightened in your stomach.
The fabric clung to your body in ways it shouldn't have, and not in a flattering manner. It sat all wrong on your bosom, the seams straining against the curves of your chest, barely able to close. You tugged at the zipper, trying to pull it up the side, but it caught painfully against your side, tugging uncomfortably at the soft roll near your bra strap.
You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection unfamiliar. The dress, which had seemed so perfect on the rack, now felt like a cruel joke. The skirt, meant to be a silhouette, flared out over your thighs in a way that felt mocking. It hung awkwardly around your thighs in a way that made your legs look thicker, not more elegant. Your belly, which you’d always been conscious of, seemed to bulge in ways that felt out of place, unnatural against the black silk. The faint shimmer of the red accents only seemed to draw attention to the areas you least wanted highlighted.
What is wrong with me?
The voice inside your head was loud now, relentless.
I don’t belong in this dress.
Your fingers clenched the fabric at your sides as a wave of self-consciousness washed over you. The dress wasn’t the problem—it was you.
The mirror seemed to mock you, reflecting back every feature you’d learned to hate over the years. Your belly, round and soft, pushed against the fabric. Your thighs looked larger than ever, the material refusing to lie smooth. Your arms, left bare by the sleeveless design, felt exposed and unwelcome in the polished setting of this boutique.
As you stared, echoes of the past began to surface, unbidden and cruel. Your face twisted into a frown as you turned from side to side. The more you looked at yourself, the more you hated it. The reflection staring back at you seemed foreign, as though it was someone else’s body you’d somehow ended up in.
"You’ve got such a pretty face; you’d be stunning if you lost a little weight,” your mother’s voice chimed in your head, the way it had so many times over the years. Well-meaning, she’d always called it. But the words had planted themselves deep in your heart.
"Are you sure you want seconds?” a friend’s teasing voice from a high school cafeteria, laughing as though it was just a joke. It hadn’t been funny then, and it wasn’t funny now.
"I’m just saying, you’d feel so much better if you exercised more," someone had told you once, their tone dripping with condescension disguised as care.
Your friends in high school, laughing when you couldn’t fit into the trendy outfits they wore, saying, “Oh, don’t worry, you’ve got such a cute face!”
The offhand comment from a coworker last year: “Have you tried keto? I heard it’s great for people like you.”
Your father, well-meaning but always critical, pinching your belly and saying, “You’d be so much prettier if you lost all this fat.”
The memories compounded until your chest tightened with a mix of anger and shame.
God, I look disgusting in this.
And now, in this too-small dressing room with this too-tight dress, those voices joined your own as you whispered to yourself.
"I look ridiculous. Why did I even think I could pull this off? Sylus wouldn’t want to be seen with someone like this. Someone like me."
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you forced them back. Crying here would be too much, too embarrassing. You turned away from the mirror, pulling at the dress, wanting nothing more than to get it off. Your breathing hitched as the panic rose, your nails biting into your palms to keep yourself steady. But the tears were already threatening to fall.
The curtain separating you from the world felt as thin as paper and just as fragile. The muffled murmur of boutique shoppers and the faint hum of music didn’t penetrate the storm of thoughts swirling in your head. The dress felt tighter by the second, suffocating, and your own reflection stared back with an almost accusatory glare.
Why did you even think you could look good in this? You were out of place, weren’t you? Not just in the dress, but here—here in this boutique, in Sylus’s world, in his life. The idea of walking out of the changing room, of standing in front of him and seeing that ever-present smirk falter for even a second, was unbearable.
Your fingers fumbled at the zipper, trying to undo it, but your hands were shaking too much to find the tab. The fabric bunched awkwardly around your side, pinching and pulling in a way that only made you hate it more. Hate yourself more. A sharp inhale turned into a shaky exhale as your vision blurred with unshed tears.
He’s going to see right through you. He’ll realize you’re not the kind of person who belongs at his side.
The voices in your head grew louder, and you didn’t even hear his approach until his voice broke through the storm, smooth and teasing, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Kitten,” Sylus drawled, his tone dripping with amusement, “don’t tell me you’ve gotten lost in there. Or are you planning to make me wait all day?”
Your breath caught. “I’m fine. I just… need another minute,” you called out, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracked ever so slightly. You winced, praying he hadn’t noticed.
But he had. Of course, he had.
“Hmm,” came his thoughtful hum, followed by the sound of his boots against the boutique’s plush carpet. Closer. Too close. “You don’t sound fine, sweetie. Should I come in and—”
“No!” The word came out sharper than you intended, panic rising in your chest. “Just—stay out there. I’ll be out in a second.”
There was a pause. Long enough for you to realize he wasn’t moving away. His teasing edge was gone when he spoke again, quieter this time. “Sweetie. What’s wrong?”
“I said I’m fine!” you snapped, your voice a pitch higher than you intended. You winced at your own tone. The last thing you wanted was for him to push further.
But Sylus was nothing if not persistent. “Sweetie, you’re never fine when you say you are,” he said, the teasing edge returning, but softer now, as though he was testing the waters. “I’m coming in.”
“No, don’t—” Your protest was cut short as the velvet curtain slid to the side.
The curtain shifted slightly, and you turned away from it, clutching the fabric of the dress like a shield. Sylus stepped into the small dressing room, his broad frame somehow making the space feel even smaller. His usual air of control and confidence filled the room, his sharp crimson eyes immediately locking onto yours. But his smirk faltered as he took you in—your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands, and the ill-fitting dress that clung awkwardly to your frame.
“Sweetie…” His voice was low, laced with genuine concern as he stepped closer. “What’s going on?”
You turned away, hugging yourself tightly. “Nothing. Just go, Sylus. Please.”
He didn’t move. Instead, he reached out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. “Look at me,” he said, his tone soft but commanding.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
“And why not?” he asked, his brows furrowing. “You’re my kitten, aren’t you?"
You turned away, hugging yourself tightly. “Nothing. Just go, Sylus. Please..I don’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
“Like what?” he asked, stepping closer, his hands reaching out but not quite touching you yet. “What are you talking about?”
You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “Like you’re trying to fix something that’s broken. I’m not—I’m not—” The words caught in your throat, but they spilled out anyway, raw and jagged. “I’m not good enough for this. For you. For any of it.”
His frustration was evident in the way his jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his tone was calm. “Where is this coming from?”
You gestured helplessly at your reflection. “Look at me! This dress—it doesn’t fit. It doesn’t look right. I don’t look right, Sylus. I thought I could—” Your voice broke. “I thought I could make myself… better. For you. But I just… don’t fit.”
The air grew heavy with your words, and for a moment, Sylus didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, his hands firm but gentle as they gripped your wrists, lowering them from where they clutched the dress. His touch was grounding, solid.
“Stop,” he said, his voice soft but commanding. “Stop tearing yourself apart like this.”
You blinked up at him, tears slipping free despite your efforts. “But it’s true. I don’t fit in your world. I don’t even fit in this stupid dress.”
His hand slid down your arm, his fingers curling around yours to still their trembling. “Stop,” he repeated, his voice firm but not unkind.
“No, I need to say it,” you continued, the dam breaking as tears spilled down your cheeks. “You’re this—this untouchable, powerful, perfect man, and I’m just—” You gestured helplessly at yourself, the words catching in your throat. “I’m not good enough for you, Sylus. I’ll never be good enough.”
He was silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as he studied you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something far more serious. “That’s enough of that.”
You blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift in his tone.
“You think I care about any of that?” he said, his eyes boring into yours “Sweetie,” he murmured, his tone laced with exasperation and something deeper—something tender. “You don’t need to fit into anything to be enough for me.”
His fingers brushed your cheek, wiping away a tear. “You think I give a damn about some dress? About whatever bullshit standard you think you’re failing to meet?” His crimson eyes burned with intensity as he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “You don’t need to impress me. You already have me wrapped around your finger.”
Your breath hitched, his words sinking in even as you tried to resist them. “But I—”
“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “No more of that. Do you know what I see when I look at you?” His hands slid to your shoulders, his grip firm but warm. “I see the person who challenges me, who stands toe-to-toe with me even when she’s scared. The person who’s made my cold, miserable world worth living in.” His lips quirked into a faint smile. “And, if you must know, I happen to think you’re absolutely stunning. Always.”
“But I—” you began, but he cut you off with a shake of his head.
“No buts,” he said firmly. “You don’t need to dress up to impress me. I’m already smitten, in every way possible.”
His words hung in the air, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Slowly, the tightness in your chest began to ease, the storm in your mind quieting as his presence anchored you. He reached for the zipper, his movements careful and deliberate as he began to undo the dress.
“Let’s get you out of this,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “We’ll find something that makes you feel like the goddess you are. And if we don’t, then to hell with the clothes.” Sylus’s hands lingered at the zipper, his eyes meeting yours with a teasing glint as the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “Though, between you and me, kitten…” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, “I think you’d look better without anything on at all.” His fingers brushed deliberately against your skin as he slid the zipper down further, his touch light but intentional, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.
Your cheeks burned, the heat rushing to your face at his boldness. “Sylus…” you began, but the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the intensity of his gaze.
He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear as he spoke again, his tone a mixture of playful and reverent. “But let me make one thing very clear, sweetie. Clothes or no clothes, none of that matters to me. You’re already perfect to me—just as you are. Nothing you wear or don’t wear is going to change that.”
His hands rested firmly on your hips now, steadying you as the trembling in your legs began to subside. “And by the time I’m done worshiping you, adoring you, loving you over and over again,” he continued, his voice husky, filled with an almost dangerous promise, “you’ll see yourself the way I see you. The way I’ve always seen you. Stunning, irresistible, absolutely mine.”
You shivered, not from the chill of the room, but from the weight of his words and the warmth in his touch. He tilted your chin up with one finger, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You’ll see it, sweetie. I’ll make sure of it. Because in my eyes, you’re more than enough—you’re everything.”
The air between you was thick with unspoken emotion, the tension melting into something softer, something unyieldingly honest. His lips brushed your forehead, lingering there for a moment before he pulled back, his hands never leaving your sides. “I’ll remind you every single day, sweetie. Over and over again, until there’s no room in your mind for anything but how much I adore you. Do you understand?”
You nodded, tears prickling at your eyes again—but this time, they weren’t born of pain or self-doubt. They were tears of relief, of something lighter and more hopeful.
“I’ll believe it,” you whispered, your voice trembling but earnest. “I’ll try.”
Sylus’s smirk softened into a smile, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped down your cheek. “That’s all I ask. But just so you know…” His voice turned playful again, his lips quirking up at the corners. “I’m not above a little convincing, sweetie. And believe me, I’m very persuasive.”
“So,” he said, his smirk returning, though softer now, “what do you say we ditch this boutique? I’m thinking we’ve got better things to do than fuss over dresses that don’t deserve you anyway.” His thumb stroked gently over your hip, his touch grounding and sure.
The storm within you calmed as he pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if shielding you from the weight of your insecurities. For the first time in what felt like forever, you believed that maybe—just maybe, you could accept yourself just the way you are, just the way he did.
AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!
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LINA!! ( saying this like i'm not yelling in a server rn. )
What the heck?! Thank you! You're always so kind. Thank you for always making me smile and being so easy to talk to. I'm really happy we're friends and even happier to get to know you!
