Grovel, Pretty Boy.
♡ ft. love and deepspace men x reader ♡ cw: heartbreak, emotional damage, angst, miscommunication, rain-soaked apologies, slow-burn second chances
Xavier
You knew something was wrong when he stopped falling asleep beside you.
He’d always been quiet. Reserved. But this was different. This wasn’t shyness or stoicism. This was distance.
Nights on the couch instead of your bed. Missions he didn’t tell you about until he was already gone. Kisses that never quite landed. Hands that never lingered.
You asked once. Just once.
“Xavier… do you still want this? Do you still want me?”
He didn’t meet your eyes when he answered. Didn’t hesitate either.
“You’re better off without me.”
That was it. No explanation. No tears. Just a single, low sentence—delivered like a death sentence.
So you left.
You packed a bag. Took the key off your chain. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t ask him to stop you.
And he didn’t.
The silence that followed was louder than any fight you’d ever had.
Xavier told himself it was right. That he was protecting you. That one day you’d thank him. But he didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Barely moved.
He left your toothbrush in the cup. Kept the extra pillow on the bed. Replayed your voice in his head like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet.
It wasn’t until he found your jacket—folded and forgotten on the back of the chair—that something in him cracked.
He sat on the floor of the apartment, holding it to his face, inhaling like it could bring you back.
He finally broke.
It’s been three weeks when he shows up at your door.
You hear the knock first—quiet, tentative. Then again, harder. Urgent. When you open it, he’s standing there—wet from the rain, hood down, eyes red like he hasn’t slept in days.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
Just looks at you like he’s seeing the sun for the first time after living underground.
“You look…” His voice fails. He shakes his head, swallows, tries again. “I was wrong.”
You don’t move.
“I thought letting you go would keep you safe. From me. From this life. From the way I mess everything up.”
You cross your arms, biting your lip.
“So why are you here?”
His throat works. His hands clench and unclench at his sides.
“Because you left. And I thought I could live with that. I thought I could survive knowing you were better off.”
“And?”
He takes a shaky breath.
“I can’t.”
“Xavier—”
“I don’t sleep. I can’t eat. I hear your voice every time I close my eyes. Every place I go reminds me of you. And I just—” His voice breaks. His knees hit the porch.
You step back instinctively, shocked. He stays kneeling, eyes wide, voice shaking:
“Please. I know I hurt you. I pushed you away. But don’t let me be right about losing you.”
“Don’t let that be the last thing I ever say to you.”
There’s silence. Only the rain. His breathing. Your heart pounding in your ears.
Then—your hand moves. Slowly. Carefully.
You reach out and touch his cheek. He leans into it like it’s the first warmth he’s felt in weeks.
“I’m not promising anything,” you whisper.
He nods.
“I know. I’ll earn it. Every day. As long as it takes.”
You open the door.
He doesn’t move until you say it—
“Come in.”
And he does.
Soaked. Shaking. Hopeful.
For the first time in weeks— Xavier smiles.
Zayne
It started slow—like all things with Zayne.
A few late nights at Akso Hospital. Then it became weekends. Then the messages got shorter. The kisses fewer. The promises thinner.
And you tried. God, you tried.
You made dinner and waited until it got cold. You left sweet notes in his lab coat pocket that he never mentioned. You curled up on the couch with takeout and a blanket, waiting for the sound of keys in the door—waiting to feel like a priority again.
But he never noticed how you stopped reaching out.
He thought your silence was peace. You thought his silence was neglect.
And when it finally broke—when you stood in the kitchen with tears in your eyes and said “I feel like I’m alone in this relationship”—he blinked at you like he didn’t understand the words.
“You know I’m working,” he said. “This is important.”
“And I’m not?”
You left two days later.
Zayne didn’t react at first.
He told himself you were being emotional. That you’d come back. That he didn’t have time for a personal crisis when three cardiac procedures were scheduled back-to-back.
But your side of the bed stayed cold. Your mug disappeared from the cabinet. Your toothbrush was gone.
The first thing that truly broke him?
A spoon.
He reached for the sugar in the morning, went to stir his coffee— and found your favorite spoon still in the drawer, tucked under the others.
The one with the tiny chip on the handle. The one you always used. And he stared at it like it was your ghost.
It takes him six days to gather the courage.
Six days of waking up with chest pain that has nothing to do with his heart. Six days of sitting in the apartment, surrounded by surgical journals and silence. Six days of not hearing your voice. Not seeing your face.
When he shows up at your door, it’s raining.
Of course it’s raining.
He’s in a gray coat. No umbrella. His glasses are fogged from the downpour, and his hair drips water onto his collar.
He looks like someone who hasn’t slept. Because he hasn’t.
You answer slowly, cautiously, wrapped in a sweater that isn’t his.
He stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like you’re light and air and everything he thought he could live without—until you were gone.
“I need to say something,” he starts.
You don’t say anything. You don’t move.
“I know I didn’t show up for you,” he says, voice steady at first—but tight around the edges. “I know I wasn’t there when you needed me.”
“You were working. Like always.”
“No.” He swallows. “I was hiding.”
Your breath hitches. He sees it—but he keeps going.
“I told myself I could love you in the background. That my work was enough. That you’d understand.”
He looks away. Rain drips from his chin.
“But you cried alone. And I didn’t even notice.”
He finally lifts his eyes to yours.
“I let you carry everything. And I kept pretending I was too busy to see it. But I see it now.”
He steps closer. Not too close. Just enough that you can feel the weight of what he’s carrying.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says quietly. “But if there’s any part of you that still wants to try… tell me how. Tell me where to start.”
Silence.
Only the rain and the sound of his voice, breaking open for the first time in forever.
And you—heart still tender, eyes burning—you take a step back.
He doesn’t follow.
Until you say:
“Come in. We talk. That’s all.”
He nods. Just once.
But his breath? It shakes. Like he just got handed a second chance and he’s terrified he’s going to break it again.
Rafayel
You always knew Rafayel had sharp edges.
They came hidden in sugar and sarcasm, tied up in flirtation and jokes. He kissed with a smile. He apologized with a wink. But every now and then, when he was tired or tangled in his own storms— he’d say something that cut too deep.
This time, he didn’t just nick the surface. He gutted you.
It started as a fight.
Something small. Something stupid.
You were frustrated—he’d missed another dinner, another gallery event. He brushed it off. You didn’t. It escalated.
“Do you even take me seriously?” you snapped.
He scoffed, deflecting like always. But this time you didn’t back down.
“Do I mean anything to you outside of your inspiration?”
That’s when his face changed.
A flicker of something dark crossed his eyes. And he said it.
“Maybe I was better off before you.”
The silence after was louder than the slam of the door.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.
You just left.
He didn’t chase you.
Not at first.
He stood there in the middle of the studio, staring at the empty space you used to fill. At the unfinished canvas you were supposed to pose for. At the tea mug you left behind with your lipstick still on the rim.
And then it hit him.
What he said. What it meant. What he’d just destroyed with seven words and too much pride.
He tried to paint.
He couldn’t. His hands shook too hard.
So he drank instead. Paint-stained fingers trembling around a wine bottle, mouth twisted in self-loathing.
By the next morning, his studio was in shambles. Canvas slashed. Paint spilled like blood across the floor.
And in the center of it all? One still, untouched portrait of you.
It takes him four days.
Four days of pacing. Of rewriting texts. Of standing outside your apartment and turning back before knocking.
When he finally shows up?
It’s late. His clothes are wrinkled. His eyes bloodshot. His fingers still streaked with dried blue pigment.
He knocks once. Twice.
And when you open the door?
He falls silent.
He stares at you like he’s not sure you’re real. Like his memory never did you justice.
“Hey, cutie.”
His voice cracks on the word.
You stare at him. Quiet. Guarded.
“I shouldn’t have said it.”
Still, you don’t speak.
“I was angry. Scared. You cornered me and I panicked.”
“So you hurt me.” Your voice is soft. It kills him more than yelling would.
“I know.” He swallows. His hands twitch like he wants to reach for you, but doesn’t. “And I would take it back a million times if I could. I’d burn every canvas in that studio if it meant you’d look at me the way you used to.”
“Rafayel—”
“No.” His voice cracks. His mask slips. “I’ve spent four days trying to paint and all I see is you walking out. All I hear is your voice in the back of my mind telling me I crossed a line I can’t uncross.”
“I didn’t mean it. I’ve never meant anything less in my entire life. You’re not just my muse. You’re my home.”
There’s silence.
And then—
He reaches into his pocket.
A tiny, folded paper scrap. You recognize the sketch immediately. It’s you—from the last morning you spent curled in his bed.
It’s crumpled. Smudged. Like it’s been clutched in his hands over and over.
“I kept this,” he whispers. “I don’t know why. Maybe because I thought if I gave you this, you’d know I don’t want to forget. I just… want to start over.”
You reach for it. Slowly.
And he lets go. Hands shaking.
“Let me prove I’m worth one more brushstroke in your life.”
You stare at him. Your eyes sting.
“One condition,” you whisper.
He nods too fast.
“Anything.”
“You tell me next time. When it’s too much. When you’re scared. When you feel like you’re drowning.”
“I will,” he promises. “Just… don’t walk away from me again.”
You open the door wider.
“Then come inside. We start from page one.”
He steps inside like he’s never been more grateful in his life.
Sylus
You always knew there were things Sylus didn’t tell you.
You didn’t mind at first. He was powerful, dangerous—Onychinus’s leader, cloaked in shadows and whispers.
But you loved him. And he let you. In his way.
Slow touches. Bare confessions. Fingers brushing your jaw like they weren’t stained in blood. He never told you what his nights entailed. But you knew. You just didn’t know he was keeping you in those files.
You found the classified record by accident.
You were looking for a comm drive, trying to help organize his equipment for an upcoming drop. Instead?
You found your name in a dossier stamped with an Onychinus seal. Your file was red-level encrypted. And beneath the encryption: A full surveillance report.
Your work. Your location. Your medical records. Your passwords.
A protected asset tag.
Your hands shook.
You weren’t a partner. You were a risk to be monitored.
You didn’t confront him.
You left.
And Sylus? He came home to silence.
At first, he just stared at the empty apartment.
Then he saw the unlocked desk. The data drive pulled out.
The second he realized what you’d found, something in him snapped.
He didn’t rage. Didn’t shout.
He just… shut down.
For three days, no one saw him.
Onychinus command went dark. All orders rerouted. No public appearances. No messages returned.
The next time he walked into HQ, his eyes were dead and his voice was a loaded gun.
“Do not ask me where she is,” he said to his second-in-command, “unless you’re prepared to hear me break.”
It takes him a week.
A week of calling in every favor. Canceling every op. His pride long since discarded like a broken blade.
When he finds you?
You’re not at your apartment. Not at your safehouse.
You’re in a shitty little cafe near the old city walls. Neutral ground.
And when he steps inside, the whole room goes still.
Because Sylus—tall, sharp, all black coat and blood in his gaze—doesn’t belong here. But he’s not here to make a statement. He’s here for you.
Only you.
You don’t speak when he sits across from you.
You just look at him.
He looks tired. Worn. Haunted.
“I know what you found,” he says first. His voice is low. Controlled. “I know what it looked like.”
You don’t move. Don’t blink.
“It looked like I was never yours,” you say. “Like I was a project. A file. A threat.”
He closes his eyes.
“You were the only thing in my life I didn’t want to control.”
“But you did.” Your voice shakes. “You stalked me. Tracked me. You filed me under protected asset—like I wasn’t someone you loved. Just something you were afraid to lose.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“I was afraid,” he says. “Because you’re the only person I wouldn’t survive losing.”
He leans forward. His hands are shaking.
“So I lied. I covered. I convinced myself it was safer if you didn’t know how deep I’d gone.”
“How deep?”
He doesn’t flinch.
“There is no version of this world I’m willing to live in without you.”
Your breath hitches. He watches it. Memorizes it. Still doesn’t reach for you.
“But I understand why you left.”
A pause. His voice drops even lower.
“And if I never get you back, I will spend the rest of my life protecting you from a distance—without surveillance. Without control. Just… me.”
“Wanting you. And never touching you again.”
The silence between you is thick. Heavy.
And then—your hand moves.
Just slightly. Across the table. Near his.
Not quite touching. But not pulling away either.
“Start over,” you say. “No secrets. No files. Just you. Just me.”
His breath catches.
Then he covers your hand with his. Fingers curling. Tight. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish again.
“I swear,” he whispers, voice shaking. “No more lies.”
Caleb
You never wanted to be the jealous type.
But there’s something about seeing him like that— Caleb, your Caleb, in a low-lit bar, laughing softly while someone else leans into his space.
She’s gorgeous. Confident. Her fingers on his sleeve, her mouth too close to his ear. And he’s not pulling away.
He’s not kissing her. But he’s not saying no, either.
And that’s enough.
Your stomach turns.
You don’t make a scene. You don’t even wait for him to notice.
You just leave.
You cry that night.
Hot, silent tears soaked into your pillow as you stare at the wall, waiting for your phone to buzz.
A text. A call. Something.
It never comes.
It takes two days before Caleb even realizes you saw.
He doesn’t notice the missed messages. The silence. The sudden drop-off.
He thinks you’re just busy. Until he opens your shared calendar and sees:
“Pick up the rest of your stuff.” Saturday. 8PM.
He freezes.
And something inside him shatters.
When he finally gets to your door?
It’s pouring.
He’s drenched. Shaking. Breathing too hard to look calm anymore.
He pounds on the door once. Twice. A third time—harder.
“It wasn’t what it looked like!”
You open the door slowly.
You’re calm. Barefoot. In a hoodie. Eyes puffy.
“Wasn’t it?”
His breath catches. His fingers curl against the doorframe.
“She’s my handler. She was drunk. She got clingy. I didn’t—God, I didn’t even notice you were there until I turned around and you were just… gone.”
You raise a brow. Arms crossed. Silent.
“And you didn’t come after me.”
He swallows hard.
“I know. I know I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
And that’s when it happens. The soft, calm expression on his face—cracks.
He takes one shaky step forward, dripping on your floor, his voice breaking apart:
“Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”
You stare.
He keeps going.
“I saw your face, and I thought, ‘That’s it. She saw everything. She’s gone.’ And I—I froze. Like losing you was just the punishment I earned for not being what you needed.”
“But I was wrong.” “You were there. And I didn’t choose you fast enough. I didn’t run after you.”
His hand lifts—hesitant. Trembling.
“So I’m running now. Okay? I’m running now. I’m standing here—soaked, stupid, and sorry—because I’d rather beg you in the rain than spend one more night trying to pretend like I can breathe without you.”
Your lip trembles.
He steps closer.
“I love you.”
“You didn’t show it.”
“Then let me now. Let me prove it. Let me fix it.”
He falls quiet. Soaked to the bone. Voice gone. Heart in your hands.
You stare at him for one long, aching moment—
And finally, you open the door.
“One shot, Colonel.”
He exhales like he’s just been pulled back from the brink of death.
“That’s all I need.”