Hi! My name is Jelli. 21 y/o. Black. She/her. Iām a certified sapphic, who has an affinity for men of the fictional variety. Your friendly neighborhood Xavier Main.
Rules:
MDNI. I play and talk about adult games with ADULTS. And I am not afraid of the block button.
I do take requests, however I have no obligation to fill it. I write purely on inspiration and if I have time.
Characters I write for: Xavier
Fandoms I write for: Love and Deepspace
Fandoms I interact w/ but isnāt my main focus of content: Critical Role, JJK, BG3, and MANY other animes.
he canāt help but groan. he knows what he wants. you know what he wants. but if you must hear it, he will oblige. because no amount of embarrassment can overshadow his desperation.
āno. i want to eat your pussy. ā¦you know that.ā
its become routine. even more so than sex itself. āiām starting to think you enjoy this more than me.ā you laugh, voice light as you lay back and allow him to unzip your jeans.
he doesnāt deny it.
like always, he starts off slow. soft kisses to your thighs. finger gliding up and down your clothed slit. sweet nothings flowing from his mouth like a
āyouāre beautiful, baby.ā he can feel that wet spot forming. itās like clockwork with you, and god does he love it.
heās extra slow moving his finger up. the moment he brushes over your clit, you just ever so slightly. make the cutest sound. heās already hard at this point. āstill canāt believe youāre mine.ā he mumbles.
he toys with the cute bow at the top of your panties for just a moment before sliding them down. in an effort to help, you sit up, but heās quick to stop you.
āno. iāve got it. please.ā his tone gives the impression that heās begging. truth be told, he basically is. his mouth is watering to get a taste. āi want to make you cum. all on my own. wanna earn it.ā
and so you let him. it takes no time for him to lap at your pussy. his nose bumps right into your clit every time he takes another lick. the taste alone drives him wild. heās practically humping the mattress without even realizing it.
both of you are too drunk on pleasure to care too much. your fingers find their home in his scalp, tugging hard to pull him closer. to have more. it earns you some squeals in response - the good kind.
greed fuels the both of you. the harder you pull his hair, the tighter you squeeze your thighs, the wetter your pussy becomes, the closer he gets to finishing in his pants.
itās almost indescribable what he feels when you finally finish. it not only makes his dick throb, but his heart too. heāll never grow tired of pleasing his girl.
but that doesnāt stop him.
he keeps slurping, keeps flicking his tongue against your clit. and that breath you take in when you realize he hasnāt stopped, that moment when you get a sudden rush of sensitivity? thatās the moment that does him in.
he can feel cum spurt out of his tip, the creaminess dripping right back down his boxers with nowhere to go. it feels gross and messy and so fucking good. heās practically moaning into your pussy by the time you reel his head back.
thereās a small moment of panting between the both of you. analyzing the other, recovering from the intensity of it all, and taking in what just happened.
āā¦i-i think i came.ā
you gulp, glancing down at his pants as if you could somehow see right through them.
ą«® ā¤ ā¤ ą¾ą½²įļ½” ę²ęå : off my table!
synopsis.ā after a horrid meeting at work, you find xavier asleep at your desk. he's... unusually clingy.
tags.ā sfw, fluff, crack kinda, pre-relationship xavmc, gn!reader, reader's already a little annoyed for comedic effect, idrk i wrote this on a whim :C. short & not proofread!
āThatās correct, miss. This monthās attacks have been greatly reduced thanks to ourāā
One more word from this meeting and your head will explode. No, in fact, implode. That would be less of a mess to clean up. Itās a shame youāre all by yourself there. Apparently, they specifically needed you, showing you off as a trophy for all youāve managed to accomplish recently. There was no way out.
You wanted Tara to be there, at the very least. Nudging your shoulder every now and then, cracking some random joke-remark while the higher ups would be discussing over serious stuffā¦ anything but this. Her presence would help with lighting up the mood instead of having to deal with the fact that two of your supervisors are standing there, admiring you as if youāre a statue made out of authentic gold.
Thankfully for you, it ends quickly, which makes you walk back towards your desk, exiting the meeting room. It feels like your head is made out of nothing but putty, melting down on your body as you sluggishly try to find your way back. Not only this, but paperworkās happily anticipating you back there. Another headache perfectly awaiting your arrival. Wonderful.
Slowly pulling yourself together, you open the door leading to your office. Thatās where you see a white-haired man, in his hunter uniform, in your chair, his head on your desk, inā¦ what?
āXavier?ā Your voice reaches his ears, his fingers coiling ever so slightly around the edges of your desk. His closed eyes twitch a little, before groggily opening themselves up, still squinting, to take a good look at you and at his surroundings. He seemed as if he didnāt understand why he was even there.
āMmh?ā He lets out a soft murmur, slooowly raising his head from the desk. This way, you can get a better look at your work partner and neighbor who just so happened to fall asleep right where you should be sitting at. You perk your eyebrows up in response to his mumbling, asking for answers.
Xavier doesnāt speak, however. That prompts you to break the silence once more.
āAre youā¦ alright? Whatāre you doing here?ā
Itās not long before his eyes fully open to look directly into yours. āJust hanging out.ā
Hanging out?! Is he being serious right nowā¦?
āAtā¦ at my desk?ā Rhetorical tone drips out of your throat.
āYes.ā He answers casually, as if this is a normal, day-to-day occurance. Still a little perplexed by the situation, you approach him and signal towards the stack of papers on your desk. You motion towards them, indirectly letting him know that you still have work to do. And that heās in the way.
While he does pick up what youāve been gesturing, Xavier doesnāt exactly let go of interrogating you as if you were the one who he caught red-handed. āIs your meeting over?ā
āUh, yesā¦ā You furrow your eyebrows a little, responding to his question. Obviously it would have ended, youāre standing right in front of him. āWhy? Did you want to talk to me about something? Are you alright?ā
Itās the second time youāve asked this. You do know Xavier to be a bit of an oddball, but this seemed a little out of your area of expertise. Luckily for you, he finally stands upāa little silly due to you intrerrupting his very nice nap in your āabodeāāand eyes you up and down, like a confused puppy. Youāre still completely lost.
āYeah, Iām fine. I was justā¦ waiting for you.ā
And the reasoning you did not know of. Still, your brain feels way too heavy to carry on your shoulders to actually try to understand this man. You just got out of an awkward situation, just to enter in yet another one. Sighing, a little heavier than you would have liked, you sat back down on your chair, your hands sluggishly grasping the paperwork to slide it in front of your face.
Xavier is still there.
You wait a little longer, too occupied to mind him, engrossed and utterly engulfed in that ugly stack of sheets, carefully sorting everything and going over the same lines written thereā
Xavier is still there.
āto make sure that youāre absolutely doing everything well for the Association. After all, as youāve noticed today, you were the grand trophy of your workplace, no? You just had to continue toā
Xavier is still there.
ā¦Well.
āWhy are you still here.ā The way you phrased it didnāt even sound like itās meant to be a question. You painfully tore your eyes away from that blinding white, meeting his calm blue eyes. As if that didnāt infuriate you further.
āSorry. Should I go?ā
The way he phrased it didnāt sound like a genuine question, either. Just a little more pathetic, so to speak.
āAhā I mean, uh, I donāt mind.ā You reply, almost instantly. The way his eyes were practically begging you to let him hang around you for a while longer made your heart melt. You canāt just whisk him away, especially when heās been acting soā¦ odd.
Gathering your thoughts together (amongst the stack of paper which has now been reduced in height a little), you gesture towards Xavier that he can come a little closer if he wishes to. Maybe, if heās a little closer to you, youād be able to press him further as to why heās so insistent on staying.
Itās fun, if youāre honest.
Taking this opportunity, you let him lean a little closer. You poke his cheek, grabbing his attention. Pulling the exact move as he usually does: engage, then fall silent before the other. Your question remains unspoken in your eyes, which seem to stare him up as if your gaze could easily pierce right through him. That same odd feeling lingering in the air between you two.
āIāmā¦ Iām sorry.ā
There he goes! Heās finally talking to you, as awkward as your situation still might be, heās at least saying something.
āFor what?ā You press on, even though you already know what heās sorry for. You just want to squeeze out answers out of him, thatās all.
āFor invading your desk. I only wanted to find you, but then sleep washed over me, andā¦ your desk was the nearest station.ā
His knee accidentally touches yours, making you jump a little. It wakes you from whatever daze you were in, letting out an exasperated breath.
āYou have such a way with words.ā
a/n.ā haven't posted in like... a month... hdhfdh i'm sorry. this is a little sloppy because i kind of lost interest in lads recently given everything,, </3 instead i've been super into indie visual novels! who cares!!!!!!!! oh oh also, check out xavier's birthday bang where i'll be featured in as well ^^ keep an eye out! until then, i might go on a short hiatus on here ;;
taglist.ā feel free to ask to be (un)tagged in future works~ā @hirayalia @naomiarai @thinkingofzayne @lariivcx @wetforsylus @snowypi @gravitationalbluberry @valkyrhii <3
sum. The lads men telling you how much of a pretty girl you are. (early-relationship.)
notes. Thank u to the anon who suggested this, and the anons who told me to use tumblr website so i can put more than 10 images!!! No warnings for this one, pure fluff, kinda suggestive for xavier. Enjoy as always!
(Doing laundry & dishes with Xavier; Sylus picking you up after work and doing your skincare routine; grocery shopping with Caleb and cooking together; gardening with Rafayel; Zayne leaving sticky notes around his house for you when he's out, and carrying you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch.)
warnings: established relationship, not proofread, petnames ("sweetie" from sylus, "pips" from caleb), reader is mc but gender neutral, nonsexual intimacy (kissing, sleeping in the same bed)
notes: IM ON A GENERATIONAL WRITING RUN RN!!! Also sorry if there are tons of grammatical errors i wrote this maniacally with nothing but a keyboard and a dream
Doing laundry together, washing dishesāand it wouldn't be Xavier if there weren't a good nap thrown in the mix, of course!
"Xavier," you mumble, drowsy. "Xavier, I can't get up."
With his entire body splayed on top of yours, Xavier is, pun intended, out like a light. His mouth hangs slightly agape, the side of his face pressed against your collarbone.
"Xavier," you say again, trying to nudge him. "Xavier."
His eyes flutter open, half-lidded, as he stares at you with those soft-blue eyes of his, the glossiness of sleep layering his irises like glass. Through the panes, you can make out the tenderness of his pupils, dilating ever-so slightly, your figure carving a spot into its refracting light.
He closes his eyes again. You sigh.
"Xavier."
Nothing.
"Xavier."
Nothing.
"Jeremiah."
He's up.
Xavier's brows furrow, the ends of his lips curled downwards as he stares at you from above, eyes blown wide, arms encaging your figure beneath his, head tilted slightly to the side as he blinks once, twice, thrice.
"Why do you know that name?" he asks, bottom lip slowly jutting out the longer you take to respond.
"We met him at Philo."
"Do you know the names of all the men you meet?"
You laugh. Xavier's expression remains unmoved, his question entirely serious.
"That'd be impossible."
"... So, you've met a lot of other men."
"Yeah," you reply, "that's usually how it goes."
He slumps against your figure, relapsing, as his face digs into the curve of your neck and shoulder, head tilted to the side while trailing kisses around your skin, immovable when you laugh from the ticklish feeling.
"Xavier," you manage to say in between giggly breaths, "Xavier, I was joking."
From his spot, just a little below you, by the base of your neck, he looks up, head tilting, blinking owlishly in that feigned-ignorance-and-pathetic way of his.
"Were you?"
"Of course I was!"
He doesn't budge from his spot as your weighted blanket. Face returning to the crook of your shoulder once more, he just wraps his arms around your torso, pulling you even closer to him, limbs a messy tangle.
"Xavier,"āyou prod him, but to no availā"Xavier, we have to get up. Today is laundry day, remember?"
"Five more minutes," he mumbles, pressing you so close he might as well coalesce into you, "just five..."
He did not, in fact, take "just five minutes."
It was three hours.
But Xavier wastes no time when it comes to taking naps togetherāupon gathering all of your clothes, he's quick to suggest using the machine's washing time as an opportunity to get more sleep. You dismiss his idea, stating that you have dishes from last night's dinner to wash.
He gives you that look of hisāsoggy and allābefore suggesting, again, to use the time after washing dishes, while the machine is working, to get some more sleep in. You agree. He beams.
Xavier's wardrobe has a running theme of pale colors. Sorting them is relatively easy, with most of his clothes in one pile, your occasional shirt sprinkled in, while the darker colors remain significantly smaller in number.
"What scent should we do this time?" Xavier asks, hand on his chin, surveying your detergent options with the meticulousness of a laundry master. You laugh, and tell him that they all smell good in the end. He nods, but he chooses the scent you've mentioned liking on mutliple occasions, knowing it's your favorite.
(Xavier also likes this scentāhe's gotten multiple compliments for it, and once, while out shopping with you, an older woman noted how the two of you had the same fragrance to your clothes. Xavier nodded fervently at the observation, pleased.)
While the laundry is running, the two of you return to last night's dishes. After Xavier scrubs at the plates, you place them into the dishwasher, which, in reality, is just a glorified drying rack.
In between the clatter of glassware and the running of water is your voice, existing with Xavier for longer than it does in the air, your words excited as you recall an incident that happened recently at work.
When you smile, the rhythmic motion comes to a halt, and Xavier's attention parts from the plates to look at you, your figure etched into his pupils, tracing through to his soul, imprinted, fitting the silhouette from centuries ago.
"Is something wrong, Xavier?" you ask, noticing his gaze. He shakes his head.
He just blinks, once, twice, thrice; you really don't know, it seems. The light swept over your face, setting your skin ablaze, its brilliance irrevocableāHow beautiful, is all he thinks. How beautiful and lovely and sublime.
(For a moment, he half-considered envying the light, its warmth kissing your skin so simply. Xavier has too many enemies, it seems. Lumiere, sunlight, Jeremiah...)
Later, your dryer sings its cycle completion with a jolly tune. While fetching your clothes, you notice a striking abundance of fluff stuffed throughout the creases of your clothes, your nose wrinkling with confusion as you furrow your brows.
"What's all this?" you mutter, piling all your things into the laundry basket, bundles of cotton falling forth from the dryer.
"Oh," Xavier remarks, hovering beside your shoulder, staring down at the mess. "Bunbun exploded."
"What?!"
Just as he predicted, Bunbun's remains fall from the dryer, its stitching undone as half of its cotton stuffing has been scattered throughout your clothes. Xavier reaches for its floppy face, stretching the malnourished plushie, satisfied.
"Well," you say, picking up the bits of fluff. "Let's feed it."
The two of you hunch over the laundry basket, sifting through your clothes to find each individual piece of fluff, stuffing it back into Bunbun. Now fully nourished, Bunbun stands proud (and round), its unstitched back held shut by Xavier's hand and a dream.
"I don't remember ever putting Bunbun in the laundry," you mutter, folding your clothes. "I thought its washing instructions said not to put it in the dryer..."
"Is that what it said?" Xavier remarks. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, noticing that his gaze is directed towards Bunbun's figure, menacing.
"Did you just try to sabatoge Bunbun, Xavier?"
He turns to you, blinking, his bottom lip jutted out slightly as he tilts his head.
"... No."
"You rejoiced when it exploded!"
"What if," he starts, the slightest hints of a smile tugging at the ends of his lips, his innocent expression shifting to reveal the hints of mischief, "what if I said it was a joke?"
"Are you still hung up on what I said this morning?" you reply, disbelieving.
His eyes don't meet yours.
Sylus picking you up after a long day of work, doing your skincare routine, removing your jewelry before going to sleep.
Rain is a cruel mistress; it seems that it only chooses to appear whenever you're working overtime.
Bracing yourself to weather the storm, you raise one measly hand up to cover the top of your head, the other shielding your bag under the fabric of your coat as you step outside the office, wincing slightly, a bright light reflecting the droplets of rain.
It's a car. A familiar one, at that. Squinting, you can make out the shape, its color, black, and a figure sitting in the driver's seat, the door swinging open, approaching you with such leisure, you half-wonder if it's only raining over you.
You look at Sylus, whose gaze has long-acquainted itself with yours. He tilts his head to the side, a smileāwhich more resembles a smirkātugging at his lips, while he unravels the umbrella in his hand.
"You didn't think to use it for yourself?" you ask, the rain no longer meeting your skin, your figure now completely dry whilst Sylus's pearly hair drips with rainwater.
"Not at all," he replies, bemused.
"How'd you know I just finished my work?" you then query, Sylus's free hand reaching to open the passenger door, his head lowering slightly as he leans over your figure, putting your seatbelt on, rain still pelting at his skin and clothes.
"And if I told you it was my intuition?" he says, leaving no room for your response as he closes your door, finding his spot in the driver's seat soon after.
"I wouldn't believe it," you remark.
"Then, you can assume it was something else."
You deadpan. "Isn't that how it works?"
He spares you a smile, one hand on the top of the steering wheel, index finger tapping at the material while eyeing you from across the distance of a center console, its actuality minimal despite the way it feels as though a universe separates you from him.
Amidst the rain, the aux plays a slow, melodic tune.
"Well, it was intuition," he says, other hand reaching at your thigh, thumbing at your skin, his palm warm. "And, in part, a little birdie."
"And my location," you add.
"And your location," he reaffirms, smiling still, its shape less like a smirk and more akin to the look only a man so devotedly in love could ever wear, his eyes crinkling slightly, his expression content, malleable under your gaze.
The two of you return to the N109 Zone, the rain stopping at the edges of the city.
Sylus leaves the car first, circling it to open your door, hand outstretched as he takes your bag.
"I have to do it all over again tomorrow," you mumble, referring to your work, "this endless cycle of abuse..."
Sylus chuckles, free hand reaching for yours, fingers entwined, curling slightly as he squeezes your hand.
"How about you work for me? Luke and Kieran could use a court jester."
"Me?! A court jester?"
He laughs again, thumb now smoothing over the back of your hand, so familiar with its shape.
"Perhaps another role can be negotiated."
"It'd be better if there were no role at all!"
After eating dinner, you half-consider just retiring to bed without removing your sunscreen or jewelryābut Sylus, reading your mind, rests his hands on your shoulders, guiding you to the bathroom without consideration for protest.
"I'm so tired," you say, voice already marred with the beginnings of sleep, your eyes struggling to stay awake. "Let me sleep while greasy..."
"No can do, sweetie," Sylus replies, sitting you down in front of the mirror, washing his hands with soap before removing your sunscreen with some toning pads. "Just bear it for a little, then you can sleep all you want."
His words are succeeded by a quick kiss to your temple.
You've taught him that products should be applied, and removed, to or from the face via circular motions. Sylus, the ever-excellent student, applies what he's learned meticulously, toning pads featherlight against your skin.
The hilt of a gun is so familiar to his callused hands, and the stains of blood which he's grown so used to washing offābut, even better than a comfortable weapon, or the curl of a fist cushioned within a boxing glove, is the feeling of your face within the palm of his hands, the residue of sunscreen staining his fingers, the ease of your brows as he washes away your long-winded day.
Then, his hand reaches for the back of your neck, unclasping your necklace with ease. Another kiss. He leans forward, removing the locks of your earrings, taking the hook gently through the piercing, tucking it neatly into your vanity'sāwhich occupies nearly half of his bathroomācompartment
A third kiss to your well-loved face. He must sneak these in before he applies your skincare, as you've completely banned him from touching your face once your it's on.
"Wash your hands before each step," you mumble, words slurring together as your head lulls forward slightly. Though you can't see it, Sylus's expression shifts to reveal fondness, irrevocable, with the melting of his vermilion eyes, pupils smoldering, heart ablaze.
Leaning forward once more, Sylus presses yet another kiss onto the bone of your cheek.
"My, so demanding."
More words leave your mouth, all incoherent and jumbled, your eyes fluttering shut midsentence. Sylus, quite the opportunist, takes this moment to seal your lips with his, unable to contain the smile which sweeps over his face, its shape attributed to the gentleness of his touch, the softness of the kiss as he settles the skincare score here.
"Anything else?" he asks, beginning the first step of your skincare (not without washing his hands first, of course!), rubbing the product in circular motions. You don't say anything; Sylus continues forward, ever-the-excellent student.
And, when all is done, your head leans against his chest, your breaths slowing as you succumb to slumber. Ever-the-excellent student, Sylus picks you up, hands supporting your legs and back, carrying you to the bed with the stillness of a statue with a mission: not to wake you up.
Grocery shopping with Caleb, taste testing meals, eating together.
"Really?" Caleb asks, disbelieving tone not matching the smile which tugs at his lips. "More instant ramen, Pips?"
Without a morsel of hesitation, you toss the nuclear-4x-spicy-volcano-eruption package into the cart, pleased with yourself as Caleb continues forward, his exasperation half-committed.
"Your stomach's going to hurt if you eat this alone," he remarks, hand outstretched to ruffle your head, the other resting on the shopping cart's handle as to keep it on course. "Get something cool while we're here."
"That's impossible," you reply, marching forward. "I'm invincible!"
While you disappear into the snack aisle, Caleb makes a stop by the freezer section, grabbing you a bundle of ice cream, the flavors your favorite.
You'll thank me later, is all he thinks. Or maybe not. Actually, probably not. You'll chalk the ice cream's presence up to pure luck, downing it after suffering from spice without a single thought as to where it comes from. That's fine too. What matters is that you don't get hurt.
Per your request, Caleb drafted a list of ingredients to buy in order to make your favorite dishāyet, despite not being a necessary component, he finds himself crossing off the words "ice cream" and "instant noodles" from his notes, pocketing his phone soon thereafter.
Watching you sift through the various snacks, Caleb prepares himself to cross off "soda," too. It's routine to him: the order of which you go through the aisles, the items your gaze lingers on versus which ones you haphazardly sweep over, the way you compare your favorite flavors, brows furrowed, lips pursed as you rack your brain.
"They both look good," you mutter, comparing a strawberry soda to a grape one. "I don't know which to choose, though..."
Noticing the way your gaze adorns the pinkish packaging, Caleb thinks today is a strawberry day.
"I guess I'll have to go with strawberry, then!" you exclaim, shelving grape.
"And these," you start, now holding two different bags of chips. "This is a really difficult one..."
Noticing the way your bottom lip presses against your upper one, the way your nose wrinkles from thought, the way your eyes narrow, reading the packaging of both your optionsāCaleb thinks there really is no need to choose only one.
"Let's get both, then," he suggests, taking both bags from your hands. "Why choose?"
Your expression brightens instantly. "You're a genius, Caleb!"
He laughs. You continue forward, and, with the shopping cart separating your figure from his, Caleb stares. The slight hop to your steps, the way your head tilts whenever you notice cute packaging, the occasional glance over your shoulder, eyes crinkling when you call his name, pointing at some collaboration between your favorite characters and a candy brand.
Your very existence reduces his heart to a trembling thing, twisting his ribs, curling them inwardsāand to think you don't even realize that you hold it within your hands.
All your favorite snacksāas well as the ingredients to your favorite dishāsecured, the two of you return to Caleb's home, his arms filled with bags while you drink your soda, satisfied.
"Strawberry was the right pick!" you exclaim, holding the drink up to Caleb's lips, tilting it for him to drink. Sugar on his tongue, he hums, watching you race ahead to the door, unlocking it with your key.
The sweetness travels from his mouth to his eyes, circulating throughout his limbs, melting into his chest, your figure submerged within sunset irises, carving out his pupils, vested safely within the chambers of his heart, satiated.
While Caleb toils away at the meal, you offer him moral support in the form of handing him utensils, arm brushing against his as you observe the status of your dish, boiling in the pot.
He puts a spoon up to your lips, head tilting slightly as he asks, "Taste test?"
"It's good!" you say, giving him a thumbs-up for added effect. Caleb just grins, spoon now placed back in the pot, palm pressed against the counter as he leans in, eyes trailing from your eyes to your lips.
"Taste test?" he asks, again, grinning still, eyes fluttering shut when you press your lips against his.
"Also good," you reply, his hand parting from the counter to cup the side of your face, sunset eyes meeting yours.
"One more?"
You laugh. "I'll allow it."
"Thanks for your kindness," he says. Another kiss. The pot bubbles, and Caleb, though reluctant, turns his attention towards it, stirring it slowly.
Caleb examines the quality of his cooking through the expressions which enrapture your face, the way you nod approvingly upon the first bite, the way you save all of the best parts for last. Caleb examines the quality of his cooking through the dishes you leave, how clean the plates are, which sides you ask for more of.
"So?" he says, face leaning against the palm of his hand, his food growing cold while he watches you eat, the sight alone is enough to quell the rumble of his stomach. "What d'ya think, Pips?"
"You outdid yourself this time!" you exclaim in between bites. Caleb, though flattered, hands you a napkin, brows furrowed slightly as he's reminded of a time from your childhood when you choked on your food midsentence.
His lips part to remind you of that timeāand to warn you not to eat so quicklyābut the glimmer of your eyes, and the way you shift happily in your seat, stomps out all ideas of saying anything at all.
"Aren't you going to eat?" you ask, eyeing his side dish. He slides it over to you, feigning exasperation, reaching over to flick your forehead.
"How greedy," Caleb responds, laughing.
(But your existence drowns in his eyes, and your figure melts into his bones, and the squeeze of your hands are what allow his heart to contract, and oh, your smile, it crinkles your irises, and it scrunches your nose, just a little, and the expression exists with him for longer than it does on your faceāand he wants more, and he wants you, and to covet you is the greediest thing any man could ever do.)
"I'm just helping you out," you say while scarfing down your food, "'cause, you know, this isn't thaaat good..."
Caleb laughs again. The clink of dishware, the sound of voices, the existence of two, melding together, pores sinking into pores, love melting into bonesāThis is it, Caleb thinks.
Everything; right here.
Gardening with Rafayel, pulling out weeds, taking a nap under a tree.
"I'm going to wage war on the weeds," Rafayel declares, sitting flat on the floor, clothes stained with dirt. "They're going to regret natural selection, the fact they evolved, the ancestors they came from, theā"
"Land versus sea," you remark, holding up two weeds, their roots entangled with clumps of dirt. "I think land would win."
"Excuse me?!"
"It's only been an hour," you say, ignoring his look of utter betrayal and disbelief. "Why are you sweating so much?"
"An hour!" Rafayel repeats, arm raised to his forehead, falling back into the dirt with a harsh thud! as his chest heaves dramatically, damn near gasping for air as his free hand reaches for his chest, palming at the skin above his chest's cavity.
"A whole hour! Oh, the agony! I might shrivel up and die at this rate!" Then, he sits up, pointing at you accusingly. "Is that what you want? Huh, huh?!"
"Just go inside," you say, dismissing him with the flick of your hand. "I'll do it myself."
Rafayel gasps, brows furrowed, bridge of his nose wrinkling while his lips part, hanging agape, head darting to and fro as if to say, "Are you hearing this right now?!" But there's nobody around to share his disbelief. So, Rafayel does what he does best: he feigns nonchalance.
"Fine then!" he responds, standing up, dusting the dirt off his clothes before crossing his arms. "You can fight these weeds yourself. Don't come crying to me when they win!"
He walks away, making no effort to hide the glances he spares in your direction, wondering if you're going to grovel for him to come back (if you did, he'd half-consider continuing to toil away at these weeds with you)ābut you don't, because you're heartless (how ironic!) and cruel. And sick in the head. And you really, really don't have an eye for the things that really matter in this world (read: him! He's the thing that matters! Over here! Him!)
Ten steps and twenty glances later, Rafayel realizes that you really aren't looking back. Fine. Whatever. Not like he cares, anyway!
And so, Rafayel returns to his air-conditioned studio, bottom lip jutted out as he sits down at his couch, feeling ill from how sweaty he is, the ache of weed-pulling beginning to sweep through his arms. Leaning back, he stares up at the ceiling, sulking.
He turns to look at you again, your figure now separated from his by a thin layer of glass, hunched over as you continue pulling away at those vile plants.
There you go again, he thinks. Uncaring, unabashed, unafraid. You do things without much regard for anyone else; Rafayel hates that about you. He hates that he can't seem to leave you alone, he hates that his gaze seems to root itself in your existence, unable to be torn away, unable to stare at anything else other than the slight part of your lips as you dig into the dirt, your brows furrowed, arm raised to wipe at your sweat.
You look tired.
A couple minutes later, Rafayel returns to your side with a hat, dropping it clumsily onto your head while he hands you a drink. Crouching down, he meets your gaze with the haughty tilt of his head, pouting, while he drinks in your expression with the insatiability of a couple centuries.
"Are you really going to spend the whole day doing this?" he asks, thumbing at a bead of sweat which trickles down the side of your face, eyes tricklingāfor the most minute of secondsāto your lips as you drink. His gaze meets yours again.
"Yeah," you reply. "We have to get your garden in order before spring arrives."
He huffs. "What's so good about a garden?"
"Didn't you ask me to help you plant things?"
Rafayel invited you over to his place with the attention of gardening for twenty minutes, and lounging for the rest of the day. He did not intend for you to work away at these damned weeds as if your life depended on it.
Still, it doesn't look like you have the wherewithal to even fathom the enormity of his thoughtsāconsidering, well, you have no memory of anything at all!āso, with a defeated look, Rafayel tugs you away from the weeds, ushering you under a tree where he's so coincidentally set up a blanket.
"Sleep," he mutters, fingers brushing over your eyes, the coolness of his touch contrasting the warmth of your skin. "You're always causing trouble for me, you know?"
You snort. "Me? Have you seen yourself?"
Though you can't see his face, you can make out the offense in his voice, as if he's shocked by your audacity. Before he can even respond, Rafayel notices the shift in your breathing, the relax of your muscles, brows easing over as you drift into sleep.
"Ugh," he mutters, sitting back, staring at your comfortable form as you've come over to his house, freeloaded off of his kindness, and now are sleeping, despite being the guest! There's really something wrong with your standards!
"You're lucky, you know," he says, voice barely above a whisper, wiping away at the sweat which forms across your skin. "Using me like this."
After a couple hours, you wake up, your head propped up against Rafayel's lap as he sketches in a handheld book, his expression incredulous as you turn towards the garden, mouth hanging agape once you realize it was completely weeded.
"What?!" you exclaim. "Where'd all the weeds go?"
Rafayel scoffs. "They all just decided to get up and leave once you fell asleep."
You turn towards him, his hand parting from the sketchbook to thumb at your face, pinching your cheek.
"Is that what you thought I'd say? No! I did everything! While you slept, I was out there, working like a dog, day and night, living off ofā"
You laugh. Rafayel's words falter before his complaint can continue on, eyes growing wide as you grin, returning his gesture by cupping his face in between your hands, adoring.
"Thanks, Raf."
He looks away, lips jutted out, brows furrowing. "Hmph. Is that all?"
"I love you."
His gaze returns to you, eyes blown wide, mouth hanging slightly agape as he stares at you, figure drowned in his pupils, expression ablaze as if he had just witnessed the sublime.
"Ugh... Do you think words are enough? Am I an easy fish to you!?"
"I love you and appreciate you very much," you say.
"Blub blub blub."
You lean forward, the shadow of the tree reaching everywhere but your lips. When you part, Rafayel hums, chasing after you again, hand pressed against the back of your head as he presses you towards him.
"I don't work for free, you know!"
Expecting your arrival, Zayne leaves sticky notes around his house for you when he works late shifts, carrying you from the couch to his bed when he does return home.
There are times where you're forced to acquaint yourself with the silence.
Zayne's home feels larger than life when he's not hereālocking the door behind you, entering the place with your bagsābut, there are hints of his presence everywhere, warmth seeping in through the crevices, the cold beginning to shy away.
As if expecting your arrival (despite you not telling him you'd go to his place after work), there are sticky notes around the walls, on the fridge, on the countertops.
His handwriting, while quick and oftentimes merged, reveals hints of love, etched into the way he writes your name, clearer than other wordsāor the way he rewrites parts he thinks may be illegible, ensuring he's conveyed everything he needs to.
"Heat up the container with the red lid," the sticky note on the refrigerator door says. "It's your favorite soup. Side dishes are the containers on the top."
On the countertop: "Don't stay up too late. Don't wait for me to come home. Sleep first."
On the television remote: "Take breaks while watching. Don't stare at the screen for too long. Get up and look around."
On the cabinets filled with sweets: "Don't eat them all." You half-wonder if it's because he's planning to go through them all in your stead.
And, on the door to his room, its hinge parting to reveal his bed, neatly made: "Sleep here. Don't sleep on the couch."
When you reach for the container, pulling the side dishes away, there's another sticky note on the lid. The writing, smaller than the rest, clearer and more carefully enscribed, reads, "I love you. I'll be home soon. Eat well."
You pocket this sticky note, smiling uncontrollably, running your fingers over the words as you can feel the indent of the pen, the pressure of his adoration, the tenderness of his words, etched hours ago. Warm, you eat the food he prepared for you, sitting at the couch with a show put on the television, wrapped up in a spare blanket.
Despite Zayne telling you not to wait for him, you find yourself lingering on the couch for much longer than intended, gaze staring at the screen, dazed, as you peer at your phone, noticing the time. Midnight, you think, unable to bite back a yawn, your eyes glossy.
You don't know when you fell asleep after that.
Zayne arrives home, bag in hand, his scrubs folded neatly within as he changes into his slippers at the door, noticing an extra pair in the rack.
You're home, he thinks. The realization makes his heart stutter a little, organ swelling, feeling fuller and wholler and brighter. The buzz of the television resounds throughout the home, accompanied by the scent of food, your presence existing everywhereāin his home, in his chest, in his mind, lingering. He steps forward, noticing your figure on the couch, wrapped up in front of the bright light. He sighs.
"I thought I told you not to sleep here..." he mutters, approaching you from a distance, noticing your eyes, fluttered shut, mouth hanging slightly agape as you sleep without a single care in the world.
Zayne showers quickly, not wanting to keep you there for much longer, but not wanting to touch you before having cleaned himself from today's shift. Afterwards, he's quick to find your figure, lifting you up, still encased in the blanket as he brings you to his room, laying you down in his bed, replacing the spare with his own comforter.
"Zayne...?" you mumble, wiping at your eyes. Zayne's hand raises to your wrist, stopping the movement, lips parting to lecture you about how it's bad for your eyesābut then he catches a glimpse of your expression under the light, hazy, marred with sleep, yet adoration seeping through your gaze, and suddenly, he can't bring himself to say anything at all. He swallows thickly.
You've made such a lover of him, your existence pervading throughout his own, his lips unable to utter any word that is not your name.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he says, quiet. "Sleep."
You lean towards him, burying your face in the fabric of his shirt, breathing in, warmth coalescing. Zayne rubs circles into your back, fingers tracing over the skin, feeling the tenseness of your muscles which he'll address later. For now, all that matters if that he's home, that you're here, and that, most wonderfully, the two of you are together.
Congrats on hitting 10K!! Well deserved, your writing is gorgeous! <33
For my blurb request, can you write one of the lis (you can pick) falling asleep with their head in your lap while you play with their hair? This happened in a show I'm watching and I just think it's so sweet.
Thank you so much!! Anytime I see the word sleep, I am naturally drawn to writing something about Xavier. It's been so long since I've wrote for him as well and I just know his hair is so soft... it wouldnāt shock me if it smelt like baby shampoo eitherā¦ I justā¦ have a feelingā¦
He had just returned from a week long disappearance as you liked to call it. Which really meant, Xavier had spent a week in the no-hunt zone with zero service. These things used to scare you senseless, now you knew there was no way he wasn't coming home to you.
"All washed up?" You grin as he shuffles out of the bathroom, watching him stretch upwards to reveal a sliver of abdomen. "Yup, nice n'fresh." He tosses the towel he had used to dry his hair in the hamper, feet dragging across the bedroom floor before he collapses onto the bed.
"I'm not used to you getting dressed in the bathroom." you snort softly as he manages to crawl his way over to you, settling his heavy head into the plush of your lap. "Didn't wanna be tempting." the dry sarcasm in his tone has a bubble of laughter creeping up your throat.
"You're too much." Still, your fingers find their home in the silvery-blonde locks of his freshly washed hair. The soft scent of baby shampoo greeting you as you begin running your nails over his scalp. So soft and floral, slightly fruity too. All blending together with the natural scent that made Xavier... Xavier.
"M'too much? I don't think m'enough." Sure, he meant it light heartedly but that didn't make it any better. "You're always enough, Xavi. Don't even joke like that." You settle back again the pillows, hand still raking through his hair softly as he hums in acknowledgment.
"Always enough, my beautiful sweet boy. Don't ever think otherwise." Xavier doesn't respond, and you can tell it's because he's already fallen asleep. His head having gone heavy in your lap, his breathing evened out. Completely content being surrounded by your love.
This is probably one of the first times ever Iāve actually thought about deleting the gameā¦
Do I think his drop was rushed? Yes. But I was really starting to like his character and was getting really excited for July 9th. I was truly going to take this as a bump in the road and move on. But canceling him after giving his trailers?? Thatās definitely not the move.
Why wasnāt delaying his debut an option?
It feels like this is a game for only CN players now.
I know that I'm a blip of a blog in this fandom. I know my opinion doesn't matter much, but I need a place to get out what's in my head.
Infold fucked up. That's the short of it.
I don't care if you liked or didn't like Valko, because what it boiled down to was greed. Plain and simple.
I said at the very beginning Valko's sudden appearance was weird and rushed. We were always set for a sixth LI eventually, but how they dropped him felt like we were getting a new puzzle shoved with an old one.
Valko was growing on me, I won't lie. His Peter Paker playfulness had me intrigued.
When the livestream dropped, I was also disappointed that, once more, the main feedback had been ignored. No ways to grind diamonds, no updates outside of Valko (which I was actually excited for, because I wanted to see how it all connected), no orbit updates, and a slap sticker "it's coming" update for Sylus and Caleb.
Also...the fifteen minutes of music was weird.
This felt frantically thrown together, and I know I wasn't the only one feeling that way.
But still, I was excited. Valko would add something new into the game again, and the constant banners were causing burn out.
Then to wake up to him being fully yanked? That's wrong.
Plain and simple.
Valko has become the scapegoat for Infold dodging actual issues that they should've been addressing. Hell, this is the same company that was deleting users last year for sending hate birthday messages to the LIs, so what the hell happened?
Why are we turning tail so quick?
Love and Deepspace has been a comfort for me. It got me writing again, and I've met some amazing people through this. We're all hurting. We're all trying to figure out what to do next.
I am asking for grace for fandom creators right now. As my lovely friend, Amy, reminded me, fandom is bigger than the game or show itself.
I will continue writing for LaDS, as it is still a source of comfort for me - Sylus especially. I had a couple ideas for Valko as well, and maybe they'll be fully written one day, too.
But please, be kind to your fellow fandom people who are hurting. And if you are one that is hurting, like many of us, please be kind to yourself. Step away if needed. Make sure to eat and drink something.
We will figure out how to move forward - because humans are resilient like that.
DMs and Anon is open if you just need a safe place to chat or vent or have a moment.
his thumbs dig into your inner thighs, holding you open as he obscenely slurps the sweet mix of your arousal and his spit as one eats a bowl of ramen.
it's the same, torturous style. his tongue flattened over your parted, glistening lips, lapping the juices out of your pulsing hole and back up to your clit--giving it a firm lick before he buries his face into your cunt.
your scent acts like a sirenās call, the sweetness consuming him all at once. valko is feverishly hot, lips latching onto your hole and his sinful tongue coaxing out more of your sweetness.
"are you even-ah!-gonna make me cum?" he's not once sucked on your clit. no, he's been edging you with kitten licks. "if not I can just use my vibe."
you think it'll rile him up. instead, his gaze snaps at you, ears tucked down like a kicked puppy.
"n-no, no, fuck..." he begs, unable to keep himself from tasting you again. "i can't help it. I've never been this close to you..."
he dives in again. "s'killin me." his voice vibrates against your clit, as he takes it into his mouth.
"ngh valko... like that," your hips rock themself into his mouth. but then he let's go of your clit to eat your gushing juices.
"are you serious--" your fingers thread into his hair.
"please--just a little more." his fingers plunge into your hole.
Pretending to be mad at xavier while the two of you are at work. He passes you some paperwork and you look down to see several little wet spots with hand drawn arrows pointing to them with a note at the bottom saying "tears btw". Also getting 5 emails of him being like "can you please tell me what's wrong, starlight? i feel like im gonna throw up :("
a/n: first smau ever i am so effing scared right now ā¦ everyone say thank you tee for telling me to make this and thank u emmy for looking it over and making it a bajillion times betterā¦ i hope this is okay pls let me know okay bye bye !
