Love Beneath The Depths

Xavier and his continued love for scaring and teasing MC 😭

he's such a bully sometimes lol

via: Love and Deepspace IG

kintsugi

xavier rafayel sylus zayne caleb

cw; self harm, razor blades, hurt comfort, angst, fluffy ending, reader/mc is slightly hinted at being chubby (body dysmorphia + negative body image), self-isolation (reader/mc), dddne (proceed with caution).

authors note: this is a mere work of fiction and i do not condone or am encouraging people to inflict bodily harm upon themselves. if the contents in this ff will trigger you in any sort of way, please do not read it!! as a person that is/was going through similar situations shown in this ff, i want to raise awareness and help support others in need.

this rough patch in our lives will soon pass <3

ps: the sh in this ff is very vague and up for interpretation. there is no exact place mentioned for where the sh is taking place on the body, nor where the scars are. i tried to make everything very vague so it's easier for everyone to relate to. it is HINTED!!! at that reader/mc in this ff is slightly “chubby” and/or has body dysmorphia. this can be interpreted however you like :)

also, in this ff the boys haven’t had any major sexual intimacy with reader/mc due to the scars, it's explained further in the fic.

xavier: 2.2k wrds

stress ridden, you frantically fled through the hallways of the hunter’s association, your mind in shambles.

there was a rapid influx of wanderers flooding into Linkon, thus causing mass chaos among the citizens.

this led to more and more being added onto your plate, more missions, which led to more paperwork, more unorganized files, ect, ect.

and most importantly, as the days went on your mental health slowly deteriorated. eyes constantly wandering to that tucked away box within your cabinet that would give you temporary relief.

it wasn't until a particular day until you caved into your cravings, your desire to feel the rush of blood, the rush of adrenaline, your little secret, your little safe haven.

the feeling you ravaged at like a man starved, the place you resided as the blade cut through the awfully abused skin, the sensation of the bathroom’s cool hard-tiles contrasted the pounding of your head.

the feeling of shame after. the feeling while cleaning up. the feeling of shame as you stood under the shower head and blood pooled.

the stinging sensation as the water trickled down your skin, the signs of your voluntary abuse was permanently etched onto your skin.

the hot tears that pooled down your face as you looked at your own reflection. the image of your body frightened you no matter what anyone told you. the newfound scars only heightened your insecurities.

and since that box was opened the cycle would repeat, over and over again.

rot, repent, repeat.

over and over again.

when will it be over?

the next day at work was the same, wanderers were relentless and your coworkers were restless.

“new missions”

“new paperwork”

“new deadlines”

when will this stop?

it was truly suffocating, and painful. the talking of your subordinates that filled the room, half assed conversations on your end, all while the fabric pulled and tugged on your raw skin.

a battle where a wanderer ripped your uniform, the scars barely visible but it was enough to put you on edge for the rest of the day.

walking back to the dreary office building that was filled with a vast amount of high tech, you hurriedly maneuvered past people, avoiding conversation at all costs.

your little plan was going well until you saw him.

the person you considered your lover, the one that always knew how you were feeling solely based upon observational skills was standing right infront of you.

you couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. it was so obvious with your demeanor that something was off with you the entire week.

your phone has been shut off for days on end. sometimes, if someone sent you a somewhat important message, you’d send them a quick thumbs up to show that you're acknowledging their presence.

xavier’s gentle voice called out for you as you hurriedly scurried away from his gaze, exiting the building in the same fashion you entered it.

it wasn’t until you got home you had realized a good 75% of your belongings had been left behind at the office building.

you shuddered at the thought of willingly walking into that horrid building again, not on your one day off.

your phone was left at the building, but it wasn’t like you had much use for it anymore.

you fled into the bathroom before freshening up, replacing the haphazardly placed bandages over your fresh wound.

the bathroom was dark. you didn’t want to see any of it, you didn’t want to see yourself.

the thought of doing more damage crossed your mind, before you quickly dropped the thought, and the box. shame slowly creeped up your shoulder, reminding you of the feeling of cleaning up after yourself, and basking in the sadness of your own mistakes.

finishing up bandaging your wound, you simply put the box of your tools on the bathroom counter, before moving back into your disarranged room.

clothes were askew on the floor, the lighting was dark, the windows only opened enough to see what was in front of you.

moving under the bed covers, you began to close your eyes, basking in the silence.

however, that silence was quickly broken after a series of knocks cascaded at your door.

you tried to ignore it, but loud knocking every 2 minutes was a horrendous sound to sleep too.

groggily getting up from your bed, you exited the room and made your way to the door.

you slightly cracked open the door to see xavier in all his glory standing there.

his soft blue eyed gaze landed directly on your face, his eyes held a warmth that was hidden for you soley. your bag from work was hung over his shoulder, all of your belongings resided within the bag.

a sense of adoration fluttered in your heart as you looked at him, his face slightly flushed due to the weather, his serene complexion that contrasted the pink dusting his cheeks.

it wasn't until a few moments after xavier basked in your presence he spoke.

“have you been okay? you left in a rush today, and your phone has been off” xavier’s voice came out hesitant as he asked you, his brows furrowing as he attempted at asking without sounding too brash.

“no i've been fine, thanks for getting my stuff xavi” you rushed out the words before hastily grabbing the bag that xavier had extended out to you.

you attempted to shut the door before xavier’s hand grabbed a hold of the door.

“can i..stay? just for a bit i promise. just want to make sure your okay” xavier spoke to you softly as his eyes raked over your figure, your eyebags had become darker as the days went on, the skin around your eyes looked slightly irritated as if you had been rubbing it.

you looked at him blankly before nodding and walking away from the door.

“sorry its a little messy in here, just haven’t had enough time to clean up, you know?” your attempt at enthusiasm didn’t go well, your voice slightly shaking as you spoke.

you were uncovered, the bandages covering up your fresh wounds did little to hide the rest of the scars you had accumulated over the years.

you felt xavier’s gaze on your skin. hurriedly you began to make your way back into your own bedroom before saying,

“i'll be right back—just stay put for a while. I need to get changed” your voice came out more harshly then you had intended, your shaky hand lifting to open the door before closing it shut.

xavier’s eyes widened in shock, a pang of sadness reverberated throughout his heart as he saw the marks upon your skin. what had been going on that you didn’t want to tell him?

fumbling through your dressers, you immediately found something that covered up the scars on your body, your mind was in a haze, your body moving on autopilot as you changed.

when you exited the bedroom, xavier was nowhere to be seen, that was until you saw the bathroom light shining, the light from underneath the door casting a glow onto the living room floor.

you began to move onto the couch, pulling one of the many blankets that littered the couch over yourself.

a slow click resounded throughout the room as xavier exited your bathroom, the atmosphere was tense and dreary as he sat next to you on the couch.

xavier called out your name before speaking,

“have i done anything wrong? recently?” xavier’s question rang out in your ears as your eyes blankly met his.

“no xavi you didn’t do anything, i've just been a bit busy lately” your voice sounded hesitant, as if you were lying. your eyes avoided his gaze as you began to look away to another part of the room.

you knew xavier well, he craved your presence, a few days without you and he was better off dead. it had been a week before the two of you had sat down and had a conversation, a week since you simply sat in each other's company.

well enough time had passed for you to fall into your bad habits again.

“i went into the bathroom, i saw everything, the gauze, the razors, your scars. how long were you planning to let this go on for?” xavier’s voice stated this gently, with a firm undertone to it.

xavier’s body moved closer to yours, his body heat burned your skin. but you still felt yourself subconsciously moving closer to him, his comforting scent filling your nose, making you feel more at ease.

“xavier, it's really not a big deal. it's just skin, it will eventually heal.” you responded with a half-assed lie. with every mark you made on your body, a scar always remained.

your insecurities just grew and grew as the days went on. you began to question if you really deserved xavier, he was handsome and strong willed. while here you were, a person with a fragile heart that shattered at every moment and every situation.

“it's a big deal to me. i don’t want to see you like this, you don’t have to suffer alone.” xavier responded sincerely, he cupped your face, moving your gaze back to his eyes. his eyes were gentle as he held your face with care, as if you were fragile porcelain that would break at any given moment.

hot tears pooled down your cheeks as you heard his words. the sincerity in his voice, the soft touches, everything warmed your heart.

xavier’s thumbs wiped away your tears before he leaned in close to your face, before giving a soft kiss on your cheek, where the tears once resided.

everything made sense to him now, why you always turned down his advances, your nights together that always ended at a few kisses down your neck, it all made sense.

“my star, don’t feel forced to do anything. i’m sorry i didn’t notice this this sooner” xavier’s arms wrapped around you as his neck craned down to your shoulder

“xavi it's okay, it’s not your fault, don’t blame yourself for my mistake” you responded to him, your voice coming out nasally due to the tears prior.

the word mistake rang through xavier’s ears. his head bolted up from your shoulder to look you in the eyes once more.

“no—it's not a mistake, these scars just make you more beautiful. there is nothing wrong with them. as long as if it's you i’m with, no marks will define who you are to me” xavier said sincerely, beginning to move his face closer to yours

“may i?” xavier inquired, his gaze flickering from your eyes down to your lips

you nodded, before melting into the kiss. it was different from the ones you usually shared, it was soft and gentle. xavier’s hand made its way through your hair, gently brushing his hands through it as the kiss slightly deepened.

your lips disconnected as xavier’s mouth left soft kisses down your body, whispering praises onto your skin each time his lips disconnected.

his lips hovered over the area where your scarred skin was, lifting the fabric of your clothing and pressing his lips on the scars, a glint of adoration filled his features as he basked in the sensation of your skin.

“perfect, my perfect pretty girl.” xavier’s lips left a warm sensation over your scarred skin, it was like the pain and shame went away in an instant. it felt as if a weight was lifted from your shoulders as he whispered multiple praises against the area.

xavier’s negative thoughts were soothed when you didn’t jerk away from him, your hands simply ran through his hair as you looked down at him with the same admiration he had given you.

he eventually stopped, resting his head on your lap, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as his eyes looked up at you.

your hands ran through his lightly colored hair, playing with the strands as xavier began to leave kisses along your stomach.

“xavi stop that tickles!” your giggles echoed throughout the dimly lit living room, as xavier simply just smiled at you.

he eventually stopped, getting up from his lying position, freeing your lower body from his torment of kisses.

when he returned to his sitting position, he was suddenly shoved back onto the couch. his back was pressed against the cushiony material as your lips crashed onto his. a sudden abrupt movement that caused his eyes to widen, and his cheeks to flush even more.

as you pulled away from the kiss, his normally pale complexion was a rosey shade of pink, his ears were also shaded a dark red.

xavier pulled you down onto him, suddenly crashing into his arms. he left an array of kisses on the top of your head, and your face.

“don’t leave me again please. nothing physical will make me want to separate from you. i just want it to be you, your most authentic self is all i want.” xavier’s words were said softly as he whispered them into your ear, leaving a few soft kisses along your neck before pulling you into another soft kiss.

the rest of the afternoon was filled with love, and acceptance as you stayed in xavier’s soft embrace, his hands tracing along the scars, his body enveloping you in his sweet, secure, embrace.

My first fic in years. If there is any error, let me know.

Prompt: You had begged Xavier to roleplay as Lumiere. He refused multiple times until he finally gave in.

...

"Is this the meeting you had been expecting?" One of his hands on your throat while the other rested on your hip. You were trembling at his contact. You had been waiting for this moment and all your mind could think about was your husband's touch.

"Lu-lumiere!"

He even kept the mask on, you could not see him but you could feel how possessive he was getting by the second and how he was starting to enjoy it as well. Lumiere leaned forward, his lips brushing your ear, beating it.

"Is this what you like?" His grip getting stronger "You like being touched by another man, whore?"

The word sank in, it was the first time he called you that. You knew what you were asking for when you begged for him to act as Lumiere but that word, whore, strung a nerve.

"MC?" Xavier's touch lighten up as he felt you tensing up.

"I am not a whore..." A tear, then another and another. Your cheeks were now a river, tears falling into the mattress "I am not a whore" you bit your lip.

He pulled off from you, tossed that damned mask and spin you around. Maybe he had gotten a little carried away when he had hear you calling him Lumiere.

"No!" His arms wrapping around you as a cocoon "You are no whore. I am sorry..."

"You called me a whore" you were not looking at him, eyes full of tears and shame. Did he really thought that you were a whore or was something on the spur of the moment? In any case, you did not like it. "Do you think I am a whore?"

"No" he took one of your hands and kissed it, seeing that you did not pull away, he fell back on the bed "I would never think that about you" his hands traveled around your body giving you comforting squeezes "You are the most precious star in all the universe... I got jealous when I heard you call me Lumiere"

"But you are Lumiere!" You hit his chest "You shouldn't be jealous of your own self!"

Xavier sighed. How he could explain his jealousy, his love for you? He had lived for centuries, gave up his tittle for you, had see you fall in love with other man in the past, the thought of you want him to pretend to be someone else, even for one night, made his chest burst with jealousy.

He looked at you, the marks he had left in your love making, the way your skin glittered by the sweat due to all the work he had made you do, his gaze rested in yours. Your eyes shimmered with sadness, a sadness he had also put in there.

"I am Lumiere" he brushed your hair out of your face "But I don't want to be Lumiere with you. I want to be Xavier, I want for you to look at me and say my name"

Your hands reached for his, taking them to your chest. Your beating hard under his palm was a confession of your love for him.

"Xavier, I only love you" your eyes burning into his "I asked you to be Lumiere because you are Lumiere. I don't want any other man in my heart that it's not you"

Xavier's heart beat faster as the words left your lips. He should have know better, he should have already know that you were his, the wedding band on your finger should have been proof enough.

"I am sorry that I called you a whore" his hand moved to your face, brushing away the rest of the tears "How I can made it to you?" His hands rested in your hips, unsure if you would like to continue with your nightly activities.

Your lips met his cheek "I want for my husband cuddle with me until I forget Lumiere's offence... Also, get ride of the suit"

Xavier smiled, his lips looking for yours. Xavier spent of the night showing you with love until the sun came up. Lumiere's custom already forgotten in the floor.

Benediction -a drabble

❤︎  tags and content: public sex, wall sex, f!reader x xavier ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/cafekitsune Fic: @moongirlcleo  

The alley was narrow, carved between two flickering holo-ad boards and draped in the perpetual dusk of N109’s underbelly. Neon spilled like spilled ink across the puddles at your feet, reflections rippling with every breath you took—each one more shallow than the last. You weren’t sure how you ended up here, only that Xavier had found you first.

Not Xavier, not now. Lumiere.

His mask gleamed faintly under the weak light, a curve of silver and glass that obscured half his face but did nothing to dim the intensity of his presence. He stood too close, his gloved hand braced against the wall near your head, caging you in with nothing but heat and proximity. Your back pressed into the cold concrete, chest heaving, every nerve singing in anticipation.

“Someone could see,” you whispered, the words caught somewhere between protest and plea.

Xavier tilted his head, the visor casting soft light across your flushed skin. “Then don’t be loud.”

You swallowed, throat dry.

His other hand found your waist, slow and deliberate, fingers trailing the curve of your side like he had all the time in the world. Beneath the leather, his grip was commanding—not rough, but possessive in a way that made your knees ache to bend. You hated how easy it was to melt under his touch. No, not hate. Craved.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, voice low and unreadable.

“You’re… really close,” you managed, eyes darting to the mouth barely visible beneath his mask.

“You asked me to come,” he reminded you, and there was no cruelty in it—just the truth, heavy and quiet.

And you had. An encrypted message, a traceable risk. You’d said you needed to see him. You hadn’t said why, only that it couldn’t wait. And now, here he was, with the patience of a ghost and the intent of a man unraveling.

His hand slipped under your coat, dragging up the hem of your shirt, fingertips ghosting over bare skin. “You’re warm here,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Xavier…”

“Say it again.”

His voice wasn’t harsh. It was reverent. Like the syllables of your name in his mouth were prayer and profane all at once.

“Xavier,” you gasped as his hand dipped lower, beneath the waistband of your pants, the drag of leather exchanged for the glide of skin.

His mouth hovered over your ear. “You’re soaked.”

Mortified, you tried to shift, to press your thighs together, but he had you pinned and pliant with only one hand. Your face burned, and Xavier didn’t miss it.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he asked, his lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Tell me.”

He groaned, the sound guttural and grounding, then he found you with his fingers—slow and certain. You moaned, soft and broken, head tilting back against the wall.

“That,” he said. “Right there.”

Your hips bucked into his hand, the friction perfect and terrible. Your breath hitched, your nails scrabbling at the fabric of his coat, desperate to anchor yourself to something as his fingers worked you open with devastating patience.

“Xavier—”

“You’ll take me here,” he said, voice iron beneath silk. “Say yes.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

His breath caught, and for a heartbeat, he stilled—then his hand was gone, and you almost cried at the loss.

But then he was freeing himself, and your thighs spread to accommodate the press of his body against yours, his heat, his weight, the impossible stretch as he sheathed himself inside you in one, controlled thrust. You bit your lip hard enough to bruise, eyes wide, back arching off the wall.

“Shh,” he murmured, though he didn’t sound calm anymore. “You have to be quiet.”

He started to move, a pace slow and deep, deliberate, grinding his hips just right—making sure you felt every inch, every drag and pull. He watched your face with open fascination, even behind the mask. You knew his eyes were on you, memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes.

Your head fell forward, forehead pressing against his shoulder. He was still in his coat, you realized distantly. Still half-armored like a soldier in the middle of war. And still, he held you like you were something precious, ruined and holy all at once.

“Please,” you whispered, though you didn’t know what for.

“I know,” he said, and then he shifted the angle, lifting one of your legs to wrap around his waist, and you broke.

The orgasm hit like starlight, like falling into gravity and being caught, your body shaking, breath escaping in silent sobs as he drove into you with a low, reverent groan.

He followed seconds later, with your name on his lips like benediction.

You stayed there, bodies pressed close, the alley quiet save for your ragged breaths.

Then Xavier slowly withdrew, fixing your clothes with gentle hands, fingers lingering like he didn’t want to let go. He tugged your coat closed, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Still warm here,” he murmured.

You nodded, dazed. “Thanks to you.”

His mouth curled faintly.

Then, just before he disappeared into the shadows again, he whispered, “Call me next time. I’ll come faster.”

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ Get out!

Pairings: Lads men x afab!reader part 1

Summary: Your 4 year old child, is fighting with their dad over you.

Tag: @teewritessmth @animegamerfox

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ Zayne

Life with Dr. Zayne was always interesting, to say the least. As a renowned cardiac surgeon, your husband was the epitome of composure—calm under pressure, precise in everything he did, and a man of very few words. He wasn’t cold, not at all, but he had never been particularly good at expressing himself.

Neither was your four-year-old son, Elias.

Where other children were loud and expressive, Elias was quiet—watchful and reserved, much like his father. He rarely spoke in full sentences, preferring nods, small gestures, or simple actions to communicate his wants.

And right now?

Right now, you were caught in the middle of a silent battle between the two.

Zayne, sitting on the couch beside you, reached out and lightly held your wrist, his way of silently reminding you that you were his wife first.

Elias, seated on your other side, scooted closer, grabbing your other hand and clutching it tightly.

Neither said a word.

You blinked between them, feeling the tension thickening. “Okay,” you sighed, rubbing your temple. “What is happening?”

Elias glanced at Zayne. Zayne met his son’s stare with an impassive gaze, sharp blue eyes unreadable.

It was an unspoken showdown.

Elias would get his Mama time.

Zayne would not be overthrown.

You would lose your mind.

“Zayne,” you exhaled, “you’ve been with me all day. Let Elias have some time.”

Zayne blinked. “I was at the hospital for fourteen hours.”

You frowned. “Okay, but before that—”

“I was sleeping.”

Elias suddenly gave you a tiny tug. See? He was saying. It’s my turn.

You sighed. “Alright, how about—”

But before you could finish, Elias abruptly stood up. His little hands patted Zayne’s knee—a silent gesture.

Zayne raised a brow.

“…What?”

Elias pointed toward the kitchen. “Water.”

Zayne’s brows furrowed slightly, but after a moment, he stood up and headed toward the kitchen. “Alright,” he said simply.

The moment he was out of the room, Elias moved fast.

With a determined expression, he bolted toward the door, slammed it shut, and—click!

He locked it.

You stared in shock.

Elias calmly walked back over to you, climbed onto your lap, and curled into you like nothing had happened.

You heard a soft thud from the other side of the door.

“…Elias.” Zayne’s composed voice sounded from the hall. “Unlock the door.”

Silence.

“Elias.”

Your son nuzzled into your chest, looking completely content.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying so hard not to laugh. “Elias,” you whispered, “that wasn’t very nice.”

Elias clung to you tighter.

“…I want Mama.”

You felt your heart melt a little.

A sigh came from behind the door. “Elias.”

Elias was completely unbothered.

“Elias,” Zayne repeated. “This is not how you solve problems.”

Elias blinked up at you, then whispered softly, “Worked.”

You snorted.

Zayne was silent for a long moment.

Then, he sighed. “Understood.”

Footsteps.

“…I’ll be in my office.”

Elias waited until the sound disappeared, then finally looked up at you, victorious.

You ruffled his dark hair. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

Elias nestled into you. “Mm.”

But you knew what that meant.

It was worth it.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Xavier

The twins were on a mission.

A very important mission. A mission that required stealth, patience, and strategy.

Objective: Get rid of Dad. Target: Xavier, high-ranked Hunter of the Hunter Association—a man feared and respected by his colleagues, and annoying to his four-year-old twins, Leo and Livia.

Why?

Because he was hogging their Mama.

Xavier, for all his reputation as a ruthless Wanderer hunter, was easygoing at home. Most of the time, he lounged on the couch, half-asleep, draped over you like a human-sized cat. The whole reason he did not quit his job was because he had you at the morning aswell, when you two left the house for work.

And the twins hated it.

“Mama should be ours,” Leo whispered to his sister as they peeked from behind the couch.

Livia nodded, her greenish-blue eyes gleaming with determination. “Dad needs to go.”

The two of them turned their heads, staring at the problem.

Xavier was sitting lazily on the couch, one arm wrapped around you, face buried in your shoulder, half-asleep as usual.

You were used to it by now. Your jealous of himself, touch-starved, sleepy husband clinging to you whenever he had a break? Completely normal.

But to the twins? Unacceptable.

Phase One: Distraction.

Livia moved first. She scurried forward, grabbing your hands. “Mama, I want hugs!”

Xavier lazily cracked an eye open. His grip tightened slightly.

“I’m hugging them right now,” he murmured.

Livia pouted. “Yeah, but I want my own.”

Xavier blinked slowly, looking half a second away from falling asleep again. “…I don’t see why we can’t share.”

Leo gave his sister a look. Plan A failed. Time for Plan B.

Phase Two: Use Dad’s Weakness Against Him.

Livia stepped forward, pulling on Xavier’s sleeve. “Dad.”

Xavier yawned, rubbing his eye. “Mm?”

“Mom’s hungry.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, no, I’m not—”

Xavier immediately sat up. “You should’ve said something earlier.”

Leo stayed perfectly calm. “You should cook dad. we all love it.”

Xavier stared at his son, silent for a long moment.

“…I should cook?”

Livia nodded furiously, her expression full of fake innocence. “Yeah, Mama loves when you cook! We love it too!”

You coughed, trying very hard not to laugh. That was a lie. The last time he cooked for the twins, a plate accidentally fell off the table and broke, and the food on the other plate mysteriously disappeared.

Xavier sucked at cooking.

Like, horribly.

The last time he cooked, he had somehow burned water. if that wasn't bad enough, he had melted the plastic off of pans you owned.

But, in his half-asleep state, he nodded. “Alright,” he muttered, standing up sluggishly. “I’ll make something.”

Mission Success.

As soon as Xavier disappeared into the kitchen, the twins latched onto you like leeches.

“Mamaaaa,” Livia whined, burying her face into your chest. “You were with Dad all day.”

Leo nodded seriously. “Unfair.”

You chuckled, ruffling their messy blond hair. “You two are too much.”

“Mama, I want all your hugs,” Livia grumbled.

“Me too,” Elias added.

You sighed, shaking your head. “You two are just like your dad.”

Just as the twins were about to settle in, the sound of something exploding came from the kitchen.

All three of you froze.

A moment later, Xavier walked back in, completely unfazed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“…I think I used the wrong burner.”

Leo and Livia groaned.

Mission Status: Failure.

I hope yall enjoyed this, I will write similar things to this in the future :)

Star Gazing

Xavier x Reader

Sweet nights, him holding your hand, the world didn’t matter. You were both on the ground staring up at the stars, your boyfriend, Xavier, gently rubbed small circles on your hand.  Everything was perfect, he loved telling you about the different stars and constellations, you've never seen your boyfriend so happy. 

“Look! There, the constellation of Leo,” Xavier said happily as he pointed at the stars. You tried to see it, but you only saw many stars.  He didn’t have to know that, though; he was having the time of his life, and that was the only thing that mattered to you currently.   

“Did you know that Leo was one of the earliest recognized constellations in the sky?  Back then, the summer solstice was observed exactly in this constellation.  Which means it begins the flood of the Nile in Egypt.”   He said as he looked at you, as he was so eager to show you his knowledge. 

You nodded, showing that you were listening to his talk as he yapped about the stars.  “Is that so?” You responded, looking into his eyes.  He nodded eagerly as he smiled again, you saw the little sparks of light of his evol dancing around you guys.  He was telling you random facts or just amazing things about space and different exoplanets that exist.  

“There's a theory of a 9th planet, yet they say that this planet is far away and it is bigger than Jupiter.  This theory was started due to you needing things on two sides to balance something out. Which would be the same as the solar system.” He explained, looking far into the distance.  Silence grew between both of you only the wind was heard.  Then he turned around to look at you. 

“My star…” He said, looking at you, his eyes showed a soft look at you. “There are billions of different stars out there..Yet I found the only star that really matters to me.”  He spoke gently, his words with deep affection as he gently put a strand of hair behind your ear. 

since Xavier girlies on x is talking about Xavier's ability to go back in time, do you think that he's already past his last spring on earth but he just keeps going back in time just before it ends?

Laundry Day

Seeing pictures of Xavier as Dark Lumiere and/or wearing that black hat inspired me to write about MC seeing him in all black, because let’s face it, that is a good look.

Warnings: SFW kissing, the slightest bit suggestive

You are way behind on the laundry. Two weeks of nonstop battling wanderers left you exhausted at the end of each day to where you could do nothing but eat and sleep, so household chores kept being put off until later. So much later that you barely had anything left to wear in your closet. You decide when you finally have a day off to cross off everything on your to-do list, beginning with the overwhelming pile of laundry.

As soon as you get dressed, you throw a load of laundry into your washer and take another basket upstairs to Xavier’s apartment. He said the night before he also had a lot of laundry to do, but his wardrobe is much smaller than yours. You were welcome to add your clothes to his load to get everything done quicker. The two of you promised to begin your chores early today, so you could spend the afternoon together resting.

You knock on Xavier’s door and enter the apartment without waiting for him to answer. Shifting the basket onto your hip, you walk through the living room and hear cups clinging from the kitchen. “Xavier, I’m here,” you say as you pass the kitchen, heading straight for the washer. “Is the washer ready to go?”

Strong arms wrap around your shoulders from behind as soon as you set down the basket, pulling you into a hug. Xavier’s warmth envelops your body. You grin as you lean into his chest. “Good morning,” Xavier whispers against your ear. His teeth graze your earlobe before he trails kisses down your neck onto your shoulder.

“Good morning,” you breathe out in a daze. There is no way you can focus on the task at hand when he’s like this. You turn in his arms to give your boyfriend a proper good morning kiss when your knees weaken at the sight of him.

Xavier is wearing all black, and, good god, does the color suit him.

You feel the blood rushing to your cheeks as you take in Xavier’s appearance. The black t-shirt and pants perfectly contrast his silver hair and transform the man’s demeanor from the gentle neighbor you know and love to a powerful knight. As your eyes scan over Xavier’s arms, you can more easily see how toned his muscles are and the veins running down his forearms. Memories of the night you two shared in a hotel while performing a “sensory test” in black bathrobes rush into your mind.

You gulp as you quickly look back up to meet Xavier’s eyes, only to immediately look away out of embarrassment. He watches your reaction, cocking his head to the side.

“Is something wrong? Your face is so red.” Xavier lifts a hand to your cheek. His touch sends an electronic bolt through your body. “You didn’t get sick from overworking yourself, did you?”

Unable to compose your thoughts, you begin to stammer. “Nn…no, I’m just surprised. You’re wearing black. I’m not used to seeing you like this.”

“Well,” Xavier chuckles, “all of my usual clothes are in the wash. This is all I had left.” He suddenly frowns. “Do you not like me in black?”

Your heart drops. Xavier looks genuinely upset, like a kicked puppy. You don’t want him to think you don’t like the way he looks, especially when the truth is quite the opposite. “What? That’s not it!” You clear your throat avoiding his gaze again and say quietly, “You actually look really hot.”

“Is that so?” You peek up at Xavier to see him smiling. His sapphire eyes light up with mirth. Xavier gently tilts your chin up, so you’re forced to look at him. “So you like how I look in these old clothes?” Meekly nodding, Xavier steps closer to you until your back is against the wall. “Should I wear them more often?”

“Not in public. I don’t think I could handle it.” Xavier smirks before giving you a passionate kiss.

As he breaks away, his breath tickles your ear. “This is a good morning. By the way, I made you breakfast. Let’s go eat.”

Xavier turns and strolls to the kitchen like nothing had just happened. Your knees finally give, causing you to slide down the wall and let out a shaky breath. This is going to be a long day.

Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

A Special Night

Content: Fluff, nonsexual nudity that's really just one sentence

You stumble your way to your apartment door. Colors fill your vision, and the pressure in your head makes you want to cry. You ran around Linkon City chasing potential wanderers without the chance to eat or rest all day. To make matters worse, some of the civilians affected by wanderer attacks lashed out at you for not making it to their businesses in time to prevent damage. You are beyond exhausted to the point to where you can barely speak. On your way back to the apartment building, the only form of communication you could manage with Xavier was a brief text:

I’m on my way home. Everything hurts. I just want to go to bed. 

You open your door to see Xavier standing in your living room. Fairy lights twinkle across the TV and along the walls. You also see all your most comfy blankets covering the couch in front of the paused title card of your favorite movie. You look at Xavier with raised brows and your jaw slightly ajar. You don’t need to say any words for Xavier to understand what you’re thinking. “What is all this?” your expression says for you. 

Xavier gives you a peck on the cheek. “Tara called to tell me what happened today, so I wanted to surprise you. You don’t have to do anything. Let me take care of you tonight.” 

Before you know it, tears run down your face. You lean against Xavier’s shoulder and begin to cry. “Thank you,” you manage to whimper. 

Xavier rubs your back as he embraces your sore body. “Please don’t cry, and there’s no need to thank me. I’m here for you.” Xavier leads you first to the kitchen where he has dinner waiting for you on the table. It’s not hot pot, but braised chicken wings from a local restaurant. “Eat first. You’ll feel much better after eating something.” He, then, hands you a glass of water that you down in seconds. You don’t have to worry about lifting a finger. Xavier fills your glass again and hands you utensils, napkins, whatever you need before you can even ask. You eat to your heart’s content, and your headache begins to dull. 

Once you finish your meal, Xavier immediately picks you up and carries you to the bathroom. “What are you doing?” you ask.

“Helping you get a bath,” Xavier says nonchalantly. “We can’t watch the movie until we’re both comfortable in our pajamas. I’ll even wash and dry your hair for you.” 

You are unable to protest. Xavier begins undressing you as he waits for water to fill the tub. You sigh in relief when he removes your shirt. Your arms are so sore that you knew you could not lift them enough to take your shirt off yourself. You could forget washing your hair. “I don’t deserve you,” you say. Xavier kneels beside you as you sit on the edge of the tub. He takes your hands into his. Your cheeks turn red when you process he is making this gesture while both of you are naked. 

“I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you,” he says, his azure eyes softening even more as he meets your gaze. Your exhaustion melts away as you admire his warmth and gentleness. “You have helped me more times than I can count when I was injured while hunting. It is a privilege to do the same and more for you. My purpose in this life is to take care of you to the best of my ability.” His words touch your heart so much that you tear up from happiness a second time that night. 

You and Xavier take a quick, warm bath. True to his word, he washes and dries your hair for you. He also grabs your pajamas from the bedroom, so you wouldn’t have to walk all the way over there to get them. Once the two of you are warm and dry, Xavier carries you to the couch where he tucks the two of you in under the blankets. 

You lean against Xavier’s chest as you both watch the movie in silence. His warmth, the dimness of the fairy lights, a full belly, and the peace from watching your comfort movie cause you to nod off. You catch yourself from falling asleep in an attempt to stay awake, at least until the end of the movie. You don’t want this perfect night to end. Not yet. However, Xavier notices your struggle to remain conscious. 

“Starlight,” he whispers, “are you ready to go to bed?” 

“Nooo,” you mumble. “I want to stay awake. We have to finish the movie.” Xavier chuckles as he kisses your forehead. 

“Alright, but I’m bringing you to bed the moment you fall asleep.” You really try to keep your eyes open. You want to appreciate every second of this thoughtful night that Xavier gifted to you, but, unfortunately, you are just too tired. It is about half a minute before you pass out from your exhaustion. Your body goes limp on top of Xavier, falling into a deep sleep. He caresses your face, giving you one more kiss before bringing you to bed. That night, you have the best sleep you ever had in years.