After The Ithaca Saga, I Believe That Odysseus Thought He And Athena Were Officially Done Forever And

Maps headcanons -

Caleb and period cramps

Details: 600 words. Feel good food. Fluff. Tender, wonderful, caring, loving Caleb during that time of month. It actually fits if you just want a lil pampering from our boy too. Get you a man who can do both *cries* this is for you @gavin3469

You barely make it through the door before exhaustion weighs you down. The day had been long, and your body felt like it was fighting against you, every step home a battle you barely won. You had considered stopping by the store, picking up something to comfort yourself, but the thought of carrying even the lightest of bags felt impossible. You just wanted to collapse, to sink into something warm and safe and let the world fade away for a while.

You sigh as you unlock it, expecting nothing more than the quiet stillness of your apartment. But the moment you step inside, warmth greets you like an embrace. The air smells of apples and vanilla, and the soft flicker of candlelight casts golden glows against the walls. There’s something else too—something that smells like summer, fresh and inviting.

“Hello?” you call out weakly, toeing off your shoes.

No answer.

Your brows knit together as you shrug off your coat, your tired brain sluggishly trying to recall whether you had left any candles burning this morning. But then you see him.

Caleb stands in the kitchen, completely oblivious to your arrival, airpods in as he chops vegetables with effortless precision. His movements are fluid, a rhythm all his own, the steady thunk of the knife against the cutting board matching the beat of whatever music he’s lost in. He sways as he works, shifting his weight, rolling his shoulders in time with the sound only he can hear. It’s not forced, not even intentional—just an unconscious, easy sort of grace.

But that isn’t what takes your breath away.

Across the living room, near the couch, sits an enormous cube of heaven—a down duvet, the kind that screams luxury, thick and impossibly soft. A massive ribbon is tied around it, wrapped so perfectly it looks like a gift for a special occasion—something you’d dreamed of unwrapping on your birthday, carefully chosen just for you—rather than just Caleb being Caleb. The sight of it—of the effort, the quiet, knowing care behind it—makes something ache deep in your chest.

Caleb’s head lifts, eyes widening briefly in surprise, and then, in an instant, he sets the knife aside and crosses the room with the kind of intent that makes your heart stutter. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask—just gathers you into his arms, pulling you close, holding you like he’s been waiting for this moment all day. His warmth envelops you, deep and unwavering, the kind that seeps into your bones, making the exhaustion, the ache, the weight of the entire day fade into nothing.

The whole world disappears—there is only this, only him. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek as he exhales, his lips pressing softly to your hair, lingering there as if he’s just as relieved to have you home as you are to be here. His hand slides down your shoulder, fingers squeezing lightly, grounding you in a way that feels like safety, like home.

“How has your day been, dear?” he murmurs, voice low and filled with quiet affection. “I’m so happy to see you.”

The words break something loose in you, and before you can stop yourself, your eyes well up. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the pain that’s been gnawing at you all day, or maybe it’s just him—the thoughtfulness, the way he always seems to know exactly what you need before you do. His hands find your cheeks, thumbs brushing away tears before they can fall, and he presses the softest kiss to your forehead.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, voice barely above a whisper. “I got you. You don’t have to do anything tonight. Just let me take care of you.”

You exhale shakily, leaning into his touch, grounding yourself in the quiet strength of him.

Then, as if reading your mind, he grins and tilts his head toward the couch. “Wanna try out your new duvet? Bet you won’t wanna leave it once you do.”

A laugh bubbles up despite yourself, and for the first time all day, the heaviness in your chest lifts just a little.

You nod, unable to find words, and Caleb grins before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. He takes your hand and leads you toward the couch—toward warmth, comfort, and the unwavering truth that, in this moment, you are the only thing in the world that matters.

——————————————————————————

Bunny!Xavier and his strange affectionate habits

there’s always something new with your bunny boyfriend. his habits are so strange!

✎ᝰ a/n: i guess this is a series now lmao. if i were to do zayne or caleb, what animals would they even be. cat and dog? we’ll have to figure this out >_>

dragon sylus version

mermaid rafayel version

𖤐

❥ he nibbles on you! it’s gotten to be a little bit of a problem, but xavier can’t help himself. he’ll nibble on your skin and hair until there are tiny little red marks painted on you. at first you thought these were little hickeys, but the real explanation is much more innocent.

bunnies nibble to groom you! he’ll especially groom you when you’re bed rotting or are too lazy to get up. he wants to make sure you’re clean and if you’re not taking care of yourself — he will! but he also nibbles to get your attention. xavier is known to be pouty and clingy, so if he’s low on your love today he’ll forcefully sit on your lap and nibble on your face until you give in.

❥ he hides in your hair. whenever xavier feels overwhelmed or stressed, he’ll go straight to you and dig his head in your hair. it’s a combination of your scent and your shielding hair strands that gives him a sense of safety. he likes the way your hair feels against his skin along with the way it keeps him warm.

but still — wet, dry, tangled, brushed; he really doesn’t care what your hair is looking like, as long as he can bury his nose in your scalp and close his eyes. this also makes for a good cuddling session!

❥ he eats everything. xavier has the appetite of three elephants and then another three elephants. whether he can cook or not is irrelevant, even if he burns something to the point of it being inedible, he’ll still eat it. snacks you’ve saved for later or baked good you’ve left out gets gobbled immediately by him, and it was only ‘til you scolded him that he stopped. stopped taking you food that is, he’ll still beg.

if he smells a meal in the house he’ll quickly sit next to you and smile silently, hoping that you’ll spare him a piece. he’s learned to be less greedy, go easy on him — but he’ll become extremely elated if you give him a quick nibble. he wouldn’t even ask for a full piece of chicken or bread, just a little slither is enough to keep him happy. he thinks of eating together as bonding.

❥ he mimics you. sometimes consciously, mostly unconsciously, xavier will pick up and mimic your habits. if you have a habit of playing with your hair, xavier will also start playing with his hair to mirror you. if you touch your necklace in thought, xavier will also touch his imaginary necklace while he thinks. it wasn’t until he picked up on your manner of sneezing that you realized you left an impression on him.

you didn’t say anything at first: finding it rather endearing how xavier unknowingly imitates you. but once you brought it up in passing xavier tilted his head in confusion. did he really mimic you that much? he was a little oblivious to that fact, apparently. but even with that realization, xavier doesn’t try and stop himself learning from you. in fact, he tries to tease you by imitating you even more. he loves being like you because he simply just loves you.

❥ he teases you with his ears. xavier knows how much you love his ears, so he’ll use them to his advantage to play. when you’re asleep and he wants you awake, he’ll climb the bed, lean into your face, and move one of his ears over your cheek to stir you awake. in a similar fashion, he’ll use his ears to wrap around your head or wrist as another way to embrace you. the fluffy feel of his ears was always welcome on your skin, it felt like a hug from a pillow.

but by far his favourite way to use his ears on you was when he lightly traced your midsection and thighs with the very tips of his fluff. it tickles you slightly, but the purpose of this tease was to get you riled up and beg for a little more contact. he obliges, of course, but slowly. he loves taking his time with you. by the end of it all, his ears around wrapped around your thighs as he satiates his hunger in a different way this time.

❥ he claps when he’s happy. this can be mistaken as a normal human habit, but xavier does it much more often and eagerly than any regular person. his hands will patter together rapidly to create a very quiet but joyful sound. he has no “normal” way of clapping, he only does it in one specific way to show how content he is. if he thinks the sound is too distracting for the moment, he’ll hide his hands behind his back and pitter-patter them there.

even over small things like finding his favourite ramen in-stock at the store, he’ll clap very quietly to himself before putting it in the cart, and later on, when he gets to show you what he got from the store, he’ll start clapping again from how happy he is to share his excitement. as reserved as he is on the outside, xavier is very chipper on the inside.

𖤐

Spring arrives... bringing... Lumiere!! ( •̀ ᴗ •́ ) و ✨

📖⬅⬅⬅

I Exist to Nobody (but you.) – Part 1

Summary: You meet your soulmate on a serendipitous afternoon in your grandparents' backyard.

And on all levels except physical, Xavier is a normal boy.

Word Count: 4.2k

Tags: fem!reader x xavier, you x xavier (no use of Y/N), imaginary friend AU, imaginaryfriend!xavier, childhood friends (to lovers, but not in this chapter!), themes of codependency?, lil sprinkle of family issues lol, growing up, time skips as a plot device, again– pretty self-indulgent 

A/N: I understand that AUs aren’t everyone’s cup of tea and that’s okay! Xavier’s always been a comfort character to me and I wanted to write something different for him, which led to this baby <3 

(art + banners are made by urs truly x)

Part I

You stand a little over three feet, and your hair is in braids. 

You’re wearing your Sunday special; a pretty purple dress with a frilly skirt and your favorite pair of stripe-print leggings. Your sparkly jelly ballerinas have been long since discarded somewhere in the grass as you run barefoot in your grandparents’ backyard. 

You’re playing hopscotch by yourself, with the family Shiba for company. The sky is starting to turn into a pretty orange hue and you hear your mom calling from inside the house when you see something white move from the corner of your eye. 

With all the curiosity befitting a four-year-old, your tiny feet carry you in the direction where you saw it; near the mossy undergrowth, beneath the canopy shade of the old Kousa dogwood tree that stood for more than four generations behind the residential building you’d spent some days hiding in when you didn’t want to go back inside for dinner. 

It’s as safe a spot to you as it is familiar, so it takes you by surprise when you find something unexpected; in the form of a small, pale boy with hair the color of rain clouds in the summer, sitting with his legs up to his chin, looking like one of those little elves in your fairytale books. 

A pair of blue eyes meet yours, alight in childlike wonder.

_____

Xavier doesn’t know how he came to be; just that he’s now present in this plane of existence, in the phantom body of a four-year-old boy, in a place he knows human beings call a back-yard. 

He knows this—just as he knows things on an objective level; like what a house is, what the creature covered in fur is called (a small wolf), or what a human girl looks like. 

What he doesn’t understand is the knee-jerk reaction to hide when his sudden appearance catches your attention, which brings him to his current attempt at concealing himself amidst a thicket; beneath the tree with star-like blooms. 

He doesn’t account for the beating of his heart when your searching gaze lands on him, nor the unfamiliar excitement of being seen feels like. 

“Hi!” You finally exclaim after a few seconds of consideration, squatting down in front of him. Xavier notices that you’re missing a front tooth when you give him a big smile. He also notices how his heartbeat quickens at the sight. “Are you an elf?!” 

“No,” he responds quietly. “I’m human. I think.” 

His voice sounds odd to his ears. 

“Oh,” you say with an undercurrent of disappointment. “Well, that’s okay! I’m human too!”

You say it with such enthusiasm that Xavier’s lips pull up in a hesitant smile.

Bouncing back up to your feet, you pat away the nonexistent dirt from your dress and extend a hand towards him. “D’you wanna play with me? Oh, oh—we can play hide-and-seek! You seek, I hide!” 

You're off to run somewhere before he could answer. He doesn't know what hide-and-seek entails, nor what it means to be amongst the living.

He doesn’t know that many things, but he thinks he’d like to know more about you.  

___

You head inside the house after your mom calls you for a fourth time, her voice straining in (rising) agitation. Towing behind you is your new (best!) friend, who you decide is joining you for dinner.

“This is Xavier!” You point at the boy sitting on the chair you dragged near yours, eyes wide as he takes in the spread on the table in front of him. “I saw him outside and we played hide-and-seek!”

Your mom exchanges a look with your grandmother. She glances at the chair beside you, then at you. 

She sees your wide grin. Resigned, she sighs and smiles indulgently. 

“Hello, Xavier.” 

The boy perks up at that. She could also–?

…No. 

It’s not obvious at first glance. But when he studies the expression of the woman who shares the same nose and chin as his new friend, he notices that her eyes look past him. Not at him. 

Xavier falters upon realizing the… facade. He is aware that his form isn’t as corporeal compared to yours. His skin has a certain translucent quality to it, more obvious under the stark, fluorescent lighting. The manner in which he moves isn’t unlike the minute particles floating in the air; more buoyant, less solid. Less tangible. Less aliv–

You squeal in excitement, and he’s distracted. He watches as you turn in your seat to face him– to look straight into his eyes and tell him—

“I’m your bestest friend now, okay?” 

You say it as a statement; like a promise. And for a second, he feels more present in the world.

So you are. His bestest friend. 

Xavier’s chest feels warm; he likes the sound of that. 

___

“Grandpa, Xavier says your beard looks funny!”

“Huh? Who’zat??” 

_____

You learn the concept of an imaginary friend after introducing Xavier to person number six, who happens to be your preschool teacher. 

You overhear her discussing boring adult stuff with your mom when the latter comes to pick you up after school. You and Xavier are in a corner, playing princess and knight. It’s just the two of you, away from the other kids, since your friends refused to join when you’d asked them if they wanted to play too. 

Or rather— they don’t think it’s fair that you just made someone up to be the knight, and have them play the villains. 

That confused you. You also notice how it made your best friend sad. So in the end, you decided that you don’t need anyone else! Xavier is already the best knight who is now also an evil dragon.

“Honey, don’t you want to play with your other classmates?” Your teacher, Miss Dahlia, asks you as she and your mom amble closer to where you and Xavier are; her tone gentle, yet careful. 

You shake your head, a ‘harrumph!’ leaving your mouth. “They didn’t wanna play villains with us. But ‘sokay, Xavier is an evil knight dragon now.” 

Miss Dahlia smiles the same smile your mother gave you at dinner last night. “Oh, of course, sweetie. But maybe you and… Xavier can find someone else to join you?” 

Your brows furrow, starting to feel irritated about the whole thing. “I told you, they don’t wanna! They said they dun’ wanna have someone made up play the knight!” 

Your mom sighs and the two share a look. 

After a moment of hesitation, your teacher begins to explain how your friends “may not be able to see” Xavier since he’s special and only appears to you. That “It’s good you’re being very independent, sweetie, as long as you don’t let Xavier prevent you from hanging out with your actual friends.”

Because, according to Miss Dahlia, he’s just an imaginary friend. 

You blink, not understanding. Xavier is silent beside you. “Huh?” 

You’re looking at the boy in question, trying to make sense of how the other kids—and apparently, everyone else—can’t see him when he’s sitting right there. You don’t understand, and it’s making you more annoyed. 

So the moment Miss Dahlia finishes talking, you tell her that you’re happy playing with just Xavier, and that you’re gonna continue to play princess and evil knight dragon now, please and thank you. 

___

Back home, you and your imaginary friend lie starfish on the floor of your bedroom. You stay quiet while you count the barely visible water spots on your ceiling, waiting for the other person to speak. 

He doesn’t. 

Feeling fidgety, you break the silence. “They don’t see you.”

“I-I don’t think so.” 

“But I see you.” You stress the word, turning on your left to look at Xavier when you say it. 

“Yes,” He agrees, twisting his head to the right so that he’s facing you too. You try to figure out how he’s feeling about the situation—with all the naivety of a child your age—but his expression doesn’t give much away. 

You’re about to ask him directly when, finally, his lips curve into a small smile. A knot loosens in your chest.

“Don’t worry,” Xavier assures you. “That’s enough for me.” 

_____

You lost another round of hide-and-seek.

“‘S not fair,” you grouse, stomping a foot in frustration. “You always find me so fast!”

“We could always play tag instead,” Xavier offers. 

“As if you don’t win at tag too!” 

_____

It’s another bright, sunny Tuesday and your mom leaves you with her usual instruction to behave well for Mrs Dela Peña, a kind—albeit a little strict—lady in her mid-seventies who lives a block away from your house, and your babysitter since you were in diapers. You’re eight now, and starting to make heads with your multiplication tables, but your mom still thinks you’re a big baby that needs looking after. 

You think you’re old enough to be left alone during your summer break when she has to go to work, but she refuses to leave you by your lonesome no matter how much you insist. 

“I have Xavier with me anyway!” 

Your mom just shakes her head whenever you use that as an argument, not bothering with a response. 

So with the usual pout on your face, you stand at the front door with your arms crossed as you grudgingly bid your mother goodbye. 

“–and don’t forget to eat all your greens later for lunch, okay?” She reminds you one last time before giving you a wet kiss on the forehead. You scrunch your nose as you wipe it off. “Love you, honey. I’ll be home by six.” 

And off she goes. You turn to face Xavier—whose hair is a little longer now, almost past his chin, but with eyes the same shade of marble blue—and complain, “She always treats me like a little kid!” 

“But you are a kid,” he tells you, sounding a little confused by your ire. “And it’s normal for parents to care for their children, no matter how old they are.” 

You grumble, narrowing your eyes at him. “I know, but you’re supposed to be on my side.” 

“I am on your side,” Xavier says, blinking innocently. “I tell you when Mrs Dela Peña isn’t looking so you could hide your broccoli before she sees.” 

He does make for a good lookout. You divert the subject. 

“Okay, whatever. But we’re still on Project: Veggie Throw, right?” You ask him, excitement replacing the crabbiness from a moment ago.

Xavier hums in assent, both him and you sharing the same aversion for all things leafy and (barely) edible, despite the other one’s inability to eat. 

Apparently, just explaining to him the yuckiness of a watercress salad is enough for him to take your side of things. 

Xavier sneaks into the kitchen—quiet as a mouse, as usual—to observe the old woman who’s starting to prepare for lunch. He notes the celery stalks being chopped on a wooden board and makes a sound of disgust.

The little phantom boy waits until the woman finishes the rest of the vegetables to put on a corner before calling out to you:

“The veggies are contained in one spot, agent. Over.” 

Your head pops out to peek from behind the wall that connects to the kitchen. Xavier, who’s now sitting cross-legged on the countertop close to the awning window, waves you towards the sink while Mrs Dela Peña’s busy taking something out of the fridge. 

Trying your best to move swiftly before she could catch you in the act, you zip straight to where the sliced vegetables are, bath towel ready to snatch them away when—

“There’s that tuxedo cat again from yesterday,” Xavier casually comments, peering through the open blinds. “I think he’s brought a friend this time.”

Like second nature, you respond without thinking, “You mean Mr Snuffles?”

“...”

“...”

“Oh, I didn't see you there, sweetie!” Mrs Dela Peña exclaims, eyes crinkling from the smile that graces her face as she sees your frozen form over by the aromatics. “Would you like to help with the cooking? Oh-ho! Be a dear now and soak those mung beans in water, will you?” 

“... Sorry,” Xavier sheepishly offers, then shrinks down from your betrayed look. 

You end up on stir duty. The large pot filled with beans and green produce seems to bubble ominously as you’re forced to listen to the same story about Mrs Dela Peña’s neighbor for the nth time. 

An apologetic Xavier dutifully recites to you the play-by-play on how Mr Snuffles and his racoon friend are rummaging through the trash bins as penance, and you swear to be more conscious of your audience next time you’re speaking to your invisible friend. 

_____

You’re in fourth grade, and exam week is coming up.

You look at the textbooks that are laid neatly on the living room table, untouched. Then at the TV. Maybe you could sneak in one episode before—

“No screen time before you finish studying, dearie!” An older Mrs Dela Peña calls out from the kitchen, apparently having a sixth sense for children and their sneaky ways. “Your mother wants you to complete the set of exercises she’s left for you there before you watch your an-e-mays.” 

Groaning in response, you let your head fall down onto the table with a thunk. “But it’s booooring!”

Xavier hums sympathetically, patting your head with a spectral hand. “I can read beside you. Do you want me to ask you the questions?” 

“I want to watch Killua beat those guys at dodgeball,” you sulk, voice coming out a little muffled against the oakwood surface. “Not memorize dates from, like, a hundred years ago.” 

“Killua isn’t here to help you with The Revolution, I am.” You’re caught off-guard by the shortness in Xavier’s tone, enough to raise your head to stare at your friend curiously. He keeps his gaze fixed on the questionnaire in front of him. 

Wait. That gives you an idea.

“I think I know how you could help me, Xavi,” You say slowly, excitement creeping in your voice. Why haven’t you thought of this before??

The pouting boy tilts his head in confusion. You start explaining what you have in store for him for the next couple of days, and before you even finish your spiel, the pout is gone and Xavier’s nodding along with your plan, seeming to be fully on board. 

The idea that his… nonphysicality could finally be of use to you has him feeling oddly giddy. You, on the other hand, look identical to a cat that ate the canary as you reach for the remote. 

Seems like you’ll be able to watch your second favorite pale-haired boy after all. 

___

You’ve been asked to stay after class, two days before the end of midterms. 

Your history teacher has been on it with your adviser for a while now, in a heated argument about your test results. Well, yours and another student in your class. 

“How is that even possible? He’s sitting three rows behind her!” 

“I don’t know how she did it, but they even got the same answer to the third essay down to the last sentence!” 

You and your partner-in-crime share a look of alarm. Uh-oh.

Any attempts at making you fess up led to nowhere. You keep denying all claims of cheating, and your adviser recalls nothing that could warrant suspicion on the day of your World History exam. 

Without enough conclusive evidence of your dishonesty for them to be able to pin the blame on you and call it a day, their resolution to this ‘conundrum’ is to have you take another test in the faculty office tomorrow after school, under the watchful eyes of two (wary) teachers. 

-

-

-

You let Xavier help you one last time—by relaying to you the answers from the paper tucked between two books on your teacher’s desk—before deciding that it’s probably for the best if you refrain from using your invisible friend for anything that could cause you more trouble in the long run; especially on the remaining days left of midterm week. 

Xavier looks deflated, but agrees. (The pout is back, though.) 

_____

“Where’d you get the name Xavier anyway?”

“It came to me in a dream,” he says cryptically. His face betrays nothing, so you can't figure out whether he’s telling the truth or just messing with you. 

“... Right.”

Xavier hides a smile. 

_____

“Hey, what are they talking about?” You ask Xavier from your perch on top of the staircase. You’ve been eavesdropping on the conversation downstairs for a while now, but you could barely make sense of the words being thrown around except for a couple of bad ones. 

Xavier cocks his head to the side, trying to listen in as well, before deciding to just transport himself closer to the source. 

Your dad, a man that you’ve spent considerably less time with compared to your grandfather (or basically everybody else, for that matter), came to visit today for reasons that aren’t really clear to you. But judging from the hushed whispers and periodic bouts of angry shouting down the living room, it isn’t for anything good. 

Your mom frequently uses the term “deadbeat”, and sometimes when she’s really in a mood, “a good-for-nothing waste of a man” when describing your father. You don’t have much of a relationship with him to feel offended on his behalf so you just nod along and agree when your mom goes off in a tirade.

You wonder sometimes, how things would be if you had a dad. A better one, perhaps. The kind of dad that picks you up after school in an SUV, just like how the dads from your class do for their kids. Or someone that’d take longer “shifts” at work to bring home enough to take care of the family, like how your mom does.

You wonder what it would be like to spend the holidays with another parent – the three of you welcoming New Years at home with a bunch of round fruits and maybe some sparklers, instead of having to sleep early at your grandparents’ house. 

Xavier floats back to your side after a few minutes, face set in a frown. “They’re saying something along the lines of moving somewhere nearer the city and finalizing the papers for the divorce. Your father’s talking about remarrying, as well.” 

It’s relayed to you in monotone, like someone reading off a script—or reciting exactly what they’ve heard sans the curse words—that it takes you a moment to process the information. 

After a beat, the only thing that comes out of you is a small, “oh.”

“Are you… okay?” 

It doesn't take much time for you to shake your head, along with the passing pipe dream you’ve entertained, if only for a few short minutes. 

You stand up from your crouched position near the top banister, leaving your little hiding spot to go back to your room. Xavier follows. 

“It’s fine,” you tell him with a shrug. “Do you wanna read Nightwing with me?” 

He agrees, of course. If he curls up closer to you when you stay up later that night to stare quietly at the glowing stars on your bedroom walls, neither of you brings it up in the morning.

_____

You had a fight with your mother earlier today. Xavier’s with you while you sit quietly on the tire swing behind your house. 

“Would you come with me if I go someplace far away from ‘ere?” 

“How far do you want to go?” 

“I dunno,” you shrug half-heartedly. “It’d be cool if we could go live on a planet of our own, don’cha think?” 

“Just the two of us?”

“Yeah. Somewhere I can just…” You struggle to find the words, but you settle on– “Breathe, I guess.” 

A flock of birds fly eastward. Envy colors you green as you think about the fact that they could call any place home without being tied down to a single location. 

“I’d like that,” Xavier smiles. “Maybe we could, one day. Once mankind improves the means for intergalactic travel.” 

“...Whatever you say, Xavi.” 

_____

It's your twelfth birthday.

You’re sitting at the head of the table surrounded by friends and family as they sing you a happy birthday. In front of you is a sunflower yellow buttercream cake with rainbow sprinkles and two lit candles in the shape of a large ONE and TWO. 

“Happy birthday to you,”

You watch your friends; girls in school that you grew up with since kindergarten, and some boys that you’ve climbed trees with during lunch breaks. Almost all of them have already gone through one or two phases over the course of years you’ve known them, and some you consider your closer friends are even acting a little distant as of late, already outgrowing old interests that you’d once shared. 

Even the general consensus on shows like Adventure Time and Spongebob has changed drastically ever since they all started watching Disney Channel. Flashy cell phones and handheld consoles are traded in place of old Barbie dolls and LeapFrog books; the latter are now kept hidden inside a dusty box underneath the bed, like forgotten relics of a simpler time.

“Happy birthday to youuu,”

They look different now, too. Some shot up in height, others gained a measly few inches. Some ditched the braids in exchange for a shag cut. The cooler kids even started wearing makeup. 

(You think you’d like to try putting on eyeliner if your mom wasn’t so strict.)

“Happy birthday, dear– ouch!” A yelp. “Jeremy, you dumdum, stop moving the cake too much!” 

Your gaze then shifts to your right, almost instinctively, to a space that all your other guests would find empty.

There, always by your side, your best friend remains the same as ever. Not the same in the sense that he looked the way he did when you first saw him eight years ago in your grandparents’ backyard, no. You’re not blind to the changes he’s gone through, in stages similar to your own. 

He’s grown taller, for one; almost as tall as you are now. The chub in his cheeks lost some of its roundness, and his limbs are lankier. His hair went through phases of being short, long, and the awkward in-between. When you had asked a couple years back how he’s able to change the length of it without going to a salon, he simply said he does it “to match yours when you do.” 

All-in-all, his physical appearance passes as a regular twelve-year-old boy, if not for the slight ‘otherworldly’ aspect one could probably… overlook. So ‘the same’ isn’t really how you’d describe him. 

“–happy biiirthday to youuu!” 

Xavier mouths the song along with the people in your life, his gaze trained on you the entire time. You look into the same galaxy-blue that you’ve associated with home, comfort, and just Xavier in every way—and you understand.

Constant. The word you're looking for is constant. 

You blow out your candles, wishing it could last forever. 

_____

“Don’t you think you’re getting a little too old for an imaginary friend, dear?” 

_____

Xavier finds you up the roof one rainy afternoon. You look like you’ve been crying. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, a heavy feeling settling in his stomach from the sight of your red-rimmed eyes. He sidles beside you, close enough that his right side almost merges with your left. 

(He’d like to imagine that you could feel him—as a source of warmth, of comfort to you while you shiver from both the cold and the heavy emotions weighing you down. He wishes he could be more than just a presence.)

“M-mom said that,” you sniff, angrily rubbing away the wetness in your eyes with the back of your hand. “–tha’ when I grow older, you won’t show up anymore.

That—that you’d be gone, ‘cos imaginary friends don’t stay with you when you’re all grown up.” Your bottom lip wobbles by the end of your sentence. 

A dark rain cloud looms overhead, signaling the coming of a storm stronger than the current downpour that’s drenching you to the bone. 

“You won’t leave me, would you, Xavi?” You whisper, turning to gaze at your dearest friend with greedy eyes, committing his form to memory, just in case he– “You won’t disappear on me, right?” 

There’s a crackle of energy in the air; a drop in temperature that causes the fine hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end.

“I don’t want you to ever go away.” 

(Neither does he.)

Something builds up inside Xavier. A desire, a need stronger than the limitations of the circumstance he’s dealt with since the beginning of his existence. It’s as vast and tumultuous as the birth of a star, and equally as brilliant. 

(He wants, he needs, he wishes–)

An answer from the high heavens comes in the form of a lightning strike, illuminating the world in a blinding veil of white for less than a second. The resounding “crack!” feels like a blessing. Like an affirmation from the court of gods listening in on the boy’s plea. 

A boon is granted, born from an ambition so great. And for a moment, Xavier burns brighter than any of the billion pinpricks of light in the night sky. 

-

-

-

On a roof, two children sit facing each other under a raging tempest, threads of fate tying them together in an unbreakable bond. 

Snip.

Something falls into place. 

“Never,” he vows. “I’ll always be with you. Forever.” 

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. 

I AM SCREAMING ...

Someone save me

N v m i am beyond saving

I need this man in my life .... ahhhh

Kill me

🫠☺️🥴🥹

Masquerade Rendezvous

❤︎  tags and content: masquerade ball, hidden identities, oral, rough sex, wall sex, ferality, f!reader, feral xavier ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

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

The Hunter’s Association masquerade was meant for indulgence, for secrecy, for one night where masks and titles didn’t matter. But when you accept a dance from a man draped in white and gold going by Lumiere, you don’t realize what you’ve started. He’s magnetic, controlled, dangerous—leading you through waltzes, through whispered challenges, through a slow-burning game of tension that neither of you are willing to lose.

But when you whisper his name in the dark, the game ends. And Xavier? Xavier doesn’t like to lose.

The ballroom gleamed under the flickering glow of chandeliers, their golden light refracting against the cascading crystal strands that hung like frozen rain from the vaulted ceiling. The Hunter’s Association had spared no expense for tonight’s masquerade—gilded arches, velvet-draped tables, and an endless sea of masks concealing sharp eyes and sharper intentions.

The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and warm candle wax, mingling with the distant notes of a string quartet that played something slow, something indulgent. A place built for spectacle, for indulgence, for the careful dance of pretense.

You had expected formality—stoic conversations over expensive champagne, the subtle weight of duty pressing into your spine as you navigated the political undercurrents beneath every greeting. But this… this felt different.

The Association’s best and brightest moved like ghosts through the room, their identities swallowed by the night’s elaborate disguises. Rich silks, dark brocades, the glint of gold threading through the sea of bodies. It was intoxicating in a way you hadn’t anticipated—the anonymity, the blurred lines between colleague and stranger, the way the night whispered promises of something reckless, something dangerous.

Your gown was regal, woven from deep midnight blue that shimmered with every step, the fitted bodice dipping scandalously low before spilling into layers of flowing silk. A crown—delicate but commanding—sat atop your masked visage, the final touch to your carefully curated disguise. A queen, untouchable.

Or so you thought.

Because then you saw him.

Across the room, dressed in the ridiculous, theatrical splendor of Lumière himself—white and gold embroidery cascading down his tailored coat, gloved hands moving with effortless grace as he accepted a glass of wine from a passing server. He was tall, poised, his silver hair falling in soft, deliberate waves over the high collar of his costume. The mask obscured his face, but the sharp line of his jaw, the composed stillness of his posture… something about him sent a shiver down your spine.

And when his gaze lifted—cool, assessing, burning even through the layers of decorum—you felt it. The inevitable pull.

The masquerade was meant for secrecy. For pretending.

The night spun around you in a blur of gilded masks and whispered laughter, the symphony swelling as bodies moved in perfect time. You had taken the hand of a stranger—a man whose name you hadn’t asked, whose face was obscured beneath a mask of silver filigree—and let him pull you into the slow, intoxicating rhythm of the waltz.

It was easy to get lost in the music, to let the careful choreography lull you into a false sense of security. Your partner’s grip was firm but not possessive, guiding you through each measured step as you swayed beneath the grand chandeliers.

Still, something felt… off.

Like the moment before a storm breaks, when the air thickens, charged with something unseen.

You felt it before you saw it—an unmistakable presence at the edge of your periphery, someone watching, waiting.

And then, just as your partner spun you in a graceful turn, your gaze lifted—straight into the piercing blue of a masked man dressed in white and gold.

Lumière.

He stood just beyond the reach of the dancers, one gloved hand resting lightly against the gilded railing, the other holding an untouched glass of wine. His presence was undeniable, though he hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. He didn’t need to.

Something about the way he watched you—calculating, amused, intrigued—made the room feel smaller, the air warmer.

Your partner murmured something polite, something about how well you danced, but you barely heard him. Because Lumière had moved.

He placed his glass down with meticulous precision, then stepped forward, cutting through the swirling figures with effortless grace. His stride was slow, deliberate, like a man who already knew how this would end.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t look at your partner. Didn’t acknowledge him at all.

Instead, he extended a gloved hand toward you, tilting his head just slightly.

“May I have this dance?”

It wasn’t really a request.

Your partner hesitated, torn between politeness and the unshakable sense that he had already lost.

You inhaled, pulse thrumming against the delicate line of your throat. And then—without a word—you placed your hand in Lumière’s. His fingers curled around yours, warm even through the silk of his gloves.

The masquerade swallowed you both whole.

<hr>

Lumière pulled you into the dance with the kind of effortless confidence that suggested he’d done this before—many times. His grip was sure, guiding, not forceful, but leaving no doubt as to who was leading.

And yet, the moment your palm settled against his shoulder, the very moment your bodies aligned in the measured closeness of the waltz, something shifted.

The masquerade blurred.

Your world shrank to the point of contact, to the warmth seeping through his gloves, the slow, calculated press of his palm against your waist.

He moved like someone who had memorized the language of motion, each step a silent command, each turn a quiet conversation. He kept a respectful distance, but it didn’t matter—not when the air between you felt charged, thick with something neither of you had named yet.

“You dance well,” you murmured, voice low enough that only he could hear.

Lumière’s lips curled into something close to amusement. “You sound surprised.”

You tilted your head, gaze flicking over his mask, searching for something beneath the disguise. “I expected someone in a costume like yours to be a little less…” You trailed off, letting the thought hang between you like a thread waiting to be pulled.

His grip on your waist tightened, just slightly. “Less what?”

“Disciplined.”

The faintest chuckle—low, rich, indulgent. “I assure you, discipline has its benefits.”

Heat licked up your spine before you could stop it.

The waltz continued, but the dance was no longer just about the music. It was about the way his thumb skimmed the fabric of your gown in a barely-there stroke. The way his breath fanned against your temple when he dipped you, holding you suspended for just a second too long. The way your body responded, leaning into the moment before sense could catch up to instinct.

The first song ended and neither of you moved to step away.

The strings swelled again, and without a word, Lumière adjusted his grip, seamlessly carrying you into the next dance as if the thought of parting hadn’t even occurred to him.

You should have hesitated. Should have stepped back, should have broken the spell before it tightened its hold.

But you didn’t.

You let him keep you close, let the slow, deliberate motion of the dance unravel something inside you.

“You’re not asking my name,” you said after a moment, studying him from beneath the edge of your mask.

He hummed, thoughtful. “Would you give it to me if I did?”

A slow smile curved your lips. “Would you?”

Lumière’s head tilted just slightly, considering. “Names are dangerous things at a masquerade.”

“So is this,” you countered, shifting just a fraction closer, your bodies nearly brushing with every measured step.

The air between you crackled.

He exhaled, slow and controlled, as if keeping something at bay. Then, after a pause, he murmured, “Then perhaps we shouldn’t name it.”

The dance continued.

You had forgotten the world outside this moment, outside the way his fingers pressed against the small of your back with each turn, outside the almost imperceptible way his chest rose and fell just a little too sharply when you exhaled against his throat.

Two strangers in the dark, playing a game neither of you wanted to end.

But the music was winding down. And as the final note lingered in the air, a question hung between you—unspoken, heavy. Would you leave this dance behind? Or would you follow wherever it led?

Lumière’s hand slid from your waist. His fingers traced the edge of your wrist, featherlight, as if testing the weight of a decision.

<hr>

You weren’t prepared for the moment he let go.

The music had barely finished settling into silence when his fingers slipped from yours, the warmth of his touch evaporating as though it had never been there at all. No parting words, no lingering glance, no indication that the last two dances had meant anything beyond the rhythm of the waltz. With careful precision, he stepped away, retreating into the crowd with the kind of quiet grace that made it seem as though he had never existed in the first place.

The ballroom didn’t falter in his absence, didn’t still or quiet or even acknowledge that something—someone—had been lost to the sea of masked figures and gilded artifice. The string quartet continued, seamlessly weaving the next melody into the fabric of the night, and around you, dancers reassembled, switching partners, reforming lines, their conversations uninterrupted by the ghost of a man who had been there only moments before.

But you felt it. The absence of him. The space he had left behind.

Your hands, still curled slightly as if expecting to find the shape of his gloved fingers lingering in your palm, felt empty in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Your breath was uneven, your body still attuned to the careful way he had held you, the deliberate way his grip had tightened just slightly when you leaned too close, the way his voice had curled around you with quiet, unmistakable intent. Walk with me, he had said, as if the outcome of this night had already been decided.

And yet, he was gone.

Not in some dramatic, attention-drawing departure, but in the way a shadow dissolves beneath shifting light—there one moment, blurred the next, retreating into the edges of the world as though he had never truly been part of it at all.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That this had been nothing more than a dance, a fleeting moment of indulgence in a night designed for such things, that you had no reason to feel the slow, curling frustration creeping up your spine, no reason to scan the room as if searching for something you had no business searching for.

But no matter how many times you reminded yourself of these things, you couldn’t stop the way your pulse betrayed you.

It was ridiculous, really. You didn’t even know his name.

And yet, despite your best efforts, despite the way you forced your expression into something composed and unbothered, despite the way you accepted the next hand extended toward you with the same easy grace as before, you couldn’t stop your gaze from flickering back to where he had once stood.

You were a queen tonight, untouchable, regal, above the game of masks and fleeting glances.

And yet, for the briefest of moments, you had felt hunted.

The night moved on without him. Another song played, another glass of wine was placed in your hand, another masked figure leaned close with idle conversation you could barely register, and yet the sensation of searching for something just beyond your reach refused to loosen its grip.

You wouldn’t chase him. That much you knew.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren’t the only one searching.

Somewhere in the depths of the masquerade, obscured but not lost, the man in white and gold was still watching. Still waiting. Still allowing the tension to stretch and simmer, to settle just beneath your skin, to become something that would not fade so easily.

Because this was not over. Not yet.

The masquerade moved around you, swirling in gilded opulence, but the haze of music and conversation felt distant, dulled beneath the lingering pull of something unseen. You had let another dance slip through your fingers, had let another conversation pass without truly hearing it, had let another glass of wine be placed in your palm without tasting it. It was becoming absurd—this sensation, this restless hum beneath your skin, as though something had unsettled the very balance of the evening and left you reaching for something just out of sight.

You needed a moment. A breath. A distraction.

The refreshment table stood along the edge of the ballroom, a long, lavish spread of imported wines and crystalline glasses arranged beneath the warm glow of candlelight. It wasn’t the wine you truly wanted—wasn’t even the moment of respite you claimed to be seeking—but it was something tangible, something to occupy your hands and your mind while you exorcised the ghost of a man you had no business thinking about.

Your fingers trailed absently along the stem of an untouched glass as you approached, reaching for the deep, velvety red of something dark and rich, something that might chase away the warmth that had settled in your bones during that last dance.

And that’s when you felt it. Not a touch, but the weight of attention.

It was instant, visceral, the kind of awareness that struck without warning, creeping down your spine with a slow, deliberate certainty. You didn’t need to look to know—to feel—that someone was watching you. Not in the way one might steal a passing glance at an intriguing stranger, but in the way a hunter watches its prey, waiting, unhurried, assured in the knowledge that there would be no escape.

You lifted the glass, bringing it to your lips in a practiced motion, slow, unbothered, unwilling to betray the way your pulse had shifted into something uneven, something entirely too aware.

But curiosity had already won.

You turned your head just slightly, just enough to let your gaze flicker over the gathered tables along the ballroom’s edge, scanning past costumed figures and polite conversation, past the blur of faces you had no reason to linger on—

Until you found him seated at one of the smaller tables, half-shrouded in shadow but unmistakable beneath the flickering candlelight, was Lumière. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t so much as lifted his own glass in greeting. He was simply watching.

Elbow resting against the arm of his chair, fingers curled beneath his jaw in a position of casual, effortless ease, his mask concealing all but the sharp line of his jaw and the faintest curve of his lips. He didn’t beckon, didn’t tilt his head in invitation, didn’t offer any indication that he had been waiting for you—

But you knew. You could tell he had. And worse than that, worse than the realization that he had anticipated this moment, that he had known you would seek respite here, was the quiet, undeniable truth creeping into your chest.

You had been waiting for him, too.

You set your glass down with careful precision, the delicate clink of crystal against marble swallowed by the hum of conversation around you. He hadn’t looked away—not once—hadn’t so much as feigned the courtesy of glancing elsewhere, and that alone sent a slow, simmering warmth curling beneath your skin.

If he was waiting for you to pretend not to notice, he was about to be sorely disappointed.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, tilting your head just enough to let the light catch the edges of your mask, gold filigree gleaming beneath the chandelier’s glow. It wasn’t a question, wasn’t some breathless observation of a woman caught off guard—it was a challenge, a deliberate acknowledgment of the pull neither of you had chosen to ignore.

Lumière—if that was even his real name, which you doubted—didn’t startle, didn’t shift, didn’t so much as blink in feigned innocence. He only smiled, slow and knowing, as if pleased that you had finally decided to call him on it.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, as if that alone explained everything.

A lesser woman might have flushed at the shamelessness of it, at the way his voice dipped low, smooth as velvet and just as dangerous. But you were not a lesser woman. You only lifted your glass once more, taking a slow sip of wine before setting it down again, gaze steady.

“Many here are beautiful,” you pointed out, the edge of a smirk curling at your lips. “And yet, you’re still looking at me.”

He exhaled softly through his nose, a quiet sound of amusement, but he didn’t deny it. “I am.”

“Why?”

His fingers tapped idly against the table, a single measured beat, before his voice dipped just a little lower, the weight of his attention pressing against you in ways that had nothing to do with physical proximity.

“I enjoyed the way you danced.”

It was simple, almost benign, but the way he said it—slow, deliberate, the words rolling over his tongue with something bordering on indulgence—made it clear he wasn’t speaking only of waltzes and carefully choreographed steps.

A warmth settled in your chest, creeping downward, curling around your spine like something electric. You should have left it there, let the words hang, let him keep waiting, let the anticipation stretch just a little longer.

But you were feeling bold. You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbow against the table, fingers ghosting over the stem of your glass. Your voice, when it came, was soft but certain, each syllable laced with quiet intent.

“I can move in other ways.”

The flicker in his gaze was immediate—sharp and assessing, as if measuring the weight of what had just been offered, deciding whether to take the bait or let it drift.

He took it.

“I have no doubt,” he murmured, his head tilting just slightly, as if imagining it already, as if mapping the possibilities in the space between words.

The warmth beneath your skin deepened, pooling low, dangerous in the way a drawn bowstring thrummed with tension before release.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The ballroom spun on around you—music, laughter, the clinking of glasses—but it might as well have been another world entirely.

Lumière’s gaze flickered, something dark and unreadable shifting behind the polished ease of his expression, his fingers still idly tapping against the table in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. He was considering something, weighing it carefully, as though calculating the exact moment to strike.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he stood.

The movement was fluid, effortless, like everything he did, his gloved hand extending toward you with the same quiet command as before. There was no question of whether you would accept.

“Dance with me,” he murmured, the words barely louder than the hum of music behind him, but they sank into you like a whisper against bare skin.

Your fingers slid into his without hesitation, and the moment his grip tightened around yours, your fate was sealed.

He pulled you onto the floor with practiced ease, guiding you back into his arms as though you belonged there, as though every other dance before this had been nothing more than a rehearsal for this moment. The world narrowed once again, reduced to the slow, intoxicating rhythm of movement, of the subtle press of his palm against your back, the gloved fingers curling just slightly around yours as he led you through the sweeping turns.

This dance was different from the others.

Slower. Heavier.

Less about technique and more about the way your bodies moved together, the way the air between you felt charged, the way his fingertips traced the smallest of patterns against your spine with every step.

His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips so close to your skin that you swore you could feel the phantom press of them, the teasing suggestion of something withheld, something just out of reach.

“You make it difficult to look anywhere else,” he murmured, so quietly that only you could hear.

A slow, deliberate shiver worked its way down your spine, but you didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate in your response, tilting your head just enough to let your lips nearly brush the edge of his jaw.

“Then don’t.”

He exhaled, something low and pleased vibrating deep in his chest, and for a moment, just a moment, you swore he was going to kiss you right there, consequences be damned.

His hand at your back slid just a fraction lower, the hold just a fraction tighter, his head dipping just slightly as though drawn forward by something beyond reason, beyond choice, beyond even himself.

And then he stopped.

Close. So damn close that his lips hovered just above yours, his breath warm and steady, but he held there, lingering at the precipice, waiting.

For you. For permission. For a request, an invitation, a demand.

The space between you felt razor-thin, your pulse a betraying drumbeat against your ribs, the warmth of him sinking into your skin, unraveling you bit by bit until there was only one possible outcome.

“Take me somewhere else,” you whispered, the words slipping past your lips before you could think better of them, before you could remember why you shouldn’t.

Something flickered in his eyes—satisfaction, hunger, a silent finality—before his grip tightened ever so slightly.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask if you were sure. He simply took your hand, and without another word, led you away from the dance floor, away from the crowd, away from the golden light and into the shadows where no one could see.

<hr>

The world beyond the ballroom faded into insignificance the moment he led you past the grand arches and into the dimly lit corridors that stretched beyond the golden glow of the masquerade. The murmur of voices and music softened into a distant hum, swallowed by the quiet hush of the hallway, where the air was cooler, thicker, charged with something far heavier than the weight of candlelight and whispered laughter.

You had barely registered how far he had taken you before he moved.

In one fluid motion, he turned, pressing you back against the cool marble wall, his body closing in, surrounding you, his gloved hands bracketing either side of your waist. It wasn’t rushed—wasn’t careless or impatient—but deliberate, controlled, a slow, measured inevitability that made the anticipation coil low in your stomach, winding tighter with every second he held back.

And he was holding back.

You could see it in the way his jaw tensed, in the way his fingers flexed ever so slightly before settling at your hip, in the way his gaze flickered between your lips and your eyes as if committing every detail to memory.

For a man who had spent the evening watching you, who had danced with you like he already knew the shape of you, who had drawn you away from the crowd without hesitation—he was giving you a chance to stop this.

You weren’t going to take it.

With a slow inhale, you reached up, gliding your fingers along the edge of his mask, just enough to feel the warm skin beneath, to trace the sharp line of his jaw, to savor the way his breath hitched at the contact.

He made a sound—low, almost a growl—and then his restraint snapped.

His mouth was on yours before you had a chance to exhale, crushing, demanding, his body pressing flush against yours as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him. The warmth of him sank through the layers of fabric between you, the heat of his breath, the press of his chest, the firm grip of his hand tilting your chin just enough to deepen the kiss.

You melted into him, letting the urgency of his touch unravel you, your hands sliding beneath the lapels of his coat, fingers curling into the fine embroidery like you needed to anchor yourself before you lost all sense of where you were. He tasted of wine and something darker, something intoxicating, something that made your knees weaken just as his hand slid down your waist, pulling you closer, as though any remaining space between you was unacceptable.

He kissed you like he had been waiting all night.

And you kissed him like you had, too.

But even with the way his mouth claimed yours, even with the way his hands traced the curve of your body in slow, possessive strokes, even with the way your breaths tangled between desperate, heated kisses, you could feel it—the hard press of him against your thigh, undeniable, insistent, aching.

You smiled against his lips, a slow, wicked curve, and then—without breaking the kiss—you let your hands slide lower, skimming over the smooth brocade of his coat, down to his belt, down to where he was already straining against the confines of his clothing.

He sucked in a sharp breath, breaking away just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils blown wide behind the mask, his lips parted, his body tense beneath your touch.

“Careful,” he warned, voice low, rough, frayed at the edges of restraint.

But you only smirked, sinking slowly—deliberately—lower, your hands already working at the fastenings of his belt.

“I thought you liked the way I moved,” you murmured, looking up at him through the dark lace of your mask, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers curled against the marble, the way his chest rose and fell in a sharp, uneven rhythm.

His jaw clenched, breath shuddering. “You’re going to—”

“Shh,” you soothed, pressing a kiss just below his navel as you freed him from the constraints of his costume, reveling in the way his muscles tensed beneath your hands, in the way he exhaled sharply, already fighting to keep himself steady.

The moment your lips ghosted over his skin, just beneath the fine embroidery of his coat, you felt the sharp intake of his breath, the way his fingers curled against the marble like he was already struggling to hold himself together.

Good.

He had spent the entire night watching you, guiding you, leading you into the palm of his hand with deliberate ease. Now, it was your turn to unravel him.

You sank lower, letting your nails trail over his hips, feeling the slow, delicious weight of his cock press against your palm, thick and hot and already aching. A sharp exhale escaped him, his head tilting back just slightly, exposing the taut line of his throat, the barely-there tremor in his breath.

You couldn’t stop the satisfied hum that curled in your throat, reveling in the way he twitched beneath your fingers, in the way his entire body coiled with restraint, in the way he was trying—desperately—to stay composed when you could already feel him slipping.

“I thought you were disciplined,” you murmured, tracing your tongue along the groove of his hipbone before pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to his skin, your breath fanning warm against him.

His hand moved before he could stop it, fingers tangling into your hair, not forcing, not guiding—just holding you there, like he needed something to keep him grounded. “Don’t test me.”

But that was exactly what you planned to do.

You glanced up at him, taking in the sharp set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths that weren’t nearly as steady as he wanted them to be. He was barely holding on, teetering on the edge of something dangerous, and you wanted to push him over.

So you did.

Your lips brushed the head of his cock first, featherlight, just enough to make him suck in another breath, his fingers tightening in your hair. Then, without hesitation, you parted your lips and took him into the heat of your mouth, slow, deliberate, savoring the way his entire body shuddered the second he felt the wet, silken glide of your tongue.

“Fuck.” His voice was low, wrecked, a single, bitten-off curse that made arousal pool between your thighs, made you press your own legs together as you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, letting him feel the slick drag, the deliberate tease of your tongue along the underside.

His control was slipping. You could feel it.

The way his hips jerked ever so slightly, as if fighting the urge to thrust deeper. The way his breath came shorter, uneven. The way his fingers flexed in your hair, torn between keeping himself steady and ruining you.

But you weren’t done with him yet.

You pulled back, slow and teasing, letting your lips drag against him before flicking your tongue over the head in a light, taunting stroke. His breath hitched, his grip tightening, his head tipping forward as if he couldn’t believe you had the audacity to tease him like this.

“You’re shaking,” you mused, voice sweet, lips brushing against him as you spoke.

His jaw clenched. “I swear—”

But whatever he was about to say cut off with a sharp inhale as you took him into your mouth again, this time deeper, your fingers tightening around his base as you let the slick heat of your throat pull him in.

That was it. That was the moment he broke. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat, his fingers curling hard in your hair, his hips pressing forward before he jerked himself back, as if forcing himself to stop, to regain control before he lost himself entirely. But it was already too late.

His free hand shot down, grabbing your arm, pulling you up before you could blink, before you could gloat—before you could even breathe.

His mouth was on yours in an instant, devouring, punishing, kissing you like he needed to claim you, like he had to remind you exactly who had been in control this entire night. His grip was tight, possessive, dragging you against him, letting you feel the heat, the frustration, the barely-contained desperation rolling off of him in waves.

Then, suddenly— 

He was shoving himself back into his pants and pulling you with him, backing you toward the nearest door, his steps quick, determined, his breath still ragged against your lips. You barely had time to register the cool wood against your back before he reached for the handle, shoving the door open, and pulling you inside.

The door slammed shut behind you. And now you were really alone trapped in the dark with the man you had just broken.

The second the door slammed shut, you barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you.

No more restraint. No more careful control. No more of the measured, deliberate touches he had kept himself confined to all night.

He snapped.

His mouth crashed against yours in something closer to a claim than a kiss, his hands already gripping, taking, roaming with a desperation that sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through you. His fingers dug into your hips, pinning you against the door as if he could brand himself into your skin, as if he needed to feel every inch of you beneath his hands before his mind fully unraveled.

And oh, was it unraveling.

Gone was the composed, mysterious stranger from the ballroom. Gone was the poised man who had watched you with quiet amusement from across the dance floor. In his place was something raw, something feral, something that had been straining against its leash all night and had finally been set loose.

"This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" His voice was low, wrecked, barely more than a growl against your lips, his breath hot and uneven as his hands yanked at the fabric of your gown, fingers curling in the delicate silk as if he had half a mind to tear it straight from your body.

You didn’t answer—couldn’t—because the moment your lips parted, his teeth grazed your jaw, his mouth dragging down the column of your throat, open-mouthed, hungry, sucking a deep, bruising mark against your skin that sent a sharp pulse of arousal straight to your core.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice rough, his grip tightening as he rolled his hips against you, letting you feel exactly how hard he still was, how much your little game had ruined him. "Tell me this is what you wanted."

"Yes," you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, your head already spinning from the sheer heat of him, from the way he pressed against you, overwhelming and all-consuming. "Yes—fuck, yes—"

That was all he needed.

His fingers ripped at the ties of your gown, pushing the fabric down over your shoulders, shoving it past your hips until it pooled at your feet in a shimmering heap, leaving you bare beneath him. His breath caught for a fraction of a second, like the sight of you had knocked the air from his lungs.

He spun you before you could process it, shoving you up against the door, your palms slamming against the wood, your body arching instinctively at the feel of his chest pressing flush against your back.

"Stay right there," he rasped, his hand sliding up your spine, fingers curling into the back of your neck, holding you in place, his lips grazing your ear, voice dark and dripping with satisfaction. "You want to tease me? Make me wait? Drag me to the edge just to watch me fall?" His teeth scraped against your throat, his hips grinding against you in a slow, devastating roll that had you whimpering. "Fine. Now it's your turn."

You barely had time to draw in a breath before his hand slid down, between your thighs, fingers pressing against your slick heat with a teasing, infuriating laziness.

"Fuck," he exhaled, voice wrecked, his forehead dropping to your shoulder for a half-second as he felt how wet you were, how ready you were for him, how your body had been waiting for this just as much as his had.

You squirmed, pushing back against him, needing more, but he just laughed—low—before pulling his fingers away just as quickly as he had touched you.

"You don’t get to be impatient now, sweetheart," he murmured, dragging his mouth down your shoulder, sucking another bruise into your skin as his free hand pinned you against the door. "You started this."

Your hands curled into fists against the wood, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as he toyed with you, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against your inner thigh, everywhere but where you needed him most.

"Please," you gasped, arching back against him, begging, not even caring how desperate you sounded, not caring that he wanted you like this, that he was relishing the way you were starting to unravel beneath him.

"Please what?" His voice was taunting, amusement curling at the edges of it, but there was a strain beneath it, a barely-leashed hunger that told you he wasn’t far from breaking either. "Use your words, sweetheart."

You whined, pressing back against him, hips rolling, your body aching for relief. "Please, Xavier—"

He froze. For the first time since he had touched you, he stilled. A sharp inhale. A beat of silence.

"What did you just say?"

Shit.

Your heart stumbled, your entire body going rigid, your mind catching up far too late to the name that had just slipped past your lips.

Xavier.

Not Lumière.

Not some stranger.

Xavier.

As if confirming the horrifying, thrilling, devastating realization, his fingers tightened around your throat, just enough to make you shiver, just enough to make sure you were listening.

He leaned in, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice impossibly dark, impossibly wrecked.

"You knew?"

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a demand. A command for the truth.

Your breath hitched, your pulse hammering beneath his grip. "No," you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper, the confession slipping past your lips before you could stop it. "Not until just now."

Another sharp inhale. Another beat of silence. Until– he laughed. Low. Dark. Dangerous.

And before you could react, before you could say anything else, before you could process the fact that the man wrecking you against this door was the same one you had fought beside, worked beside, known—

His grip yanked you back, spun you around, and his mouth was crushing against yours, claiming you, owning you, ruining you.

"You should have never said my name," he growled against your lips, voice wrecked, threaded with something almost feral, something that sent a violent shudder racing down your spine. "Now you don’t get to fucking breathe without saying it again."

Gone was the teasing, the slow, measured strokes of a man savoring his victory. Now, there was nothing but hunger—nothing but the sharp, desperate edge of need as he wrenched you away from the door, his grip punishing as he walked you back, step by step, until the backs of your thighs hit the nearest surface, a heavy wooden table that groaned under the sudden force of your body being shoved against it.

Your gasp barely had time to escape before he crushed his mouth against yours, consuming you, devouring you, his hands already shoving at what little remained of the delicate fabric clinging to your skin.

"Xavier—"

The sound of his name against your tongue made him snarl, his fingers tightening at your hips, bruising in their grip, claiming, because now he knew, now there was no veil, no mask, no carefully curated illusion between you.

It was you. It was him.

And he was about to make sure you never forgot that.

Your thighs barely had time to part before he was between them, hands gripping the backs of your knees, spreading you wide as he dragged you closer, the blunt heat of his cock pressing right against your dripping cunt, teasing, taunting, not yet pushing in, but making sure you felt it, making sure you ached for it.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice low, guttural, his lips brushing against your jaw as he throbbed against you, as he let you feel just how hard he was, just how fucking wrecked you had made him.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, your breath coming sharp, uneven, a desperate, pleading sound slipping past your lips as you rocked against him, needing him to move.

"Xavier," you gasped, a plea, a prayer, a surrender.

His grip tightened.

"Again."

"Xavier—"

The word had barely left your mouth before he thrust, burying himself inside you in one brutal, devastating stroke that tore the breath from your lungs, that sent white-hot pleasure lancing through every nerve, that had your fingers clawing at his back as you choked on a scream.

"Fucking louder," he snarled, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear, his hands gripping your thighs harder, spreading you wider, holding you open for him as he pulled back only to slam into you again, dragging another wrecked, gasping Xavier from your lips.

He was relentless, driving into you with a force that sent the table beneath you creaking, the sound of skin against skin, ragged breaths, and his name filling the empty space of the room.

"You wanted this," he growled, his hand sliding up your body, fingers curling around your throat, tilting your head back so he could watch you, so he could see every inch of your face twisted in pleasure. "Wanted to fucking ruin me, didn't you?"

"Yes—fuck, yes—"

His grip tightened, his hips snapping forward, hitting deep, pulling another helpless, trembling "Xavier—" from your throat, and his eyes darkened, something dangerously satisfied flashing behind them.

"That’s fucking right," he rasped, pounding into you now, his rhythm raw, desperate, claiming. "Scream it for me. Let the whole fucking masquerade know who's fucking you."

Your nails scraped down his back, your body arching, every nerve singing, every inch of you burning, stretched and full as he drove you higher, pushed you closer, forced you right to the edge—

Unitl he took you over.

Your orgasm slammed into you, a sharp, violent wave that shattered through every inch of your body, a sobbing "Xavier—" tearing from your lips as your walls fluttered around him, gripping him like a vice, pulling him deeper, harder, making him swear beneath his breath as he chased his own undoing. And then, with a sharp, guttural groan, he broke, his body tensing as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling into you in sharp, jerking thrusts, his name still trembling on your lips, wrecked and ruined in the only way it ever should be. For long moments, neither of you moved, bodies tangled, chests heaving, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged and hot against your lips.

Then—slowly, still buried deep inside you—Xavier laughed. Low. Hoarse. Dark with satisfaction.

"Fuck," he rasped, pressing his lips against your throat, letting his teeth graze over the bruises he had left behind, his grip still firm at your waist. "What the fuck have we done?"

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers threading into his hair, still barely capable of thought, still feeling wrecked in the best possible way. You hummed, a slow, satisfied sound curling at the edge of your lips as you tugged him closer, dragging your nails down his scalp.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The only sounds in the dimly lit room were the heavy cadence of your breaths, the distant murmur of music still filtering in from the ballroom, and the slow, satisfied hum you let slip as you lazily dragged your nails through Xavier’s silver hair.

His head was still tucked against your shoulder, his body pressed warm and heavy against yours, his arms bracketing your waist as though letting go simply wasn’t an option yet.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice rough, hoarse, still thick with satisfaction as he nuzzled against the curve of your neck. "Fuck."

You laughed softly, still feeling wrecked in the best possible way, still feeling the delicious ache of him deep inside you, the remnants of your pleasure humming through every inch of your skin.

"That bad?" you teased, tilting your head just enough to brush your lips against his temple, the small gesture almost tender despite the absolute destruction he had just delivered.

Xavier let out a low, wrecked groan, his grip tightening around your hips like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull you closer or start all over again.

"That good," he corrected, his voice still raw, still utterly ruined, still settling into something dangerously satisfied.

You smirked, shifting slightly, reveling in the sharp inhale he took as you clenched around him, still warm, still full, still soaked in the mess you had made of each other.

"So," you murmured, pressing your hands against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. "Ready for round two?"

Xavier froze. You saw it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched, the way his entire body tensed like a man seconds away from losing whatever shreds of restraint he had managed to claw back in the past minute.

"No," he said, voice strained, like he hated the word even as he forced it past his lips.

You blinked. "No?"

His hands tightened on your waist, his head dropping forward as he exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was physically trying to regain control.

"Not here," he ground out, his voice dipping into something dangerously low, something threaded with something almost pained. "Not in a fucking supply closet—"

Your laugh bubbled out before you could stop it, the sheer absurdity of the situation hitting you all at once.

You had just been wrecked—utterly ruined—against an old wooden table in what was, apparently, a supply closet, at a masquerade ball hosted by the Hunter’s Association, by a man who, until tonight, had been nothing more than your coworker.

And now, now, he was drawing a line?

"Xavier," you wheezed, gripping his shoulders as you shook with laughter, "now you have standards?"

His hands flexed against your skin, his jaw clenching so tight you thought he might crack a tooth. "I have always had standards," he muttered, offended, but his voice hitched slightly when you shifted against him again, clearly testing just how strong those standards were.

You grinned. "Uh-huh."

Xavier growled, a low, warning sound that made your stomach flip, but when he lifted his head, his eyes were heated, his pupils still blown wide behind the faint glint of his mask.

"You want round two?" he murmured, his fingers trailing slow, dangerous circles along the dip of your waist, his voice dropping to something just above a purr. "Then I’m taking you back to my place, where I can actually—"

He cut himself off, his nostrils flaring slightly, his gaze dragging over your thoroughly ruined form before his fingers dug into your skin, his restraint visibly fraying at the edges again.

You arched a brow, waiting, breath catching slightly as his gaze lingered on your lips, then dipped lower, like he was already imagining what he was going to do to you when he got you alone again.

"Where you can actually what, Xavier?" you teased, voice sweet, but your smile was anything but.

His grip tightened as he stepped back. You immediately whined, your body protesting the loss of his warmth, of his weight, of the way he had fit so perfectly against you.

"Xavier," you complained, trying to tug him back, but he only grinned, still utterly wrecked but determined, the sharp glint in his eyes promising ruin if you so much as challenged him right now.

"Get dressed," he ordered, buttoning his coat, exhaling through his nose like he needed to physically force himself to look presentable again. "Before I change my mind and fuck you here again."

Heat flooded your body all over again.

You huffed, shifting your sore limbs, bending to reach for the crumpled mess of your gown—only to realize, with some degree of horror, that the delicate ties and fragile silk were completely shredded, torn apart by the very same hands that were now adjusting the cuffs of his elegant sleeves like he hadn’t just ruined your entire evening ensemble.

You turned, glaring. "Seriously?"

He barely glanced at you, completely unbothered, straightening his collar with a satisfied, lazy smirk.

"Looks like you’re stuck in my clothes," he mused, already peeling off his coat, tossing it over your shoulders before pulling you flush against him one more time, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, low and smug,

"Let’s go home, y/n."

Pairing: Xavier x mc

Cw: angst, mentions of captive bird, spoilers for Caleb’s story, threats of violence, Xavier being protective, use of nickname Starlight, comfort, probably other stuff

A/n: I love Xavier so much, I just finished the Caleb story and the entire time I kept thinking that Xavier and Sylus would never do that. Zayne probs too but he’s not my favourite. Anywho, enjoy the Xavier fic, might write one about Sylus soon.

——————

Xavier’s knee bounced. Up and down and up and down and up and down. His heart raced, faster and faster. Whether it be nerves or anxiety, he wasn’t sure. Maybe both. He hadn’t seen you for a week, the last he had heard from you was that you were going to Skyhaven for a mission and you would be back. That’s it. No other communication, nothing from Jenna, Tara had no clue where you were, and Simone wouldn’t spill.

Over the past week, he had barely been able to sleep, he was so worried. After hearing about the explosion by the overpass, his anxiety spiraled further at the thought of you getting hurt. He knew you could handle yourself, his trust in you was beyond words, beyond measure even. He had seen you in countless fights, had seen you take down coutless wanderers, but he was always by your side. He was there to step in if you ever got hurt, and that’s where his anxiety stemmed from. He needed you by his side, not for your own sake, but for his.

He on his couch, waiting for something. Today was supposed to be the day you were to come home. He also knew Skyhaven was hard for you, after all, your childhood best friend had lived there. His heart tinged a bit, some jealousy creeping up through the anxiety. He pushed it aside for now, he had bigger things to focus on than his petty jealousy. His phone dinged, a light melody that he only used for you. He picked it up immediately and checked the text.

“I’m back.”

“R U home?” His breath quickened, he needed to see you.

“Yes.”

“Can I come see U?”

“Please”

He stood up. He grabbed his wallet, the book he had been reading, and the two new stuffies had caught at the arcade while you were away. He still needed his teacher with him, even after his near fifty tries a day, he only caught the two. He teleported to your front door. He needed to see you as soon as possible. He needed to be close to you, and hear your voice, and be in your presence.

He knocked three times, and unlocked the door. He called out your name and saw you by your windowsill, look out at the sky, with a solemn look on your face. You looked over at him, and a small smile grew. He knew something was off. Your emotions were always easy for him to read, you never put any effort into hiding them when he was around. He put down your stuffies on the couch, along with his book and approached you.

“How was your trip?” He stood next to you, trying to be a calm and comforting presence. Someone you could lean on. And you did, you leaned into his side a little and look into his soft blue eyes. You felt safe beside him. You felt a lump form at the back of your throat, and felt your eyes sting a little as you tried to hold back your tears.

“It was rough,” you managed to get out. A singular tear fell, and he noticed it immediately. He wasn’t sure what to do. He felt the panic creep up his throat, his eyes widened and he reached out to wipe it away.

“What happened?” His voice was measured and hardened. Ready to go after whatever had caused your pain. To stop whoever had hurt you. To protect you.

“Caleb… is alive.” More tears fell, your complicated emotions were clear on your face. Anger, fear, some resentment, longing, and pain. Xavier knew all of those well. He also knew what this would mean for you. Your childhood best friend, the one you had mourned, the one you had cried yourself to sleep over, was alive.

“What?”

“He was alive this whole time Xavier, and he’s involved with Ever. And he…” you trailed off. Xavier’s eyes quickly examined your face, and he knew something else had happened. He was not going to push, he was going to wait until you told him yourself. He, however, was more than ready to kill the bastard again if it meant keeping you safe.

“What did he do to you?” His voice, was comforting to you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck and let the tears flow. He held you tightly, unwilling to let you go. He didn’t experience what you experienced, he knew something had happened. He did not want to let you go through it alone.

“He drugged me with cold medicine. He trapped me in his house… he isn’t the same person I grew up with. He’s not my Caleb…” he stilled at that. His anger grew. You could feel a shift in Xavier’s demeanour, unlike with Caleb, you weren’t scared. You knew Xavier like the back of your hand, you had spent so much time with him. You know him now like you used to know Caleb. You held on tighter to Xavier, afraid that if you let him go, he would become a different person too. That you would loose him. Xavier’s hold tightened exponentially, and he was ready to go, to hurt Caleb. Put him back into the ground because, what he did to you, the pain he had caused you is not okay. None of it was okay. Anyone who caused you pain, regardless of it being your childhood best friend, did not deserve to be in your presence ever again, breathe the same air as you, be near you. Xavier would expect the same if he ever did that to you.

“He… did what?” He managed to ground out, through his clenched teeth, and his arms clutched you closer.

“He wanted to protect me, he said…” you sobbed out.

“Oh Starlight,” he tried to pull away a little but you wouldn’t let him. You didn’t want to see the pity on his face. “Hurting you like that isn’t protection.”

You nodded into his neck. He let go of you briefly a grabbed your legs to wrap them around his waist. He picked you and walked over to the couch. Beside the stuffies and all. Regardless of how he felt in the moment, the anger brewing under his skin making him feel like a restless animal, he knew you needed him more.

When he tried to pull away to see your face you let out another sob and clutched further. “Please don’t leave me Xavier.”

He huffed at that, and finally forced your face away from his neck. He placed his forehead against yours. Your bleary eyes stared back into his, deep sorrow and anger sketched into his features. There was no hint of pity. Your relief washed over you.

“I would never, in a million years leave you. You are the only one for me in the entire cosmos. I will always be by your side,” he cradled you close. “Can I kiss you?” He muttered so softly you almost missed it. You nodded.

He pressed his lips softly against yours. It was nice and peaceful, his touch was gentle. He pulled back, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You sighed and leaned your head against his chest. He swayed you back and forth. When your breathing evened out, his suppressed anger came to the forefront. A man was about to die. Xavier was going to kill the man a second time, the man who dared to hurt you.

Xavier and his continued love for scaring and teasing MC 😭

he's such a bully sometimes lol

via: Love and Deepspace IG

⋆˚࿔ the best pillow 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

-the LaDS men cuddling with you and laying their heads on your lap (fluff)

୨ৎ── . Sylus

The living room was peaceful, bathed in the soft golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Sylus lay stretched out on the couch, his head resting on your lap, while a book was placed in his large hands. His white hair fell messily over his forehead, as his red eyes scanned the pages with sharp focus.

The low hum of music played from the speaker across the room, a slow, soulful tune drifting through the air.

You absentmindedly ran your fingers through his hair, scrolling through your phone, when you glanced down at him. “Hey, can I connect my phone to the speaker?”

Sylus didn’t look up from his book. “No.”

You blinked. “No?”

A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Listen and appreciate real good music, sweetie.”

You rolled your eyes, sighing dramatically. “You sound like an old man.” The comment made him smirk, but he didn’t respond, his eyes still on his book.

A slow, mischievous smile spread across your lips.

Sliding your fingers beneath the frame of his glasses, you gently pushed them down just enough to reveal his striking red eyes. Before he could protest, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss between his eyebrows, right at the root of his nose.

Feeling his body tense ever so slightly, you knew your 'attack' was effective. Bingo.

Sylus inhaled through his nose, his grip on the book tightening just a fraction. "I'm trying to read, kitten." he murmured, his voice as smooth as ever.

But you saw the way his ears tinged just the faintest bit red, the way his fingers twitched against the page.

A giggle escaped you and you felt him exhale, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

Sylus shifted, pretending to be unaffected as he grabbed his phone to check what song was playing.

That’s when you saw it. Your gaze flickered to the screen and your teasing smile softened. The playlist title was clear as day.

“Songs That Remind Me of Y/N”

When Sylus noticed where you were looking, his thumb casually covered the screen, as if that would make you unsee it.

You grinned, warmth spreading through your chest. “You big softie.”

He scoffed but didn’t deny it. Instead, he flipped the page of his book, still looking entirely unfazed. But as you glanced down at him, you caught it—the barely-there smile playing at his lips.

Sylus’ free hand moved from your tight to intertwine with your own hand, before bringing it to his lips and plant a soft kiss on your knuckles.

୨ৎ── . Zayne

The clock struck midnight as Zayne stepped into the apartment, exhaustion weighing heavy on his broad shoulders. His dark hair was slightly disheveled from running his hands through it all day, and his sharp green eyes, usually so intense, were dulled with fatigue. But despite the ache in his muscles and the relentless pull of sleep, he made his way to the living room—because he had made a promise.

And Zayne never broke a promise to you.

You were sitting on the couch, papers spread out around the couch and the coffee table, biting your bottom lip in concentration. At the sound of his quiet footsteps, you looked up.

"You're home," you murmured, a mixture of relief and concern in your voice. "Zayne, you look exhausted."

"I'm fine," he said softly, his voice gentle despite the obvious tiredness in his tone. "Let’s get this done."

You sighed, but didn’t argue as he settled beside you, his broad frame sinking into the cushions. He leaned slightly toward you, your shoulders brushing as he picked up a form and started filling it out with his precise handwriting.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence. But with each passing moment, Zayne's pen moved slower, his eyes blinking sluggishly as he fought the exhaustion clawing at him.

Then, without warning, his head dipped forward before he caught himself.

You turned to him, your lips pressing together in fond exasperation. "Zayne…"

"I'm awake," he murmured, but his deep voice was quieter now, softer, laced with drowsiness.

Another few moments passed, and then—he slumped.

His head rested against your shoulder at first, his body leaning heavily into yours, before he finally slid down, laying his head on your lap with a deep exhale. His dark lashes fluttered once before his breathing evened out, the exhaustion finally winning.

You glanced down at him, your expression softening. Even in sleep, he looked serious, but there was a rare peace on his face that made her heart ache.

Gently, you adjusted his position, letting his head rest more comfortably on your lap. You ran your fingers through his black hair, smoothing it back, with a featherlight touch.

With a small smile, you picked up your pen again and continued working in silence, letting him recharge. After a while, you feel a big hand gently squeezing your leg. “You’re such a nice pillow, you know that?”

Zayne looks up at you with only one eye open and a tired but fond smile on his lips.

“Look who woke up! Hi sleepy head.” you tease him, caressing his cheek gently. “I’m almost over with these papers.”

He nodded as a small yawn escaped his lips. “I’m sorry, next time I’ll be more helpful.” he whispered softly before falling asleep on you once again.

୨ৎ── . Rafayel

Rafayel stretched out across the bed, his head resting on your lap, his eyes half-lidded with contentment. The soft fabric of your sweater brushed against his cheek as he exhaled slowly, savoring the warmth of your presence. But something was missing.

Your fingers weren’t running through his hair. You weren’t teasing him with a sly remark. You weren’t paying attention to him at all.

Instead, you were glued to your phone, your delicate fingers tapping away at the screen. Occasionally, you let out a quiet chuckle, further fueling his mild irritation.

Rafayel pouted. "Babe." No response.

He shifted slightly, pressing his forehead against your lap. "Baaaabe."

Still nothing.

A smirk curled at the edge of his lips as an idea formed. He nuzzled against you, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he let out the most dramatic sigh he could muster, his broad shoulders rising and falling with exaggerated defeat.

"Are you really going to ignore your very handsome, very lovely boyfriend, who just wants a little attention?" his voice was laced with playful desperation.

You hummed absently, still not looking up. "Mhm. Sounds tragic."

Rafayel gasped, clutching his chest as if you had mortally wounded him. "Tragic?! This is abuse, beloved. I'm starving for affection."

You snorted, shifting your head the slightest to peer down at him.

“Put your phone down..” he murmured, drawing patterns on your thighs with his fingers.

He was pouting, so you followed his instructions. “Yes?”

A grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “Hi gorgeous.” he smirks, as you grab his pretty face between your hands.

“You really become a brat if I don’t give you attention for five minutes, don’t you?” you chuckle, brushing your thumbs along his cheekbones.

A pleased rumble vibrated from his chest as he closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.

"Yes," Rafayel declared, looking up at you with the biggest, most pitiful puppy-dog eyes his irises could manage. "Because my beautiful, sarcastic, heartless partner is ignoring me."

You bit your lip, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh. "You are so dramatic."

"And yet you love me," he shot back, smirking before going back to leaving pecks on her legs.

You feign a sigh, when you feel him playfully biting your skin.

“Ouch!” you immediately half-heartedly slap his forehead, while he laughs amused by his actions.

“Stop it or I’m gonna crush your skull.” you playfully glare at him, but he just shrugs.

“A nice way to leave this world, not gonna lie.”

He proceeded to nibble her thigh again, so you squeeze his head between your legs, chuckling.

“Now beg.” you challenge him, raising one eyebrow. But he simply cackled, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to your thigh. "You really think I’m gonna complain about this?"

୨ৎ── . Xavier

The door clicked shut softly and Xavier stepped inside, his frame carrying an air of quiet exhaustion. His light-colored hair was slightly tousled, his big blue eyes dimmer than usual, lost in some distant thought. He didn’t say a word.

You knew this version of him well. The one that withdrew into silence when something weighed on his mind. He was lost in his own thoughts, tangled up in emotions he didn’t know how to put into words.

So you didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Instead, you took his hand, gently tugging him toward the bed. Xavier hesitated for a second before letting you guide him, his shoulders relaxing just a little under your touch. You pulled him down until he was lying on top of you, his head resting against your lap as you softly ran your hands through his hair.

With a small smile, you let your fingers drift from his hair down to his back, as you began tracing invisible shapes against the fabric of his shirt. At first, you just doodled—little swirls, hearts, nonsense patterns—letting him feel your presence without forcing him to talk.

Then, slowly, you spelled out the words.

I love you.

A heartbeat passed. Then another. You felt his breath hitch ever so slightly, his tense shoulders easing as if a weight had been lifted. So you kept going, tracing a small heart at the end.

Xavier shifted, turning his head just enough so he could glance up at you, his deep blue eyes no longer clouded. A soft, almost bashful smile ghosted his lips. Then, without warning, he rolled over, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer in a way that was both shy and desperate.

His face was buried against your neck now, and you could feel his breath warm against your skin. Finally, he spoke—his voice quiet, but steady.

"…Again," he murmured.

You blinked. "Again?"

He nodded against you, his grip tightening slightly. A soft laugh escaped your lips before you resumed your gentle tracing of sweet nothings and hearts.

୨ৎ── . Caleb

Caleb sighed dramatically as he rested his back against the couch, his broad frame comfortably settled between your legs on the plush carpet. Your fingers worked gently through his thick brown hair, separating strands to weave into intricate braids. Every now and then, you’d clip a tiny butterfly or flower pin into place, giggling to yourself at how utterly adorable he looked.

He loved this. The feeling of your hands in his hair, your presence surrounding him. But there was one small problem.

He couldn't sit still.

His hands roamed absentmindedly, his fingers lightly tracing over the soft skin of your thighs. The warmth of your legs bracketing him was too tempting to ignore. Without thinking, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her knee, then another, higher this time.

You huffed, tightening your grip on his hair just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to warn him. "Caleb. Stop moving."

He grinned. "But you're so soft" he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along the inside of your thigh now. "How am I supposed to resist?"

You rolled your eyes, though he couldn’t see it. "You're not supposed to try to resist. You're supposed to sit still and let me finish your hair."

Caleb chuckled, but he didn’t stop. His hands squeezed your legs gently, thumbs stroking the inside of your thighs in slow, teasing circles. "M’sorry, baby," he muttered, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. "You're just really distracting."

"I’m distracting?" You scoffed. "You’re the one squirming like a hyperactive puppy while I’m trying to make you pretty."

"Hm..pretty, huh?" He smirked, tilting his head back against your stomach, his striking purple eyes gazing up at you. "Does that mean you're finally admitting you like playing with my hair?"

You flicked his forehead, making him laugh. "I've always liked playing with your hair. I just don't like when you make it impossible to finish."

"Okay, okay." Caleb raised his hands in surrender. "I'll behave."

"Good." You started braiding again, your fingers moving deftly through his locks. For about ten seconds, he actually sat still. Then his lips ghosted over your thigh once more, this time leaving a soft bite.

"Caleb!" He burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking with amusement. "I tried to behave, I really did," he said between chuckles. But then he finally stopped moving around and let you finish your masterpiece. “Wanna grab something to eat later?”

“But it took me so long to make these braids.” you pout slightly, already sad at the idea of having to remove all the cute clips from his hair.

“Who said I’m gonna take them out? Everyone needs to see what an amazing job you did!”

7-Days of Recovery With You 🍧🌸

SYNOPSIS: After getting injured and blacking out during a battle, you had not other choice but to take a week-long rest at home to recover. Unfortunately, the universe had a different vision for your dedicated rest & relaxation and decided to send in not just one but all five of your "emergency contacts". Oh the joy of being their favorite past time.

🍓 A/N: Hello! First fanfic here on tumblr about our favorite LADS boys (்▿்). I'll be posting daily (if I can make time lol) for this one! Each part will have a different pairing with all the fluff & humor I can squeeze into the fics. Hope you like it!

- p.s: I'll work on tumblr's interface so I can figure out how to add pictures and stuff to make it more interesting~

˚₊·Xavier's Miracle Soup—̳͟͞͞♡

Part 2 (Zayne) | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Your week had been more than just the typical stressful encounter. Well, first and foremost, you took a hit. A pretty bad one, to say the least. It just so happened you were out in the field with Xavier, fighting off Wanderers just like any other day. It was supposed to be an easy job, a quick 30-45 minute battle, however you never anticipated to be battling wave after wave of Wanderers.

Now, here you were under bedrest, seeking recovery from your battle, surrounded by a thick blanket and rows and towers of pillows for your own comfort. Ironically, despite all the comfort your own bed has brought to you over the years, nothing could compete to the impending feeling of doom you were feeling at that moment.

Your phone kept buzzing non-stop, one message after the other, not just from one but from all five of your "emergency contacts". For some reason, they thought it was wise to build a groupchat and include you in it, to keep "tabs" on your well-being. Knowing well-enough your house is littered with security cameras from Caleb's recent "house project" and Mephisto being on the 24/7 watch, constantly pecking at your window to check on you and most probably bring "gifts" from Onychinus' one and only leader, Sylus. Not to mention, all five men have access to your current vital signs that directly notify them if it gets too low or too high, all thanks to Zayne's newly-installed and gifted watch, which clings onto your wrist like a second skin.

Grumbling to yourself as you rolled on your bed, shielding your eyes from the light peeking through the curtains, "So much for a relaxing long weekend".

» Flashback: 3 days ago . . . «

"Xavier!" you yelled across the field., "2:00!". Loud shots were fired into the air accompanied with the clanging of metal hitting almost everything in its path. "There's too many," Xavier respons, panting heavily as he wipes off the sweat and dirt off his forehead. "Any ideas?" he asks, slashing his sword through the air as another Wanderer comes too close for its own comfort towards you and Xavier.

You and Xavier had been fighting Wanderers non-stop since early in the morning. What was anticipated to be an easy job for the both of you experienced hunters, became nearly a full-day battle. "Well, making it out alive is one of them," you half-heartedly joked, trying to figure out another way to eliminate at least most of the Wanderers stalking your way. You and Xavier were about to be cornered against a large boulder, with no other exit available for the both of you to make it out alive without leaving the other behind. With quick thinking, Xavier slashed his sword in the air and cut down a nearby tree, crushing the remaining Wanderers that were crawling towards the both of you.

With heavy panting, you let your knees buckle and kneel to the floor, carefully clutching both of your guns to the ground. "What the hell was that?", swiping off all the sweat and grime from your forehead and carefully tucking away hair strands of your now messy ponytail to the side.

"It was more than what we had expected," Xavier holds out a hand and helps you get up. Not even standing at your full height, you felt the pang to your chest, you quickly grasp the skin over your heart to try and ease the pain. You felt the whole world spinning, bits of black blotches decorating your vision, you couldn't help but feel the swaying motions of your entire body, feeling the wave of pain and exhaustion finally crashing into you.

With one last glance at Xavier, you blacked out and felt your body, crash to the floor with only hearing Xavier's worried voice over and over until everything became tuned out.

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

It wasn't long before you regained consciousness and finally woke up from your deep slumber. Quickly looking around the room, familiarity made you realize that Xavier had brought you back home in your apartment. Carefully expecting your body, you could clearly see you were beaten and bruised from head to toe with your body being covered in layers of bandages and band-aids, for the smaller cuts.

"You're awake," a voice finally broke you out of your thoughts. As you lift your gaze up, you felt a soft smile grace your face. It was none other than your one and only partner in crime, Xavier, who was seemingly unscathed from the recent battle, carrying what seems to be a steaming hot bowl of what looks like a multi-colored soup. Well, crap.

"You blacked out, I had to bring you to the nearest hospital. You were out for a long time." Xavier said slowly, walking towards your bed with the soup in his hand, carefully grabbing a nearby chair with his vacant hand and setting himself ontop of it. "You overused your powers today, the association has been informed that we finished the task but, seeing your current condition, they're letting you take a break for a couple of days for you to fully recover".

"What? No, I can't. We still have so much paperworks to deal with. Not to mention the sudden influx of Wanderer activity within neighboring cities of Linkon." Your eyes widden at the thought, trying to slowly get up and fix yourself to a seated position, only to feel a pang of pain that puts your back against the board of your bed with a small thud and a wince of pain that makes you grab your waist in hopes to soothe the pain.

"Exactly my point. I'll handle the rest for the meantime. You need to rest. Captain Jenna has already made plans to assign me with a temporary partner while you rest up. We'll continue the mission from here and I'll update you as much as I can". Xavier, carefully, placing the soup onto the nearby table, gives your hand a small squeeze and a reassuring smile. As he pulls away, his gaze drops to his homemade soup and carefully picks up the bowl and scoops a spoonful of it.

You could feel the dread crawling out of you as Xavier stirs the soup and grabs another handful of the soup onto the spoon. "This is my own homemade recipe. I made it a while ago while you were asleep. It's mixed with all the good stuff I could find in your fridge". Well, double crap! I haven't even cleaned out my fridge for the week.

"That's so sweet of you Xavier, it means a lot but you don't have to feed me. I can handle it on my own." Reassuring Xavier as you carefully try to find a comfortable sitting position on the bed. Also hoping & praying that Xavier wouldn't feed you his bathbomb of a soup. Who knows what the man found and put into his miracle of a soup?

"No, I insist. Open wide," While grabbing both of your cheeks, Xavier quickly grabs the spoon and shoves the content forcefully into your mouth. With no choice but to swallow, you try and close your eyes to somehow pretend you're eating anything but the bathbomb soup.

Trying not to grimace at the recently-swallowed spoonful of bathbomb soup, you gave Xavier a weak smile, "Wow, it's...definitely something".

"I'm glad you like it. I won't leave until you finish all of it. Doctor's orders after all." You could feel your soul ascend and leave your body. How could you possibly finish this whole soup infront of Xavier? Taking in a deep breathe, you playfully twirl the spoon with your fingers as it rotates gently with the soup in the bowl, hoping it would buy you enough time for Xavier to go home and you can dispatch the bathbomb soup.

"Oh and, don't worry about anything else. Everything else is covered. The association said that they informed your four other emergency contacts. So, while I'm not here to take care of you, either of the four will do the job." Xavier smiles sweetly, as he wips out his phone and shows you an email from the association with his email attached to the receiver, along with not just two but four other emails? Why on earth would you have five emergency contacts? It wasn't like you were dying or anything, just beaten and bruised, but you'll definitely heal within a day or two.

"Wow, that's a lot of people but I'm sure I'll be fine. I'll only be gone for a couple of days."

"A week, you'll be gone for a week". Xavier corrected, looking through his phone to double check the email and its content. A whole week? What kind of joke is the universe trying to pull on you now? "Are you kidding me? What am I supposed to do then?"

"Well, for starters, you can finish your soup, I'll make up a new batch before I head out so I can give you time to rest". Xavier says, as he pats your head gently and slowly pushes away strands of your bangs to the side. Your eyes could never mistake the longing stare Xavier always does whenever he looks at you, as if worried you would disappear without a trace.

"I'll be fine. Have some faith in me, with your soup, I'll be back to work in no time." You say as you reach out for his hand and give it a tight squeeze and a reassuring smile.

Xavier couldn't help but smile, tidbits of little sparkles floating around him as you both reciprocate the emotion of relief, of being safe away from any worry and danger. "You'll always be my best partner in crime, you know? You've saved me more times than I can count".

"I'll always come to save you as you will always come and find me, no matter where I am". You couldn't help but smile but also wonder, what does Xavier mean by that, that you would always come and find him? Oh well, that's another mystery for another day.

"I think I'll rest up in while".

"Good, I'll make a new batch of soup. They should be arriving at any minute".

They?

And just like that, the universe decided to give you its own vision of rest & relaxation as a loud bang of the door accompanied by numerous voices flowed into your apartment.

"Pipsquek, I'm home! I got here as fast as I could!"

"Truly, we could have taken the elevator at different intervals. I don't think using your gravity evol to force the doors shut was wise".

"Oh doctor, relax. Surely, with your salary, we could pay a handsome fee and make another elevator to fit us".

"Or maybe we just don't visit at the same time? Her apartment's already cramped as is. Can't you find different day-offs or something?

Dear God, help me.