They Hear You Insult Yourself—and Decide to Correct It. Thoroughly
♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: body image insecurity, soft angst, intense husband-core reassurance, protective hands everywhere, ends spicy ♡ a/n: it’s just a passing comment. a little sigh, a muttered insult, a careless pinch of skin in the mirror. You didn’t think it mattered. but to them? it’s the worst thing you’ve ever said, and they’ll prove exactly why you’re wrong—slowly, desperately, until you’re gasping their name and forgetting what you ever doubted. PC: @chiaki_0219_3 on X
Caleb
It happens in the bathroom.
You’re standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a pair of pajama shorts and one of Caleb’s old t-shirts. The cotton clings a little more than you’d like, highlighting the soft lines of your stomach.
You pinch at your side, frowning.
“Ugh. Could stand to lose a few.”
It’s quiet. Barely more than a mutter under your breath. The kind of thing you’ve said a hundred times before without thinking.
You don’t realize Caleb’s there until you hear the sharp inhale behind you.
You freeze.
Your eyes meet his in the mirror—and the look on his face guts you. Wide, shocked, almost hurt. Like he just watched you slap yourself across the face.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice so soft it nearly breaks.
“Caleb—” you start, cheeks hot, already trying to wave it off.
But he doesn’t let you.
In two strides, he’s right behind you. His hands slide around your waist, big palms splaying over your stomach like he’s trying to shield it from your own words. His chin rests on your shoulder, eyes dark as they meet yours in the glass.
“Don’t do that,” he whispers.
“Do what?”
“Say things like that. Look at yourself like that.” His arms tighten. “Talk about yourself like you’re anything less than the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You swallow hard. “I was just—”
“No.” His voice dips lower, a rough little rasp that turns your legs to water. “You were tearing yourself apart. And I won’t have it.”
His hands slip under your shirt, palms warm and reverent as they stroke over the skin you were just criticizing.
“Do you even know what I see when I look at you?” he murmurs against your neck. “Because it’s sure as hell not flaws. It’s this. All of this.” His hands squeeze, slow and adoring. “Soft and warm and mine.”
Your breath hitches. He catches it with his mouth, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your neck that makes your knees wobble.
“Caleb…”
He turns you gently, until you’re facing him. His eyes are molten—devastated and starving all at once.
“Say something good about yourself,” he whispers.
Your heart twists. “What?”
“Just one thing. For me.”
You hesitate. His thumb strokes your cheek, patient but insistent. So you whisper, “I… like my smile.”
Caleb’s face breaks into this soft, awe-struck grin. Like you just told him you love him for the first time all over again.
“There,” he says, breathless. “That’s the woman I married.”
Then he kisses you—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, until he’s walking you backward toward the counter. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the cool surface. His mouth never leaves yours, a quiet promise against your lips.
“I’m gonna remind you how perfect you are,” he breathes, hands already pushing your shirt higher. “Until you never doubt it again.”
Xavier
You’re in the bedroom, fussing with the hem of your tank top, trying to decide if it looks too clingy over your stomach.
It’s not like you’re planning to go anywhere—you just caught your reflection in the mirror, and couldn’t stop the little frown that tugged at your lips. The soft exhale that came out more like disappointment.
“Should probably start running again…” you mutter under your breath.
You don’t expect anyone to hear it.
So you jump when a low, quiet voice says behind you:
“…Why would you think that?”
You spin around. Xavier’s standing in the doorway—half-shadowed, hair still slightly damp from the shower. He’s watching you with that usual calm, neutral expression… except his eyes are tight at the edges. Concern. Confusion. Something sharp he doesn’t quite know how to name.
“What?” you try to deflect. “It’s nothing, Xavier.”
But he doesn’t move. Just tilts his head slightly, studying you like he does when reading—like if he stares hard enough, he’ll understand the problem.
“You said you need to run again,” he repeats, voice careful. “Why?”
You shift awkwardly, arms coming up to cross over your stomach. “It’s not a big deal. I just… thought I was getting a little soft, that’s all.”
His brow furrows.
“Soft?” he echoes, like it’s a word he’s never heard before. Then even quieter: “Do you think I would care?”
You blink. “No, I just—I care.”
Another long pause. You can almost see the gears turning. Then he steps closer, hands coming up hesitantly to rest on your sides.
“You think your body is less than it should be,” he says finally. “That it’s wrong somehow.”
It’s not a question. Just this soft, sad realization.
Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
Xavier’s hands slide up under your arms, slow and warm, until they cradle your face. His thumbs sweep lightly over your cheeks, like he’s trying to memorize every small imperfection you seem to hate.
“I don’t understand,” he admits, voice so quiet it nearly cracks. “When I look at you… all I see is mine. Exactly the way you are. Nothing else even exists.”
Your eyes burn. He dips his forehead to yours, breath stuttering.
“If you ever felt less, it means I’ve failed to show you how I see you,” he whispers. “I won’t let that happen again.”
You start to shake your head, but he stops you with a kiss—soft at first, then deeper, more insistent. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping them gently, pulling you flush against him like he needs to feel every curve.
When he finally pulls back, his mouth brushes your ear.
“Let me prove it,” he breathes. “Let me show you what you do to me.”
And by the time he’s done—lips trailing down your throat, hands learning every inch of you with reverent desperation—there isn’t a single part of you left doubting how wanted you are.
Rafayel
You’re alone in the studio—one of his old, paint-splattered shirts hanging off your shoulders, brushing your bare thighs. You’re not even really trying it on for him. Just grabbed it off a chair because you were chilly.
It doesn’t sit quite right, though. The hem clings a little. Your hips look wider than usual. Your stomach presses soft against the fabric.
You frown at your reflection in the smudged window. Tug at the shirt’s sides, sigh.
“Not exactly a masterpiece, huh?”
You mean it as a joke. An easy, self-deprecating little jab.
Then you hear it.
A sharp intake of breath—like someone punched the air right out of him.
You turn, startled.
Rafayel is standing a few feet away, palette knife still in hand, paint drying on his fingers. His eyes are wide. Bright. Almost glassy.
“What did you just say?” he asks, voice low, careful, but vibrating with something you can’t place.
“Raf, it’s nothing—”
“No, no.” The knife clatters to the floor. He crosses the room in three long strides. “Repeat it. I want to hear it again.”
You flush, heart stuttering. “It was just a joke—”
“Repeat it.”
“Not exactly a masterpiece,” you mutter.
He stares at you for a heartbeat. Two. Then laughs—short, breathless, completely humorless.
“You know what’s tragic, my love?” His hands slide up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in this devastatingly tender way. “You stand there wrapped in my clothes, in my colors, and you dare insult the only work of art that’s ever mattered?”
Your throat tightens. “Raf—”
“No,” he cuts in. “No more dismissing it. Do you want to know what I see right now?”
He doesn’t wait for your answer. Drops to his knees right there on the paint-splattered floor, palms smoothing over your thighs. Tilts his head back, eyes dark and shining.
“I see curves that haunt my sketches. A mouth I’ve drawn a hundred times and still can’t get right. Skin that makes me want to abandon every canvas and worship only you.”
His hands slide up under the shirt, fingertips ghosting over your hips, your belly, reverent.
“You’re not exactly a masterpiece?” he breathes, voice breaking into a soft laugh. “Darling, you’re the only thing I’ve ever created that matters—and all I did was love you enough to be allowed this close.”
You shiver. One of your hands finds his hair, tangling there.
“Let me prove it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your stomach. “Let me show you what art was supposed to feel like.”
And then he’s pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your skin—slow and adoring, trailing lower until the shirt is bunched around your waist and you’re gasping his name.
By the time he’s finished with you, you’re breathless and wrecked—and there’s no room left in your mind for anything but the way his mouth keeps whispering, “perfect, perfect, perfect.”
Zayne
You’re half-dressed in the bedroom, standing sideways to the mirror—one hand resting on your hip, the other pinching lightly at the curve of your stomach.
You frown. Tug the skin a little. It’s soft. Softer than it used to be.
“God. Look at this—no wonder he doesn’t touch me like he used to.”
It’s barely a mutter. A little jab at yourself, not meant to be heard.
But then there’s a low, flat voice behind you.
“Excuse me?”
You whip around.
Zayne is standing by the door, tie gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His eyes are hard, narrowed, dark in a way that’s never been turned on you before.
“What did you just say?”
You flush, wrapping your arms instinctively over your stomach. “It’s nothing. I was joking.”
“Try again.” His voice drops even lower. “Say it exactly the way you did before.”
You swallow. “Zayne—”
“Say it.”
You breathe out, quiet. “I said… no wonder you don’t touch me like you used to.”
For a long moment, he just stares at you. Then something sharp, almost frightening flickers through his eyes—like you’ve insulted him personally.
“You think that’s why?” he asks, stepping closer. Each word slow, deliberate, dangerous. “You think I don’t touch you because of… this?”
His hands catch your wrists, pull them gently but firmly away from your stomach. Then he places them on his chest—over his heart, which is beating hard and fast beneath your palms.
“You are out of your goddamn mind,” he murmurs.
You try to look away. He tips your chin up, forces your gaze back to his.
“Do you know how many times I’ve stood right there,” he nods to the doorway, “watching you get ready, wearing less than this, and had to physically stop myself from bending you over the nearest surface?”
Your breath catches.
His hands slide down to your hips, gripping tight. “How many times I’ve laid next to you in bed and thought I’d give up everything I have just to feel your skin under my mouth again?”
You shiver.
“That softness you hate?” His mouth dips to your ear, voice rough. “It’s what makes you real. It’s what makes you mine. And it’s why I can’t keep my hands off you.”
His teeth scrape your jaw, the tiniest bite, enough to make your knees weak.
“Now,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, pupils blown. “Say it again. Tell me why I wouldn’t touch you.”
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your throat is too tight.
He smirks. Leans in until his lips just ghost yours.
“That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you—hard, deep, his hands already sliding under your thighs to lift you up, carrying you to the bed with single-minded purpose.
And when he finally lays you out beneath him, he doesn’t just prove how wrong you were. He makes sure you never dare to think that way again.
Sylus
You’re in the closet, half-dressed for bed. Just a tank top and your underwear, the overhead light stark and unflattering. You catch a glimpse of your reflection—skin folding a little where you’re bent, faint marks on your hips—and sigh.
Pinch lightly at your side, muttering under your breath:
“Looks worse every year.”
Then you hear it.
A low, dark chuckle from behind you.
Your heart jumps. You spin around—Sylus is leaning in the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Watching you like a cat watching a wounded bird.
“You want to try that again?” he drawls, one brow arching. “Because I must’ve misheard.”
You cross your arms, feeling small under that sharp red gaze. “Forget it. It was just stupid.”
“No,” he says easily, pushing off the door and sauntering toward you, slow and predatory. “Don’t walk it back now. I want to hear it.”
“Sylus—”
“Say it,” he interrupts, voice low and dangerous as he stops right in front of you. “Tell me exactly what you just told your reflection.”
Your throat tightens. You try to look away. He catches your chin between his fingers, forces your eyes to meet his.
“I said…” You swallow. “It looks worse every year.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then he laughs. Not warm or amused—dark. Almost cruel.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, mouth curling into a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”
Before you can flinch away, his hands are on your waist—big, hot palms sliding up under your shirt, dragging you closer until your hips bump.
“You think this”—he squeezes lightly, fingers digging into the softness you were just criticizing—“makes you less? You think I look at you and see something aging, something spoiled?”
He ducks his head, lips brushing your ear in a breath that makes you shiver.
“No. I see something I’ve ruined so thoroughly you can’t even recognize your own perfection anymore.”
Your breath hitches. His teeth graze your throat, hands sliding lower to grip your ass, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body.
“Every year, every mark, every soft edge—proof you’re mine. Proof of how many times I’ve had you, bent you over this very dresser, made you scream.”
His mouth trails down your neck, biting softly.
“You think I’d ever want you any other way?”
You manage to shake your head, breathless.
“Good,” he growls.
Then he lifts you effortlessly—like you weigh nothing—sets you down on the dresser, steps between your knees. His hands bracket your thighs, thumbs pressing little bruises into your skin.
“Because I’m about to remind you exactly how beautiful you are,” he murmurs, voice like silk wrapped around steel. “And tomorrow? When you catch yourself in the mirror? You’ll remember who put that glow there.”
Then he kisses you—deep, claiming, a little rough—like he has something to prove. And by the time he’s done, your reflection is the last thing on your mind.