In a limousine on your way to a risky business deal, the Chairman of EonCore Tech - your husband - is on his knees asking for your forgiveness.
1,021 words. fluff, light angst, late night conversations, kisses, f!reader, cross-posted on ao3
a/n: I cried writing this one. I miss Valko so much.
dividers by @saradika-graphics | ao3 link here
There is something so unbelievably charming about a man on his knees.
In front of you is your husband, the chairman of one of the most powerful corporations in all of Linkon, and he has your hand in his like it’s the only lifeline he can hold onto. You pretend not to notice the way his amber eyes look at you, nor do you succumb to the flame that burns within you at the sight of him in a three-piece suit. A man decorated in class and oozes intimidation would not be caught dead falling to his knees.
Except Valko, apparently.
“You’re wrinkling your suit,” you hiss when he shows no sign of sitting back down on the leather seats. There is comfort in every inch of this limousine, yet he chooses to kneel in front of you. “I don’t think you’d want to taint your public image.”
“I don’t care.”
You raise a brow at the unusual statement.
“I’ll be here until you forgive me.”
The tall skyscrapers that surround Linkon become your saving grace as you attempt to ignore his lips, which whisper apologies on your closed fists that can barely be heard above the soft music playing. However much you wish for those lips to touch places you would prefer to keep in the scenarios in your head is ignored, and instead, you turn your attention towards the life surrounding you.
Laughter erupts from a group of friends as ice cream melts on their hands. A couple holding grocery bags seems to be arguing about who should carry more, and in the end, the guy carries all of them in his hands and her pink purse hangs on his shoulder. A little dog shyly approaches another, their owners laughing at the blooming friendship.
Crazy how different your circumstances are compared to those around you.
“Sweetheart,” Valko says, and when you look at him, his eyes are similar to that shy dog you were just admiring. “Please, tell me what I can do so you can look at me again.”
“I am looking at you.”
His ears and cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, and you resist the urge to follow its trail with your lips.
“Yeah, but not… not like this.”
You know exactly what he means, yet you continue your torture. “How do you want me to look at you, sweetheart?”
The nickname undoes him, and his hands move from your closed fist to your cheek in a bold retaliation. “Like this.”
You look away as fast as you can.
From the corner of your eye, however, you can see a smirk on Valko’s face that disappears as fast as it came. God, does he even know why you’re mad? Does he know why your heart rapidly beats as a scowl makes its way onto your expression?
Valko, disappointed by his short-lived victory, stays silent for a few seconds. You know him well enough to understand that this is him pondering, his head tilting to the side the way a puppy does when it’s confused.
Moonlight softens his features a little too well, leaving your defenses as nothing but crumbs.
His wedding ring sits warmly on your cheek as you look back at him again. There are nothing but questions in his eyes and acceptance in the way his thumb rubs against your cheek, careful not to smudge hours of makeup and anger.
That’s the thing about Valko: he’s very obvious when he wants something, and he is incapable of hiding that. But when he knows not to interfere, his presence continues to be loud in quieter ways.
He knows exactly how to love you.
Linkon’s skyscrapers begin to look less like shopping malls and more like your personal hell. Buildings with surnames of wealthy business owners hide the moonlight that previously softened your husband’s features, and it even stops you from being so stubborn.
“We’re close,” Valko points out, as though your stomach doesn’t churn from the fact.
“Then why are you still on your knees?”
“Because you haven’t forgiven me yet.”
You tap his nose as some sort of retaliation for his stubbornness, yet he takes it as a sign of victory. Valko’s smile shines even beneath the night’s darkness, reminding you of the reason you were annoyed in the first place.
“I don’t want today to be the last time I see you, Valko.”
He tilts his head again, this time looking more like an older dog whose utmost trust shines in its eyes. “What do you mean?”
“When you come home late with bruises i-in your arms, I…” Your voice breaks, yet you know fragility has no place in this part of Linkon. “I worry about you, that’s all. And since we’re on our way to another business deal…”
Valko understands the words that crumble into silence. As lovely and desirable the position seems, being chairman of one of the biggest corporations in the country poses dangers only seen by those who have been in the dark, and you know that better than anyone else does. Better than he does, because only when you tend to his wounds does he remember that his absence matters. That life can be beyond the danger he’s gotten used to.
“This one is safe, my love,” he assures you. “I’ve mapped every detail, every person, and every centimeter of the place. I know where to run if I need to.”
“And if… if you lose yourself in the process-”
“I won’t,” he says, defiant as devotion can be. “Not when I have you with me.”
You can only smile as you press your forehead against his, finally looking at him with the tenderness he so loves to receive from you. “Promise you won’t die tonight?”
“I promise, sweet girl.”
The last thing you do before the limo stops at your destination is to place your lips on his, letting him taste the worries you’ve harbored with every risky deal he does. The last thing you feel before you have to step off into the night is his utmost love, spilling onto your soul like no other.
a/n: I hope Valko comes back soon.
Thank you for reading! Any form of interaction is appreciated. Take care :)
I just KNOW that Caleb whines when he slips it in. All desperate pleas and cries, whining abt how tight u r. "Baby, please, please, please stop squeezing. Ffffuuucckk please-" and he immediately cums bc it's so overwhelming and so good, but he fucks u through the overstimulation, cumming over and over again until he's crying from the overpowering need consuming every inch of his skin. I love whiny, pathetic men...
Alright, I am redeeming myself with this one! All the sappy mushy stuff coming your way!
Confessions in the Rain
Zayne had to admit to himself that he was tired. He couldn't even remember how you had gotten to this point in the first place. It was like the universe had set you to forever misinterpret him. Yet there you stood, face red in anger and eyes watery from un-shed tears.
"Why don't you just admit you hate me already, Zayne? I don't understand how you could even say that to me. I'm doing the best I can." Ahh, there it was. A single tear had escaped your control and was rolling down your cheek.
He opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. "Don't bother, I know when I'm not wanted. You've made that painfully clear. I'll look for another doctor!" You're almost shouting by the end of your words as you spin around and run from his office.
You run right past the nurse's station, ignoring them all staring at you. They'd never seen you anything but cheerful in the years you'd been coming. One of them even stood up hand reached out, but you're already gone.
The receptionist tries to stop you as well, but you don't hear her warning that it is pouring outside. You don't care. You have stopped paying attention to your surroundings. Eyes too blurry to see clearly anymore. Whether from rain or crying, you don't know.
As you're about to step into the parking lot, you miss the edge of the sidewalk and go sprawling to the ground. Scraping your palms in the process. You land with a grunt. Your palms are bleeding now, but still, you don't care. You sit up on your knees, crying harder.
You're still sitting there crying when splashing footsteps come in your direction, and your name is called. "Come on, get up off the ground. It's pouring out here. You could catch a cold or pneumonia." Zayne has come after you, of course he did. He had a reputation to maintain after all. "No!" You yell back at him, swatting his hands when he tries to help you stand.
"If I'm sooo much trouble, then don't bother anymore. I'm not your responsibility. Just go away!" You swat his hands again. "You silly girl," Zayne says. softly grasping your arms and forcing you to stand. He holds you to him. Not minding your squirming and attempts to push him away. His voice rumbles in your ear as he speaks again. "Why do you always misunderstand me? You've been like that since we were kids." You freeze at his words, tears still sliding down your cheeks and washed away by the rain.
"Wh-what?" Your voice is shaky from crying. "I have never cared that you cause me trouble, trouble me more. Turn my entire life upside down. I don't care, as long as it's you. Let me take care of you, I've always wanted to." He pauses for a breath. Zayne has never said so many heartfelt words to you before.
"I just wish that you would not take what I say the wrong way. I decided to become a cardiac surgeon for you. I wanted to find a cure for your heart condition. You are the drive behind my every action. Don't you know that yet?" You look up into his hazel eyes, burning with the intensity of his emotions.
"I'm always worried about you, you're job is so dangerous, but you disregard my worry and dive headlong into danger every day. I know I can't stop you or hold you back. Just don't push me away again." He's pleading now. Zayne has never, ever done that for anyone. You try to squash the feeling in your heart again. You have always suppressed your feelings, certain he would never return them.
"Why, why would you go so far for me? Is it because we're childhood friends?" Zayne closes his eyes and drops his head a long sigh coming from him.
"You're so silly. Why are you so silly. Fine, I'll spell it out for you then." He takes a breath, "because I love you." He looks into your eyes with finality. There is no way you could possibly misunderstand that.
Tears well up to your eyes again. "Y-you do??" Zayne gently grabs both sides of your face. He rubs circles on your cheeks with his thumbs as he stares into your eyes. "I've always loved you ever since we were children." He says quietly. You grab his tie and stand on your toes, pulling him down to your level before you can kiss him.
Zayne is surprised, his eyes going wide before he returns the kiss. After a minute, you pull back and smile. "I love you too."
You're both completely drenched by the rain, and the receptionist was standing in the entrance with a scolding look and towels. When you finally start back towards the hospital, she's fussing about how wet you both are and the water you're tracking across the floor.
She wastes no time throwing towels over both you and Zayne and ushering you into bathrooms to have a warm shower and put on dry clothes. Despite all this, you can't get the silly grin off your face. Your heart is elated, and you feel like you're soaring high above the storm clouds. You hope that you never come back down from this feeling.
Love practically overflows on your wedding night with Sylus. Who could blame you when he is so easy to love?
991 words. fluff, newlyweds, sleepy kisses, suggestive (if you squint), lots of love, f!reader, cross-posted on ao3
a/n: I was debating between writing a Xavier ficlet and a Valko fic, but I ended up getting this done first LOLLL I hope y'all enjoy this fluffy piece :3
dividers by @pxrce-lain | ao3 link here
In an attempt to blink away this blissful night, you’re taken back to a few days ago when you were having coffee with Tara.
“The fruit vendor asked me about you,” Tara said, sipping her coffee as though this wasn’t groundbreaking news. “He says he has a shipment of strawberries he wanted to hand you.”
“Ridiculous. I don’t even like strawberries.”
“Says the woman who ordered a strawberry acai.”
You had a hard time keeping a smile to yourself. “Okay fine. I suppose he is kind of cute, but I don’t think-”
“A-HA!” she screamed loud enough that it could’ve been heard in the N109 Zone for all you care. “So go after him!”
You didn’t have the heart to tell her you were already planning to get married to him.
The marriage was hasty, you’ll have to admit. A dark, secluded church abandoned and undesired by most, if not all of the citizens in the N109 Zone was the most romantic place you could think of. With only the twins and Mephisto as your witnesses and a priest willing to wed you both, you were finally together.
Beneath the darkness of the N109 Zone, two parts of a soul became one.
Now, Sylus’s soft snores can be heard right behind you, his arms encircling your waist like he wouldn’t dare attempt to let you go. The coolness of his wedding ring bears into your skin, a stark reminder of this unlikely union that fills your heart more than anything else has. A reminder too of what had transpired between you two just hours before.
“Oh goodness,” you murmur into your palm, quiet laughter erupting out of you alongside a pesky blush.
“Hm?”
The husk of your husband’s voice reverberates, waves of it crashing down on your skin as his lips touch your shoulder. There is softness in the way he does it, but then again, isn’t he always like that with you?
“Did I wake you up?” You turn around so you’re facing him. Red eyes meet yours, and his small smile shines with the moonlight’s help.
“I wanted to know what made my wife so happy.”
Wife.
If you weren’t already beet red, hearing him call you his wife would’ve turned you into one of those roses he loves giving you. Or, better yet, a strawberry he was planning to surprise you with.
“It’s nothing,” you dismiss. “I was just thinking about our marriage, that’s all.”
“Happy thoughts, I hope,” he teases, but you notice a hint of fear in his tone. You’ve heard it many times before — when he first confessed his feelings, when he quietly proposed under Linkon’s starry night with the twins next to him, and when he married you. A fear of losing you, a fear of disappointing the only person who could make him move worlds and love like no other.
Lucky for him, you know exactly how to make him feel the love he believes he doesn’t deserve. “Very happy thoughts. Why do you think I was laughing?”
Sylus’s smile widens at that. He takes your hand and places tiny kisses into your palm, worshipping you with every move he makes. If devotion were a person, it would be the other half of your soul.
“I must be doing something right if I can make you laugh even while I’m asleep.”
“You’re doing everything right, Sy-Sy.”
It’s his turn to become strawberry red, and you have to resist taking a bite. Instead you cup his cheeks and giggle at the way his eyes fight to stay open, sleep willfully winning the match against your husband who yearns to hear more of your voice.
“Go back to sleep,” you tell him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Mmm…” he hums. There’s something about the husk of his voice that makes you want to crawl into his heart and live there for the rest of your life. “You better be.”
“I will. I mean, who could leave a man that somehow convinced a priest to visit the N109 Zone?”
He chuckles, and you realize that you like being the only one who could do that to him. “Touché.”
“And aside from that, who could leave such a lovable, wonderful man?” You place kisses all over his pretty face, no part of him left unloved. His breath hitching is one of the loveliest sounds you’ve ever heard, and your name escaping his lips is even better.
“My love…”
“I love you. So, so much.” You pull away, only to place another kiss on his forehead the way he loves doing to you. “Sy-Sy. I. Love. You.”
Happiness engulfs him, and you can see it in the way his red eyes widen and the feel of his hand caressing your waist. Like your skin could ground him, like your existence makes him worth it.
“I love you too, beloved.” He presses his forehead against yours. “I can’t believe we’re married.”
“That’s what I was laughing about earlier! We’re actually married, Sylus. And we…” You look at your messy blankets and the clothes scattered across the floor. Button-ups on hotel chairs, your wedding dress beautifully sitting next to the door. “We…”
“Yes, we did.”
There is no love purer than his. He can read your mind and understand you like no other.
The moment is broken by his abrupt yawn, your laughter erupting when he nuzzles his head into the crook of your shoulder. I’m sleeping here, he murmurs. Comfortable.
You can only run your fingers through his hair as he falls back into slumber as quickly as he awoke. Peace settles within him, a rare occurrence, and it’s all because of you.
“I love you,” you whisper once more before sleep takes you as well, letting his soft snores and his gentle hug lull you to a tranquility you have always wanted.
In this world and in every life, your soul will only belong to him.
a/n: I was blushing like a strawberry when writing this lmfaooo! Oh, to be able to marry this man and shower him with the love he so rightfully deserves
Thank you for reading! Any form of interaction is appreciated. Take care :)
sylus x reader, domestic fluff, sweets, not proofread. wc. 465
a/n: was eating tons of sweets earlier because i was kind of sad, and that inspired this ficlet lol (and the new sylus solo too ofc!)
dividers by @pixopix | ao3 link here
If Sylus is used to anything, it’s the sight of the unworthy falling to their knees.
While the job as the leader of Onychinus is riddled with spontaneity, it has become rather repetitive. The wails of those who seek his death as death seeks them instead, the attempts at pity to find more time to use for other potential betrays… Sylus would quite like to be used to anything else besides that.
So, when he arrives home with exhaustion written all over his face, he finds the twins eating snacks he’s sure he nor the chef purchased. “What’s with all the candy, Luke and Kieran?”
Luke is the first to explain. His face, still boyish despite his responsibilities, is a smug grin with candy all over his lips. “Boss-woman gave it to us!”
“We helped her with some of her groceries and she gave us free candy!” Kieran follows. His smile is less smug and more… grateful? Sylus doesn’t quite know how to describe such a warm expression, for all he’s seen these past few days are desperate tears and cold emotions that inevitably come with a fate as dark as what Sylus has given them.
“Ah,” he says with a nod. “And where is my Boss-woman?”
“Right here!”
The twins continue eating their candy when Sylus turns around. You’re in your pajamas with an ice cream cone in hand, gleefully putting your hands up in the air like happiness has consumed you whole. Sylus doesn’t get a chance to breathe before you trap him in a tight hug and place kisses all over his face. He’s not used to this, the love that overflows from you or the sight of the twins simply enjoying their food like their lives are anywhere near normal.
“I see you’ve made a home in Onychinus’s base,” he comments when candy, chocolates, and snacks alike appear in his periphery. “I’m honored, my love.”
“They helped me with grocery shopping,” you tell him. “They didn’t misbehave one bit!”
Sylus raises a brow.
“That’s because I gave them a grocery list and focused more on sticking to it.” You sigh, and Sylus can tell what emotion is on your face: contentedness. “Goodness, I’d tell them I needed bread and they’d hand cupcakes as though they’re worthy substitutes.”
He can’t help but let out a grin of his own at that. “Sounds like a headache.”
“A lovely one.”
You hand him your ice cream cone to share, and he takes a small lick of the dessert. Shy, as though he’s trying to be accustomed to a life with sweets and not anguish. But even the leader of Onychinus can fall into the temptation that sweets bring, and so he allows himself to consume more of it.
He could get used to this.
any form of interaction is appreciated. take care :)
sylus x reader, fluff, teasing, lots of love, not proofread. wc. 294
a/n: heavily inspired by @abyssyby's works! thank you for inspiring me <33
dividers by @pxrce-lain | ao3 link here
When you look at Sylus with glossy eyes, he immediately knows that you’re up to no good.
“I just washed my face,” he says when your index finger is inches away from his cheek, “and I pride myself on having good skin.”
“Oh come on, I gave you that skincare regimen!”
Sylus smirks. “But I paid for it, so I win.”
Those glossy eyes turn away from him and land on the ground, and your arms that were once so eager to reach for him now cross on your chest. He feels his soul break at the sight, but he finds no right course of action to make up for his mistake.
So, he chooses to do what he does best.
“Beloved,” he coos, encircling his arms around your waist from behind and burying his face in the crook of your neck. Now he is one with you, and he can feel your frustration tenfold. He can also hear your pleasant laugh you try to hide with the blankets and see the side of your mouth slowly curving into a smile.
“Are you still mad at me?” he whispers huskily on the skin of your neck. There is distance in the movement and hesitation in his lips, waiting and waiting and waiting for an answer. For your forgiveness.
But to his surprise, all you have as an answer is a gentle poke of his cheek.
You got what you wanted, all because Sylus let his guard down.
“You sly kitten,” he says, impressed. “You know just how to get me, don’t you?”
You nod with a smile that can undo him for the rest of his lives. He allows you to sit on his lap where you can poke his face all you want.
any form of interaction is appreciated. take care! :)
With every attempt at rekindling a past that was once real, the present becomes tied to directionless hopes. Zayne knows that all too well as he attempts to make up for what he's done.
4,396 words. major character death, angst, groveling, platonic relationships, crying, affection, f!reader, cross-posted on ao3
a/n: thank you for all the love given to chapter 1! i hope you like this chapter too :)
Twenty-four hour shifts were all he had known these past few months. Days upon days where his medical license felt like less of an achievement because it didn’t help with his race against time. Endless research and collaborations with other specialists for Protocore Syndrome, only to lead to nothing that could help with his childhood friend’s condition.
There were times he didn’t think things could get worse, but life loves to prove him wrong.
He remembered the panic coursing through his veins when he resuscitated MC. The loud machine mocked him with his inadequacies, his voice foreign even to him because of how loud and angry it sounded when he ordered the nurses around. He remembered the sigh of relief he didn’t allow himself to breathe, because he knew deep down that this won’t be the worst of it.
He would have to revive her again and again, until he couldn’t anymore.
“Water?” Doctor Greyson offered, pulling him out of the reverie of worry and back into his office. But as he takes the paper cup, it sloshes in his shaky hands, and he is reminded of someone.
You.
He remembered passing you by when he ran to MC’s hospital room, wishing he could’ve said something instead of letting fear overtake him. Perhaps a word letting you know you had been the reason his heart didn’t stop beating completely would’ve sufficed. Perhaps it would’ve erased the frown he saw on your face after the resuscitation. Perhaps it would’ve given him the courage to do more than just hold your hand.
“Can you call my girlfriend for me?” he asks Greyson, tilting his head towards his phone lying on his office couch.
“What for?”
“I need to hear her voice.”
But when you hung up on Greyson, Zayne immediately knew something was very wrong. Dread and confusion linger on his tired body, unsure what to do. Unsure what he can do.
He asks Greyson for his phone soon after.
He needs to talk to you.
“Are you all right?” are the first words he uttered when you picked up. It isn’t like you to hang up abruptly, nor is it like you to not clutch his hand when he holds it.
It isn’t like you to hang up on him either. It’s one thing to hang up on Greyso — he’d done that many times before — but you had never done that to him. He supposes he deserves it for all your calls he failed to answer during his shifts, but concern overwhelms him nonetheless.
“I think she’s mad at you, Doctor Zayne,” Greyson unhelpfully concludes.
“It would be more useful if you told me the reason behind her anger,” he snarls. Taking another sip of the water, he sees Greyson shrug through the rim of the cup.
“Regardless, the Director asked you to take a break tonight. Maybe you can talk to her when you arrive home.”
“I’m not going home.”
Greyson scoffs. “In the state you’re in, you're basically an upcoming patient. Besides, don’t you want to spend more time with your girlfriend?”
Zayne takes another sip of the water, then pauses. There is nothing more he would rather do — nothing more he would want than to do that. But he simply can’t.
He sees your face in his mind again — your frown, the way your eyes refused to meet his, your harsh tone. Does it matter if he can’t if your happiness is on the line?
“I take back everything I just said. I’m heading home. Have Dr. Jones in charge of my patients tonight, Greyson.”
His friend smiles before heading out of Zayne’s office, leaving Zayne to contemplate for a few moments. Toying with his car keys in his fingers — a habit he’s gotten from you — he bolts to the hospital’s gift shop, hoping bouquets are still available even on a night so dreadful.
Hoping they can brighten up his life, just a little bit.
Zayne’s duffel bag meets the floor you kneel on.
Your cries were enough to make him run towards your bedroom. His exhaustion doesn’t stop him, the pain from shifts sharp with every stride, but he doesn’t waste any time looking for you.
And when he finds you, Zayne doesn’t waste a moment to contemplate. He kneels beside you and pulls you into his embrace despite your protests. Your fists meet his arms and your insults meet his heart, but he doesn’t let go.
He doesn’t stop whispering your name as though it were a sacred vow.
He doesn’t let himself break, even though open luggages and scattered clothes surround the both of you.
He doesn’t loosen his hold on your body as your tears coat his scrubs, watering the jasmines beside the both of you.
He looks at the luggage with bated breaths.
You were planning to leave him.
Your wails are louder, sharper with every unintelligible word leaving your quivering lips. Zayne may be a man of many mistakes, but he’s learned from past arguments that those words are cold, harsh insults directed at him. He doesn’t have to ask, not when he knows you so well.
But for the life of him, he doesn’t understand why you would leave.
Or maybe he does.
Maybe his mistakes have made him unlovable. All those nights spent on research only to find nothing. All those nights he missed meals because grief had filled his stomach instead. All those nights spent on hospital grounds, slowly forgetting the feeling of your arms around him.
His grip on you loosens slightly, letting you know that he wouldn’t blame you if you chose to walk away.
But your cries are still loud, still pained. Your hand is on his coat as though it holds all your answers and your grievances. Your tears run down his scrubs. You’re holding onto him.
And no matter what happens, he will stay with you.
“I’m here, I’m here…” he murmurs, low and gravelly. A result of his exhaustion, only warm because it’s you he’s talking to. “I’m here.”
Unaware that that is, in fact, the problem, he jolts when your cries turn into ferocious screams.
“I wish you were gone! Leave m-me alone like you always do.”
He doesn’t, because where would he go if he wasn’t with you?
Moonlight illuminates the dark room, a reminder that the night has not yet ended despite everything that has happened. It shines on your face as you scream at him, making him realize just how much he’s forgotten the features he once fell in love with. Your words are lost to the air of the night as he stares, taking note of everything.
Your hair, the way it cascades on your shoulder as it collapses from your bun.
Your hands, the way your knuckles have been left unkissed for far too long.
Your face, the way every muscle constricts with each part of your anger.
Zayne is enamored.
Even though you want to leave — even though he knows he deserves to be left behind — he takes your hands in his. His calloused hands meet your clenched ones, coating them in his comfort. His company.
He doesn’t know how much you’ve wanted that, and how much you despise it now that you’ve received it.
He lets go of one of your hands to push the tossed clothes off of the bed, ignoring the way his heart burns at where those clothes would’ve gone had he not called. They can be tidied tomorrow morning, but for now, you are his priority.
“Get some rest. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“Don’t tell me w-what to do!” Your words from the hospital ring in his ears like a familiar blade he allows himself to bleed onto. He enjoys the sensation like he’s always enjoyed your stubbornness, letting himself feel the pain of his inadequacies.
But even pain doesn’t overcome love, so he whispers, “Shh. You need some rest, my love,” as though that isn’t a weapon in and of itself.
It works, though, and soon your breaths have calmed and your eyes are closed.
And Zayne sits beside you, wondering if his heart could beat at all.
The next morning comes like an unexpected friendship — surprising and somewhat dreadful, especially when isolation is your soulmate.
But when you blink your eyes open and your eyelashes hesitate to separate from one another, you realize that it is, in fact, another day. Sunlight spills through your bedroom windows, peskily shining your opened luggage in its glow as if it seeks to remind you of what you failed to do.
You’re under the covers you’ve slept and cried in for years instead of basking in hotel sheets.
You’re still home.
You’re still with Zayne.
Like you do every morning, you reach for his spot on the bed. What usually meets your fingertips are the smooth sheets and pillow, occasionally even his penguin plushie. Hope dies every morning you wish he were here.
But today is different.
Your hand finds Zayne’s sleeping face, caressing his unruly hair. It shocks you, makes your heart beat in ways it hadn’t before.
Perhaps if you still had hope in your heart, you would smile. You would pry his glasses off of his face and joke about how overworked he is, as though that was a laughing matter and not one you’ve thought about dying over. You would pepper his face in light kisses, delighted that he’s home.
But because every ounce of hope has dissipated, you turn around and stand up from the bed. The luggage is still in the same place it was when you cried, but the items are gone. Messy clothes, tossed toiletries…
The luggage is empty, save for a little note in messy doctor’s handwriting.
Don’t leave, my love.
Perhaps in another life, where happiness lingers in the place grief does, you would wake Zayne up and tell him that you would never leave him. He would be peppered with so many desperate kisses and thankful pleas that it would be impossible for him to doubt you.
But you simply rip the note in two and put the pieces in your pocket, keeping a mental note to throw them out.
Being alive is truly a curse.
Your tears don’t get the best of you like it does on most mornings, so you push yourself and make some breakfast. The scent of warm food is forgotten now, leaving only the simple meals you can toss in machines in hopes they come out somewhat edible.
But Zayne beat you to your own game.
He stands in front of the stove, methodically cooking eggs on the heated pan. The sound of oil popping is something you haven’t heard in a while, as well as the surprised jolt Zayne does when it pops in his direction.
Butterflies flutter where the flowers of grief bloom, but they die just as fast when your clouds of thoughts arise to wash them away.
Has Zayne cooked for MC when he watched over her in Akso Hospital? Has he provided conversation that led to laughter instead of the silence that haunts you? Has he given her jasmines similar to the ones laying on your bedroom floor?
“Good morning,” he greets, tearing you out of your reverie. “The Director gave me a day off, which is why I’m here.”
“Oh.”
Were you disappointed or surprised? You’re not sure anymore.
Zayne places the scrambled eggs on the dinner table, the steam’s warmth making the morning less daunting. You don’t admit how much you miss this — quiet mornings with the absence of worries or anything else that could take them away.
You don’t admit how much you crave his cooking, even if it’s eggs that are slightly burnt.
You don’t admit how much you crave his company, because one morning of good food doesn’t erase all the time you spent wishing he was here. A good breakfast doesn’t wipe years of fallen tears and unfulfilled prayers.
The morning remains silent, not by the gentleness of domesticity, but because words are less exhausting unsaid than screamed — and because grievances are easier to handle when they’re piled up rather than spilled all over your souls.
Or so you think.
The next few sunrises bring warm gifts, but unfortunately for Zayne, you don’t seem to want to accept them.
Early morning routines — which usually consist of him making himself look presentable to all willing eyes — now include little handwritten notes scattered across the house. For every day you chose to stay, there would be new notes that are intended to be words of gratitude.
I watered the jasmines for you, my love.
There are chocolates on the kitchen counter. I saved some just for you.
And your favorite one: MC is okay!
How odd is it that the most emotion you’ve gotten out of him is through a post-it note about another woman.
You simply roll your eyes with every new note — every new attempt at making it up to you. It’s worthless considering he hasn’t figured out why you were mad in the first place, but deep down in your soul — where you’ve learned to deem yourself unworthy of anybody’s love — the notes are reminiscent of his once everpresent existence. The early days where breakfasts are warmer and coated with sweet nothings, while nights would be coated in his love.
But the notes also remind you of the fact that he isn’t here.
Those words — as futile as they are — are better heard with the husk of his voice than read on illegible post-its. At least that feels real. At least that is something you can cherish.
At least that would mean he’s next to you, which would make it easier for you to hurt him as much as his silence has hurt you.
But because not all mornings are merciful, you rip this note in half and toss the remnants in the trash.
Even though the bedroom’s bin is always coated in the color of his notes, Zayne still tries to find ways to make you happy.
After grueling news about Protocore Syndrome’s mortality rate, he comes home with takeout he bought from the bakery beside Akso Hospital. The tray contains cheesecakes, macarons, and other desserts he remembered were your favorites.
“Where’s your girlfriend, Doctor Zayne?” the baker — an old lady Zayne had come to see as a second mother — asked, and he didn’t know how to answer. Every day, he dreads coming home to an empty house.
Every day, he wonders why you would want to leave.
Now that he’s home and he sees you on the couch watching TV, Zayne breathes a sigh of relief.
You’re home.
He settles on the dinner table quietly, afraid to be seen by the one woman he’s wanted to see his entire shift. The desserts sit on the table, waiting to be noticed by their recipient. The jasmines watered by your tears sit prettily next to it. Still alive, still beautiful.
The only sign that you noticed him that night was the glare pointed at his direction. No words were needed to kill a man who has one foot in the grave and the other in medicine.
And yet, he tries to find different ways to approach you without his personal fears meddling in his way.
The next morning, Zayne tries cooking breakfast instead of writing notes. The sun isn’t even out when burnt bacon and slightly overcooked eggs grace the dinner table.
“Good morning, my love,” he whispers in your hair before heading off to work, careful not to jolt you awake.
The days after approach like snowfall — cold, unwelcoming, nostalgic. Zayne finds his little breakfast plates empty after returning home from labs and conferences, which allows him to breathe his first sigh of relief on those days. He eats the food you leave on the table — the closest he can get to you. He savors the emptiness of dinners without your presence and suffers the agony he so often feels.
Whatever he may have done, he deserves it.
But that doesn’t mean he’ll stop trying to care for you.
“What’s this?” you ask him on one particular morning. Zayne holds up an ice sculpture he made the night before — not quite the same as the one you shattered, but he would be ashamed to say he had forgotten what the original looked like.
“Two snowmen holding hands.”
He waits for your reaction, a sliver of hope welling up in his chest for the first time in years. He doesn’t quite get close, no, but the snowmen are reminiscent of a past long gone. A past now reduced to workloads and quiet declarations. A past that melts like the sculpture does.
Zayne waits for something. Waits to see if the spark in your eyes means anything. Waits to see if your hands, still unkissed, reach for his freezing ones. Waits to see if what was once real can still be rekindled.
But patience can be futile when hope is fragile.
Your hand brushes his briefly as you take the sculpture before walking away. Silence ensues, fills the house with its torment, and Zayne doesn’t know what to think.
Perhaps he deserved the nights in the hospital full of dying hopes in his living hands. Perhaps he deserved it for all the times he’s failed to find a cure for his childhood best friend’s heart condition. Perhaps he deserved every second of his anguish — every second of worry, for you and her.
His tears blend with the melted ice in his hands.
How could such a genius feel so lost?
“Oh, look who’s here.”
Zayne is met with tubes, machines, and the snarky tone of his dying childhood best friend as soon as he enters her new hospital room. Covered head to toe in personal protective equipment, he feels as though he’s a ghost in her life.
Not a friend who spent his entire life trying to save her. Not the doctor failing to keep her alive.
A ghost.
Impersonal, dead, invisible.
“You were resuscitated again a few hours ago,” he comments lightly, but judging by her grimace, she did not need the reminder. “Are the tubes painful?”
“Everything is painful,” she whispers. Her voice, usually so bright and happy, is reduced to softness. When she winces and her heartbeat spikes, Zayne rushes to adjust tubes and hold her hand, hoping this wouldn’t be the last time he would see her breathing.
If he were a better surgeon — a better researcher — she would be outside of this godforsaken intensive care unit and laughing happily under the sun’s rays. She would be tied to friendships and romance, not to tubes connecting to lifelines. She would be at celebratory dinners, drunk and spilling her heart away.
She would be asking him about his dark circles and defending you if she found out how cold you’ve been towards him.
Consumed by what ifs and hopeless attempts and futile races against death’s embrace, Zayne looks directly in her eyes — the light long gone, replaced by a feeling so familiar to him: longing.
Longing for what? He couldn’t guess.
“If I die tonight…”
Zayne freezes.
“Promise me that you won’t internalize it.”
He stays silent because he knows his tears will show, even beneath the layers of protective equipment.
“You’ll live, MC,” he murmurs with all of the hope he can muster. As long as his hands work and his heart beats, she will have a chance to live.
But she shakes her head.
“You know w-when your time is up, a-and I think mine is soon.” She cuts his response off with a wave. “Don’t blame yourself when it happens.”
“It will not happen.”
“Oh, it will,” she retorts, but this time, there is a smile beneath the mask that keeps her alive. “Y-you’ve been around death often, Zayne. It makes itself known before it takes a soul.”
Zayne wishes he could disagree, but not even textbook evidence can dispute her point. Death is a dreadful force that bows to nobody — especially not the noble living. He knows it all too well; he’s shed too many tears to fool himself into thinking otherwise.
“You know, your girlfriend visited me right after I was revived.” MC’s small smile shrank into a flat line. “She braided my hair.”
She shows the tiny braids peeking out of her pillow. Little ribbons hold her hair together, similar to how they were when she was a kid.
“And while she braided my hair, she talked about the dinner party you introduced us in. I can’t believe s-she thought she wasn’t the life of the party when s-she was the topic of all the hunters’ conversations!”
Her voice is full of life now, and it was easy to hope that she would live a better tomorrow. It was easy to see how you bring life to the people you meet.
“I-I regret not approaching her again sooner. We would’ve been good friends.”
A lump appears in Zayne’s throat. He looks at his friend’s braids and is reminded of when your hands caressed his head and tied multiple little ponytails on it. Your hands were gentle and your words were soft — like a blanket on dark nights, moonlight on maniacal ocean waves.
He blinks away his tears. They have no place here.
“Can I tell you something, MC?” Zayne asks, akin to a fearful child who wasn’t allowed to be anything else but perfect.
Her eyes, which were previously shut, open up slightly. Bloodshot from sleep, red from exhaustion.
He knows that look all too well.
“Of course.”
Zayne takes a breath. Then another.
“She’s mad at me.”
“For what?” Her head visibly tilts in confusion, even as she’s restricted by tubes and machines strapped to her body.
“I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to make it up to her, but I don’t think any of my attempts are working.”
She moves her legs from beneath the blanket but stops when she remembers the tubes restrict her. Life desperately clings onto her regardless of her condition, and her desire to help overwhelmingly surpasses death’s hold.
“L-let me guess. Were your attempts all wordless gestures and silent acts of care?”
Zayne freezes again. For someone who doesn’t have his Evol, she’s suspiciously good at making him do that.
“I thought so.” Her laugh is quiet, but it’s akin to the tones of mischievous cats whenever they push something off counters. “Have you ever tried asking her what’s wrong?”
“No,” he admits.
“How would y-you know how to fix a problem you don’t know about?” she says, the mock of it soothed by the care laced in the words. “It’s not a bad thing to be close to your loved ones, you know. I’m sure she’ll welcome you with open arms once you allow yourself to be…”
MC’s breath hitches, the machine maniacally beeping. Zayne rushes to adjust tubes and equipment — precision of a surgeon, heart of a human — but it doesn’t calm down.
“...seen.”
She finishes her sentence with only a sliver of life in her body. Zayne holds her hand — gently, as to not butcher the tubes in her veins — but retains the desperation of a supplicant whose hands and knees bleed for an answer.
“MC!”
The machines quiet down, like they always seem to do, but Zayne doesn’t feel an ounce of relief. He sees her body giving up, the Protocore consuming every life out of her until it will finally release her from its torment. He watches her as she catches air and breathes it into her lungs, only holding onto life because it hasn’t left her completely.
His hand stills atop hers.
It’s one of the only times his hands were worthless in a hospital room.
“You’re so c-closed off,” she huffs. “Always thinking that distance will heal what you’ve broken… when all people seek from you is your company. You did that to me so many times.”
Her coughs momentarily break him, but tears caress his face anyway.
He’s never felt so exposed in his life. His intentions, his fears of losing you came from insecurities buried beneath his facade. Maybe if he was better, he would deserve you more. If he were a better doctor, a better person, he would one day come home and bask in the love you have always given him.
However, in the pursuit of being a better man, he has abandoned his role as your lover. In pursuit of perfection, he has given you absence. In pursuit of believing you deserved better than a man who came home broken, he’s given you a version of him that broke you.
“Thank you for all the work you’ve put into saving me,” she whispers, and Zayne holds her hand tighter. “But remember that perfection is impossible. I’m still alive because of you, but my death will not be your fault.”
“Please don’t say that…” but even he hears the doubt in his tone.
“Take care of yourself, yeah?” Her tears coat her face now. “And take care of her for me.”
Zayne basks in the suffocation of the grief lingering in the intensive care unit, desperately talking to his best friend for as long as he can. Tears coat the conversation in melancholy, but he knows that her breathy retorts are her attempts to make him laugh.
And so he does.
He thinks of you when she mentions the gold dress you wore at the dinner party. He thinks of you when she laughs at his attempts to comfort you (“An ice sculpture you didn’t even bother to solidify correctly?” she mocked). He thinks of you with every laugh, every smile that comes out of him even as his mask hides every one.
Zayne says a final goodbye to his best friend that night, promising her that he’ll smile and laugh and bask in the warmth of all the sunshines she wouldn’t be able to live through.
“I love you, Zayne,” she whispers, broken with acceptance of the fate about to overtake her. He returns the words with dry jokes so that laughter is what accompanies her.
And when news breaks of her peaceful death, Zayne finds you in the hospital’s waiting room and runs, runs, runs to the only woman who can hold his heavy heart.
thank you for reading! any form of interaction is appreciated. take care :)
xavier x reader. suggestive, aftercare, sweet teasing. wc. 627
a/n: this xavier ficlet can finally see the sun lol. enjoy :3
dividers by @pixopix | ao3 link here
“You’ve made such a mess, starlight.”
The words barely register as you come down from your high. Labored breaths and cloudy thoughts are all you are at the moment when Xavier looks at you with a smug smile and soaked, ruined lips.
“Bold of you to say,” you retort softly, to which he responds with a laughter so melodious it wakes you up from your reverie.
With little kisses on your cheeks and sweet nothings accompanying the marks on your skin, Xavier begins to sit up. Little whines escape your lips, seeking the warmth of his skin and the love in his gaze, but he chuckles and assures you that he’ll be back.
“I’m just going to grab a towel, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Then we’re going to watch a movie.”
A movie? Sleepiness creeps up on you, but you’re not passing up a chance to watch some cheesy romance and talking to Xavier about the cute scenes. Maybe you could even rile him up with a remark or two, but with how tired you are…
Oh.
Your exhaustion disappears when you catch a glimpse of Xavier’s back as he bends down to grab your clothes off the floor.
Bold red scratch marks color his skin, the artwork a testament to your love. You have to blink to register that yes, they look like the remnants of shooting stars and yes, you were the one who’d placed them there.
Possessiveness wells up in you. He is yours and yours alone.
“Xavier…”
He turns around, his arms holding all of your clothes and even the heels you had worn when you came to his apartment. “Hm? Do you need anything?”
You.
You shake your head, smiling. “No. It’s okay.”
He tilts his head, suspicious, but he doesn’t say anything more. In what seems to take only a second, clothes are neatly folded and placed on the nightstand, your heels are… somewhere, and Xavier comes back from the restroom with a towel in hand and snacks in the other.
“Let me know if you’re uncomfortable, starlight.”
But when he bends down to place the bags of chips on the floor, the sight of his back becomes clear again, and you realize you wouldn’t trade this view for anything.
“Xavier, does it…” you turn to your side as though the darkness of the room doesn’t already hide your blush. The only light seeping in is from his bathroom, but the door basically hides it all. “Does your back hurt?”
“Not really. I mean, I got good exercise out of this.”
“No! I meant-” You bury your face in your hands, shyly trying to dodge the conversation you had initiated. “Nevermind.”
“Oh.” You can hear the realization in his tone, amusement creeping in soon after. “Are you talking about the marks on my back?”
So much for dodging the conversation.
But your star doesn’t make fun of you or make you feel even more embarrassed. Instead, he gently pries your hands off of your face, and with a smile, he murmurs, “It’s okay. I liked being marked like that.”
“Hm?” You succumb to the softness of his hand as he cups your face. Sleepiness becomes more of a losing battle now that you’re so relaxed.
“You should do it more often, but…” Xavier rubs the back of his neck. “Only if you want to, of course.”
Tiny sparkles of light surround his body as he clears his throat sheepishly.
There are no words to be said to that, your answer only coming the next time you make love to him. The only sounds for the rest of the night are your soft affectionate whines as Xavier cleans you up and the comfort movie he puts on before you both head back to bed.
Thank you for reading! Any form of interaction is appreciated. Take care :)
