Nightlight.

The little wolf 🐺

AHHH.. THIS IS SOOO GOOOOOD and perfectly captured the moment

Street interviews would absolutely get MC in trouble 😂

little comforts with the lads li’s

(a self-indulgent imagining of them with a neurodivergent MC)

✨ xavier & overstimulation

(not the sex kind, sorry. but probably that too) Xavier completely understands when you get overwhelmed by existing. he gets the same feeling sometimes. you develop a code for it eventually, a combination of eye contact and eyebrow-raising that signals to the other person that you need out, whether from a Hunter’s Association party or a grocery store with way too many people. back at home, you’ve created a haven together- eye masks and soft blankets for him, headphones and fidgets for you, whatever makes you feel peaceful and calmed. the ceiling lamp is absolutely not allowed- Xavier drapes the walls with soft spheres of light or swirls a firefly-glow of sparks along the bed in a warm canopy.

🎨 rafayel & hyperfixations/jumping hobbies

you might as well consider collecting hobbies a hobby in itself. crochet needles and yarn, jigsaw puzzles, a wood burning setup, a console and video games- whatever brings you joy, Rafayel is enthusiastically behind it. he doesn’t judge you for wanting to learn a new art style out of the blue- he’ll sign up for a pottery class with you and buy you pounds of clay. he loves your passion and enthusiasm and matches it with his own. he loves being creative with you, in whatever form it happens to take that day. plus, with the amount he spends on paint and canvas, he’s not about to judge you for getting boxes of new supplies for something. he’s hyping you up every time! even if it isn’t an interest he shares, he’s happy you’re happy.

🩺 zayne & health anxiety/ocd

no matter how many times you ask for it, Zayne is happy to give you reassurance. yes, that chicken was cooked all the way. you have a weird flutter in your chest? of course he'll listen to your heart. he listens to every symptom, every worry with unfailing patience. after all, he wants to be your protector, your safest place- this is just one way to be that for you. he never makes you feel irrational for your fears, just steadily helps you face them each and every time. he doesn't judge your compulsions, but he offers his expertise whenever you ask- he lets you take your temperature ten times a day but also explains the normal range and when to actually worry.

💭 sylus & overthinking

okay hear me out, this goes both ways: he helps ground you when you’re overthinking negatively but also supports you when you’re being enthusiastic about literally anything. he’s all in- if you have a favorite tv show he’s watching every episode and reading every analysis of it so you can discuss. he’s fully invested in your office drama, your gossip, your made-up stories about the bird family that lives outside your apartment window. but he also soothes you when you spiral into worry or fear. he happily goes through what-if scenarios with you, most of them ending in him spectacularly defeating anything that could ever threaten you. he makes it clear over and over again that you’re completely safe with him, physically and emotionally.

❤️‍🩹 caleb & insecurity

his life mission to make you feel adored. he makes a point of worshipping every part of you, especially anything you consider a "flaw". nothing is too much or too little- you're perfect exactly as you are. if he overhears you complaining about your thick thighs on a call with Tara, he's going to be buried in them later that night, pressing kisses to every inch. he loves working out and training with you. if you want to get healthier he's gladly cooking fresh ingredients into nutritious meals and helping you build up a fun fitness routine- but if there's even a hint of it being because you don't like the way you look in the mirror? he's going to benchpress twice your body weight in front of you just to prove he can. or better yet, he flings you over his shoulder easily and brings you to the bedroom to "work on your confidence".

A RANT

I just realized something as i am on tumblr and on insta. .. it physically hurts me that i can't reblog LADS fic or art or comic ... any content on lads on instagram ..... 🙂🙂🙂 and here

I have become so confident and shameless at this point ..... its concerning 😆😆

Cuz at first i was afraid and scared to either reblog write or comment on any fic but then i realized

~ Wait .... they r writers and readers tooo.. and as a writer and reader i would love if anyone commented or liked or reblogged ny works.. so whats stopping me

So

Yes

Thats my rant

Thank you for coming to my rant 😉🤣😆😂😂

And be prepared for me to find posts and comment on them ... 🤪🤪

---

Xavier – Six Days of Silence

Alright, guys! Your reaction to MC’s dramatic disappearance (and the even more dramatic meltdown from the LADs—especially Xavier 👀) has been absolutely wild! I can’t thank you enough! 💖

I couldn’t just ignore your cries of despair and leave you hanging, so... I wrote a continuation with Xavier. 😏🔥

If you didn’t suffer enough in the last part, well—buckle up. 😈 But seriously, I’m beyond grateful for all the love and engagement, and now I’ve got just one question... who’s next?! 👀💀

Previous Part

The door closes behind you with a quiet click.

Silence settles.

It doesn’t matter that the apartment is empty. Xavier is still here.

Not physically. But in the way the air still feels heavy with the weight of his words. In the way your phone stays too quiet, too still, despite how many times you check it. In the way his white hoodie—the one you never returned—hangs loosely around your shoulders, fabric slightly too big, smelling faintly of something cold, something distant, something unmistakably him.

You should take it off. 

You don’t.

Not even when you curl up on the couch, pressing your face into the collar, trying to pretend that it doesn’t ache.

Trying to pretend that you don’t miss him.

But you do.

And it’s only been one night.

Day One – The Silence

The apartment is too quiet. Too hollow. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but suffocating—thick with the weight of something unspoken, something unfinished.

Xavier doesn’t message you.

Not in the morning. Not in the afternoon. Not even at night, when the absence of his voice becomes unbearable, pressing down on your chest like a phantom weight.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is what you wanted. That he deserved it.

And yet, every time you reach for your phone—every time your fingers hover over the screen, itching to type something—anything—you stop.

Because if you start, you might not be able to stop.

And if you see his name flash across the screen, if you hear his voice—cold, restrained, the way it was when he told you to ask him again in six days—you might break.

And you refuse to be the first to break.

You told yourself you wouldn't do this.

Wouldn't pace the apartment, wouldn't reach for the door only to stop before your fingers brush the handle, wouldn't let yourself hover by the window as if expecting to see him below, walking with that same unshakable stride, hands in his pockets, the night folding around him like a living shadow.

You bite the inside of your cheek and turn away. This is ridiculous.

But it doesn’t stop your mind from unraveling the last time you saw him, the words that still sit on your skin like a bruise, aching, pulsing.

Two Weeks Ago

"You did it again."

Your voice was tight, measured, but it carried that dangerous edge, the one that meant you weren’t just angry—you were done.

Xavier stood in the doorway, his coat draped loosely over his shoulders, blood darkening the sleeve where it stuck to his arm. His own.

And yet, his expression remained unchanged.

"I handled it."

Effortless. Dismissive. As if bleeding out in the doorway wasn’t a cause for concern.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. "You went into the No-Hunt Zone alone."

He exhaled slowly, unbothered, unconcerned. "Yes."

You wanted to shake him. Wanted to rip through that maddening, unflinching calm that always seemed to turn every argument into a chess match—where he never lost control, never let emotion slip past the surface.

"You promised," you said, quieter now, not because the anger had left, but because it was worse—quieter meant sharper, meant it was sinking in.

His gaze flickered. Not quite hesitation, but something close. Something annoyingly unreadable.

"I never promised," he corrected. "I said I’d be careful."

"You almost died last time," you snapped. "Or did you forget?"

A slow blink. "I don’t forget anything."

The weight of that truth settled like ice in your stomach.

"Then remember this." Your voice wavered just slightly. "You’re not immortal, Xavier."

His lips twitched, a fraction of amusement in the gesture. "Debatable."

You took a step forward. "You think longevity makes you untouchable?"

"I think," he said, tilting his head slightly, "that I’ve survived worse."

You stared at him. At the blood drying against his skin. At the way he stood so still, so effortlessly unaffected.

And that’s when you understood.

He had already made peace with his own death. And he expected you to do the same.

The thought made something break inside you.

"You want me to be a widow before I even get to be a wife?"

It came out before you could stop it, before you could think.

A flicker of something crossed his face—not shock, not emotion, but stillness. A brief, split-second pause.

And then, he shut it down.

"You’re being dramatic."

You stepped back as if struck. You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until you curled them into fists.

And then you laughed—soft, hollow, bitter. "You’re unbelievable."

"I’m realistic," he corrected.

That was when you left. You turned on your heel and walked out, before the frustration, the helplessness, the aching, consuming anger could drag you under.

And he let you go.

***

Now, you’re the one left behind.

You should have told him then. Told him how much it terrified you, the thought of coming back one day only to find his body on a slab, cold, lifeless, just another statistic in the war against Wanderers.

But you didn’t. Instead, you left. And now you’re here.

Alone.

Your phone is still on the table.

You stare at it for too long, the words forming and dissolving in your mind. You should write to him. It’s always been easier to write than to say it out loud. Because words—especially the ones that matter—come with too much weight, too much risk of cracking, of unraveling.

You start to type.

📱 You: Xav, I—

Your fingers freeze. You stare at the unfinished message for too long.

Then you delete it.

You sigh, rubbing your hands over your face, trying to chase away the exhaustion clawing at your mind.

At some point, you fall onto the couch, curling into yourself. The hoodie is still wrapped around you, the fabric worn and familiar, carrying the last traces of him.

Your eyelids feel heavy. Just for a moment, you close them.

A sharp vibration against the glass table jolts you awake. For a brief, heart-stopping second, you think it’s him.

Your fingers scramble for the phone, your pulse hammering, already too desperate for his name to appear on the screen.

Instead—

A message from a random, meaningless system notification.

You let out a slow breath. Your hands are shaking.

Because you had been waiting for him. Because some part of you still hoped.

You curl deeper into the hoodie, pressing your face into the fabric. And finally—you let yourself admit that you miss him too much.

Day Two – What Remains

The knock is barely there. So soft, so hesitant, like a ghost of sound rather than something real.

For a fleeting second—your heart leaps.

You open the door. The hallway is empty.

A cold draft brushes against your skin, slipping under the fabric of his hoodie.

But there, at your feet—a small black bag.

You kneel. Fingers brush over the label.

Painkillers. Electrolyte supplements. Emergency field rations. The essentials.

Your phone vibrates.

📱 Xavier: Take these.

You stare at the message, breathing out slowly through your nose.

A moment. A hesitation. Then—you type.

📱 You: Didn’t realize you made house calls.

📱 Xavier: I don’t. But you looked like you were about to collapse.

The words sink in too fast. Too easily.

Because of course, he noticed. Because of course, he knew. Because even now—even after everything—he’s still watching.

Your grip tightens around the phone.

📱 You: So you’re keeping tabs on me now?

📱 Xavier: No need. I already know how reckless you are.

A pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Take the damn medicine.

You press your tongue against the raw sting of broken skin, the inside of your cheek already torn from the habit, fingers hovering over the screen.

You could ignore him. Could let the pills sit untouched, just to prove a point. Instead, you close your eyes. And swallow the first dose dry.

It’s not an apology. Not even close.

But it’s something.

And that’s why it hurts more.

***

The night stretches long and restless.

You wake in intervals—too hot, too cold, too aware of the ache in your chest that no amount of painkillers can dull.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, your fingers drift over the phone again.

You hesitate. Then type—

📱 You: You said six days.

A second passes. Another.

Then—

📱 Xavier: I did.

A breath catches in your throat.

He answered.

You don’t know why that surprises you. You don’t know why you expected silence.

📱 You: Then why are you here?

The response comes too quickly.

📱 Xavier: I’m not.

It shouldn’t sting.

It does.

***

Morning comes slow and suffocatingly heavy.

You don’t want to move. Don’t want to pull yourself from the warmth of the couch, the stale comfort of yesterday still clinging to the air.

But the world doesn’t stop just because your heart is cracked along the edges.

So you get up.

Force yourself into autopilot—shower, dress, coffee that you don’t even drink.

Your phone vibrates again.

📱 Xavier: Eat something real today.

You exhale sharply, tilting your head back against the kitchen counter.

Then—you type.

📱 You: Didn’t realize you were my dietitian now.

📱 Xavier: I’m not. But someone has to be.

Your jaw tightens.

📱 You: I’m fine, Xavier.

📱 Xavier: You’re lying, but okay.

The breath punches out of you before you even realize you’ve been holding it. Because he sees through you. He always does.

And you hate him for it.

You want to be angry. Want to tell him to back off. Want to remind him that he left first.

But instead—

📱 You: Did you eat?

A pause.

📱 Xavier: Of course.

You don’t believe him. But you let it go.

***

The day drags forward, sluggish and unforgiving.

By the time night falls again, you’ve checked your phone at least twenty times. You tell yourself it’s just habit.

It’s not.

You curl back into the couch, fingers ghosting over the hem of his hoodie, feeling the fabric twist between your hands.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for. 

You don’t want to know.

Day Three – Ghosts in the Rain

The rain is relentless.

It starts while you're still at work—a slow, heavy downpour that turns the streets into rivers, neon lights smearing across the wet pavement. You watch it for a moment through the glass, jaw tightening when you realize you left your umbrella at home.

Perfect.

By the time you finally step outside, the water is already pooling at your feet, seeping into your boots, soaking through the edges of your sleeves. You shove your hands deeper into your pockets, hunching your shoulders against the cold, and walk.

It isn’t far. Just a few blocks. Just enough time for the silence to creep in again.

Your phone stays still. Xavier doesn’t message you. You don’t message him.

You’re not even sure what you would say.

The air in the apartment is thick with dampness when you finally push open the door, shaking the water from your fingers. You toe off your boots, leaving a faint trail of wet footprints across the floor.

You reach for a towel—and stop.

Because there, just by the door, is a folded dry sweatshirt.

Not yours.

A white hoodie. 

His.

And next to it, a small, neatly sealed packet. Heat packs.

Your stomach twists.

Your hands tremble as you reach for your phone, wiping away the water still clinging to the screen.

📱 You: You’ve got to stop breaking into my apartment.

A pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: I didn’t. But you always forget an umbrella when it rains.

You exhale sharply, pressing your tongue against the sting of broken skin inside your cheek.

📱 You: Right. You’re psychic now?

📱 Xavier: No. Just observant.

You hesitate, running your fingers over the fabric of the hoodie before pulling it over your head. It’s warm, slightly oversized, carrying the scent of him beneath the clean detergent—something golden, like sunlight caught in the fabric, soft and caramel-sweet at the edges, but beneath it, barely there, something sharper, something darker, like the last trace of dusk before night takes over. Unmistakably Xavier.

📱 You: You’re really committing to this whole passive-aggressive monitoring thing, huh?

📱 Xavier: Aggressive. There’s nothing passive about it.

The response is instant. Too quick. As if he’s been waiting.

Your chest tightens.

📱 You: And yet, for all your keen observation, you still don’t seem to notice when you do the exact same thing.

A longer pause this time.

📱 Xavier: Clarify.

You roll your eyes. Of course, he’s going to make you spell it out.

📱 You: No-Hunt Zone. 

📱 Xavier: That’s different.

📱 You: Oh? Because it’s you?

📱 Xavier: Because it was necessary.

You let out a bitter breath, pressing the phone against your forehead for a moment, closing your eyes.

📱 You: Right. That word again.

📱 You: I suppose me being gone was necessary too, then?

📱 Xavier: That was a choice.

📱 You: So was yours.

Another long pause.

For a second, you think that’s the end of it. That he’s not going to reply.

Then—

📱 Xavier: You’re still wet. Change before you get sick.

A sharp inhale.

📱 You: That’s all you have to say?

📱 Xavier: For now.

You stare at the screen.

For now.

It isn’t an admission. It isn’t anything close to forgiveness. But it’s not a dismissal, either.

It’s an opening. A crack in the wall.

You exhale, curl deeper into the hoodie, and let your eyes slip shut.

For the first time in days, the silence doesn’t feel quite as heavy.

Day Four – Running in Circles

You don’t sleep.

You try. You close your eyes, shift positions, breathe slow and deep, count the seconds, then minutes, then hours. But your mind refuses to settle. The silence is unbearable, pressing into your skin, sinking into your bones.

By the time the sky begins to pale, the city just beginning to stir beyond your window, you give up.

The clock reads 6:04 AM when you lace up your running shoes.

The air is sharp, crisp with the last bite of night still lingering in the wind. The streets are nearly empty, save for the occasional early commuter, their footsteps swallowed by the sound of your own—steady, rhythmic, a heartbeat against the pavement.

You push yourself hard. Harder than you should.

It’s reckless, this need to move, to exhaust your body so completely that your mind has no room left to think.

Because when you think, you remember.

You remember the way Xavier looked at you that night. How his voice never wavered, how he turned away before you could say anything at all.

"Ask me again in six days."

You push faster.

Your breath burns in your throat. The ache in your legs spreads, deep and insistent, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

You run until the edges of your vision blur.

Until the exhaustion feels like something you can hold, something real, something that drowns out the ache in your chest.

Until the smell of coffee pulls you to a stop.

You’re standing in front of the café before you even realize it.

Your fingers curl against your palms, your breath still uneven. The air inside is warm, rich with the scent of espresso, cinnamon, something familiar.

Habit. Instinct. A mistake.

But still—you go inside. Still—you stand at the counter, order without thinking. Still—you reach for the cup, staring down at the neat label printed on the side.

Cappuccino. No sugar. Just how he likes it.

Your fingers tighten around the cup. You don’t hesitate. You walk straight back to his apartment, jaw clenched, pulse hammering in your ears.

And without a second thought—you leave the cup by his door.

You don’t knock. You don’t wait. You just leave.

Your hands still tremble when you reach your own door. You exhale, rubbing at your face, trying to push down the erratic rhythm of your pulse.

Then—you see it.

A second cup. Sitting neatly on your doorstep.

Your breath catches.

Fingers shake as you reach down, pressing against the warmth of the cup, the familiar weight of it. The label stares back at you, bold and unmistakable.

Latte. Just how you like it. From the same café.

The realization slams into you like a fist to the ribs. You were thinking of him. He was thinking of you.

At the same damn time.

Something twists, raw and sharp, in your chest. Then, as if he feels it—your phone buzzes.

📱 Xavier: Pushing yourself that hard after days of poor recovery is reckless.

Your fingers clench.

📱 Xavier: I suggest reading this.

A link. An article. Something about the dangers of sudden overexertion without proper conditioning.

A laugh bubbles up, breathless, bitter.

Of course. Of course he would turn this into a lecture.

📱 You: You’re unbelievable.

📱 Xavier: Clarify.

You wipe at your face, not even realizing your skin is damp, whether from sweat or something else.

📱 You: I’m not a civilian. I’m a Hunter. A trained fighter, just like you.

📱 You: I might not have your experience, but I’m not fragile. I don’t need a babysitter.

The response takes longer this time. A long, stretching pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Noted.

The words are too even. Too carefully chosen.

You see it immediately. He’s upset. But instead of fighting back, instead of defending himself, he just—withdraws.

It infuriates you.

📱 You: That’s it?

📱 Xavier: Would you prefer I argue?

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hard enough to sting.

📱 You: Maybe.

📱 Xavier: Why?

Because at least then it would feel like something. Because at least then he wouldn’t be slipping away from you, wouldn’t be treating you like you weren’t worth the effort.

You suck in a breath, trying to calm the wild, uneven rhythm of your heart. Then you do something stupid.

Something reckless. Something you’ll regret the second you hit send.

📱 You: Funny how you only care about my recklessness when it’s convenient for you.

Silence.

One second.

Two.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Understood.

Just that. No defense. No cold, razor-sharp argument. No more words at all.

You stare at the screen. Then you hurl the phone at the wall.

The crack is instant, the screen splintering on impact. It falls to the floor, dark, dead, useless.

Something burns behind your eyes, frustration, exhaustion, anger collapsing into something too heavy, too unbearable to name.

Your hands quiver. You press them to your face, breathe through the ache blooming in your chest.

Then—

You stand. You grab your coat. You don’t stop to think.

You need a new phone.

Because what if he messages you?

Because even now—after everything—you still want him to.

Day Five – The Breaking Point

Silence should be a relief.

After four days of his constant, cold precision—the quiet should feel like a gift.

But it doesn’t.

It’s suffocating.

For the first time since he left you standing in that room, there’s nothing.

No message. No sarcastic remark. No quiet proof that, despite everything, he still gives a damn.

The absence cuts deeper than you expect.

You go to work anyway. Because you have to. Because stopping means thinking, and thinking means tearing yourself apart with what-ifs.

***

"Our agent successfully retrieved the Aethor Core." Captain Jenna’s voice carries through the room, steady, matter-of-fact.

A holographic map flickers to life above the conference table, casting shifting blue light against the faces of those seated around it. 

Your mission. Your work. Your risk.

You keep your expression neutral, spine straight, hands folded in front of you.

"Undercover infiltration into the Vasquez Syndicate was a success."

Murmurs spread across the table. You don’t move. You feel him before you see him.

Xavier.

Seated across from you, back straight, jaw locked, completely, unnervingly still.

You make the mistake of looking up. And that’s when you see it.

Not his usual sharp, quiet calculation. Not cold detachment.

No.

This is something else. This is contained rage.

It sits just beneath the surface—controlled, measured, but undeniably lethal.

Your stomach twists.

The Vasquez Syndicate. A name that sends ripples of unease through even the most hardened Hunters.

And you had gone there alone.

Undercover.

Without telling him. Without telling anyone.

You lower your gaze back to the table. Captain Jenna continues.

"Their leader was eliminated. Aethor Core secured. Minimal collateral damage."

The words should be a victory. You should feel something. Instead, your phone vibrates against your leg.

Once.

Then again.

Then again.

A steady onslaught of incoming messages.

Your fingers tighten against your thigh. You don’t have to check. You already know.

📱 Xavier: You have a death wish, then?

📱 Xavier: That’s what this is?

📱 Xavier: Of course. That makes sense. Why else would you walk into Vasquez’s den ALONE?

📱 Xavier: Did you think you were being clever?

📱 Xavier: Or was it a game? A test to see how close you could get before you were skinned alive like his last five victims?

📱 Xavier: Tell me, did you at least get a look at the furniture?

📱 Xavier: I hear human leather is in this season.

The blood drains from your face. You type quickly.

📱 You: Xav, I—

More messages slam into your screen before you can hit send.

📱 Xavier: Or wait—

📱 Xavier: Was it worth it?

📱 Xavier: Was the thrill of playing martyr that exhilarating?

📱 Xavier: You must have loved the dramatics of it. Walking through their front door, knowing exactly what would happen if they figured you out. How noble. How self-sacrificing.

📱 Xavier: I’m sure they would’ve written songs about you.

📱 Xavier: Would you like me to start composing one now?

Your stomach twists into knots.

📱 You: Xavier, stop.

📱 Xavier: Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?

📱 Xavier: Wouldn’t want that. Not after you’ve made me spend the last six days believing you were DEAD.

The breath catches in your throat.

📱 You: I wasn’t—

📱 Xavier: No? You weren’t?

📱 Xavier: Oh, forgive me. I must have been mistaken. You must have sent me a message before walking into the hands of a man who decapitates people for sport.

📱 Xavier: Oh, wait. You didn’t.

📱 Xavier: Because you didn’t tell anyone.

📱 Xavier: Because you thought you could handle it.

📱 Xavier: Because you think you’re invincible.

📱 Xavier: Because you learned absolutely nothing.

📱 Xavier: Because you’re a fucking idiot.

Your chest tightens, fingers shaking as you try to respond.

📱 You: I retrieved the Core, didn’t I?

The moment you send it, you regret it. The reply is instant.

📱 Xavier: Ah.

📱 Xavier: So that’s how little your life is worth?

📱 Xavier: A glorified rock?

📱 Xavier: Good to know.

You glance up, breath unsteady, and realize your mistake.

Because Xavier is looking at you. And his expression is unreadable.

No sarcasm now. No amusement. Just something flat and cold, buried beneath something much darker.

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

You stand.

Move toward him, as if closing the space between you will break whatever this is, will fix whatever new fracture you’ve carved into the already fragile thing between you.

But the moment you take a step closer—he moves. A single flick of his fingers. A gesture.

Dismissal.

Like you are nothing. Like you aren’t even worth the fight.

And in his eyes—that unreadable fire.

You open your mouth. Try to speak. He beats you to it.

"You think I’m mad?" His voice is low, quiet, lethal. "You think this is anger?"

A slow, sharp inhale. Then—he stands. Looks at you like you’re a stranger.

"If you ever do something that fucking stupid again—"

A pause. A razor-thin breath.

"Don’t come back."

Silence.

It lands like a blow. It shatters something you don’t even have a name for.

And then—he walks away.

And for the first time, you wonder if six days was a mercy.

Because now—

You’re not sure this will ever end.

Day Six – Between Love and War

The knock against his door is sharp, deliberate.

No answer.

Your fingers tighten, knuckles aching as you knock again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

The realization sinks in slow, cold. You know where he is.

No-Hunt Zone.

Of course. Of course.

The hypocrisy of it claws at your ribs, burns hot behind your eyes.

He spent days throwing your choices back in your face, dismantling them with surgical precision, making sure you felt every ounce of his anger. And yet—he’s doing the exact same thing.

Alone. Again.

Without backup. Without you.

The fury in your chest solidifies into something unshakable.

You don’t think. You move.

You tear off your civilian clothes, slip into the gear that feels like a second skin, strapping on your weapons with methodical ease. Your mind is calm. Your body is not.

This isn’t just anger.

This is something raw, something bitter, something that coils too tight in your chest.

Because what if this is the time he doesn’t make it back?

What if he never even planned to?

***

You move fast, weaving through the crumbling skeletons of abandoned buildings, the faint blue pulse of your Hunter’s bracelet flickering at your wrist.

The fluctuations come sharp and erratic.

A Wanderer is near.

And so is Xavier.

The realization barely has time to settle before a hand clamps over your mouth, an arm hooking around your waist, dragging you back into the shadows of a half-collapsed structure.

You react instantly, twisting in his grip, but his hold is unbreakable. His breath is warm against your ear. Too steady. Too controlled.

"Tell me—" His voice is low, measured, lethal in its restraint. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

You rip his hand away, shove him back, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

"Shouldn’t I be asking you the same damn thing?"

His expression flickers—something sharp, something dangerously close to breaking—before it smooths out again.

"You shouldn’t be here."

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. "And you should?"

His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t argue.

The air crackles.

A pulse of energy shudders through the ruined cityscape, sending vibrations through your bracelet.

You both freeze.

The Wanderer is close. Too close.

And you were too distracted to notice.

A deafening shriek splits the air.

You barely have time to react before something massive crashes into view, sending debris flying, the force of it shaking the ground beneath you.

It’s huge.

Bigger than any you’ve ever seen. Darker. Hungrier.

And something is wrong.

Your Evol pulses—but weakly, like something is suppressing it.

You glance at Xavier, see the same realization in his eyes.

The Wanderer lunges.

You move at the same time.

Dodge. Shoot. Pivot. Strike.

Your movements are precise. Automatic. Perfectly in sync.

But something is missing.

Resonance.

You grit your teeth, adjusting your aim, but the energy won’t connect.

Because you’re too angry. Too furious with him to let yourself fall into sync.

And so is he.

Your focus wavers—just for a second, just long enough to throw your balance.

You stumble.

A mistake. A fraction of hesitation.

The Wanderer seizes it.

It moves faster than you expect, faster than anything that massive should be able to.

A pulse of energy collides against your chest, sending you sprawling.

A second strike is coming—you see it, but you’re too slow, your body still recovering from the impact—

And then Xavier is there. Between you and death.

His sword clashes against the incoming blow, deflecting it just enough to send the Wanderer skidding back.

His breathing is uneven. Not from exertion, but from something else.

Something like rage.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is taut, dangerous.

You shake your head, pushing yourself back up.

"I’m fine."

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from you. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like he’s assessing whether he just almost lost you.

You don’t have time for this.

"You really think you would’ve made it out of this alive?" You fire, voice shaking with frustration. "Look at it. Look at the size of that thing. And you came here alone."

Xavier exhales slowly through his nose. Controlled. Restrained.

"You came after me," he says, voice like a blade, slicing through the tension.

You shake your head, jaw tight.

"Of course I did. That’s what you do when you—"

The words catch.

His eyes are on you. Steady. Unwavering.

The air between you is thick, charged, buzzing with everything unspoken, everything you haven’t let yourself say.

Your fingers tremble around the grip of your gun.

"I—"

The Wanderer screeches.

The ground shudders.

You don’t think. You react.

Your hand snaps forward, closing over Xavier’s.

The second you touch him—

Resonance explodes.

A flash of light. A rush of energy so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

The Wanderer staggers. Its movements falter.

You see the opening. So does he.

Two strikes. One shot. One kill.

The Wanderer dissolves. The air stills. The only thing left is a single Protocore, pulsing softly in the dust.

You’re both breathing hard, hands still locked together, neither of you moving.

And then—

His fingers tighten.

The world tilts, just slightly.

Xavier doesn’t look at the Protocore. He looks at you.

And when he steps forward, you step back, heat creeping up your neck.

But he doesn’t let you run. He cups your face, tilting it up until you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

"Say it."

Your pulse pounds.

"Xav—"

"Say it." His voice is low, demanding.

You swallow hard. You already said it once.

But now—he’s listening.

Now, there’s nothing between you but everything you’ve been holding back.

Your throat tightens. And then—you break.

"I love you," you whisper.

His breath stutters, caught between control and something raw. His hands slide lower, fingers gripping your waist, pulling you in.

And then—he’s kissing you.

Hard. Desperate. Unforgiving.

Your weapons hit the ground. His sword, your guns—forgotten.

The only thing left is this. The only thing left is him.

His breath is ragged against your lips, his hands urgent, searching.

"What good are my eyes if they can't see you?" he murmurs against your mouth.

"What use are my hands if they can't touch you?"

"Why do I need lips if not to kiss you?"

His forehead presses against yours. His voice is steady. Unshaking.

"And if you don’t let me love you the way I do—what’s the point of living at all?"

You exhale, shuddering. A quiet, breathless sound escapes you—half a sob, half a laugh, because of course he would say something like this, because of course it would be him. Your hands tighten against his shirt, gripping hard enough to ground yourself, to keep yourself from falling apart. 

And finally—you let yourself hold him back.

***

The Morning After – Promises in the Sunlight

The world is quiet.

Not the heavy, suffocating kind of silence that has weighed on you for days, but something else. Something warm.

Your body feels boneless, satiated, exhausted in the best possible way. The bruises on your skin tell a story—some earned in battle, others left by a different kind of war, one fought in the dark, in whispers, in hands that refused to let go.

And then—you feel it. Eyes on you.

You blink against the soft golden light spilling through the curtains, twisting slightly to find him.

Xavier is propped up on his elbow beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head. His gaze is unreadable, too intense in the quiet morning light.

But he isn’t watching you. Not exactly.

His fingers trail absently over your skin, following the paths where the sunlight dances along your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your wrist. Mapping you.

The way his fingers move—it’s almost reverent. Like he’s committing this moment to memory, like he’s terrified it might slip through his grasp if he blinks.

You reach for his hand. But he beats you to it.

His fingers curl around yours, guiding your hand to his lips, pressing the softest, most devastatingly tender kiss to your fingertips.

It nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You swallow hard, your voice coming out quieter than intended.

"Xav…"

His grip tightens, just slightly.

"When we met," he murmurs, voice low, steady, unshaking, "you promised me something."

Your brow furrows. You don’t move.

"You said I would be your partner," he continues, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. "In everything. In battle. In your reckless plans. In life."

His eyes lift to yours, and the weight of his words settles deep into your chest.

You can’t look away. Not now. Not from this.

Your throat tightens. "Xavier—"

"Don’t apologize," he says smoothly, shaking his head before you can even start.

But you need to. Because you hurt him. Because you left.

Because even though you both made mistakes, you forced his hand.

He sees it in your eyes before you can say anything, and his fingers tighten just slightly around yours.

"This isn’t about apologies," he murmurs.

His other hand comes up, brushing along the curve of your cheek, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"This is about what happens next."

You blink.

"I won’t force you to promise me anything," he continues, watching your reaction closely. "Not unless you mean it."

The warmth of his touch lingers against your skin, steady, grounding, heartbreakingly gentle.

"But I need you to understand something."

You hold your breath.

"I won’t make you worry again." His voice is softer now, more certain. More dangerous in its quiet conviction. "I won’t make you question whether I’ll come back. Because now I know how it feels."

Your eyes sting.

"Does that mean…" You hesitate, voice barely above a whisper. "No more No-Hunt Zone?"

The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Not exactly."

You open your mouth to argue, but he stops you with a single look. Before you can push him away, before you can get worked up, he leans in—pressing his forehead to yours.

His breath is warm against your lips.

"If I go," he murmurs, slow, careful, a promise wrapped in steel, "I take my partner with me."

Your chest tightens.

He’s serious.

This is his way of saying it.

His way of meeting you halfway.

His way of telling you that he’s not going anywhere without you.

You exhale slowly, pressing your forehead harder against his, letting the moment settle between you.

"...Okay."

The word is soft. Tentative.

But you mean it.

His fingers thread through yours, squeezing gently. The smallest, barest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Good."

He kisses you once, slow and deep, searing the moment into your skin.

And for the first time in six days—you let yourself believe it.

inspired by mine own Greatest Breakdown of the Century that took place last Wednesday

Writing sometimes feels like a strange disorder you just kind of cope with by being creative. Like your brain randomly decides to dump a million-piece puzzle in front of you and says, 'Solve this or we will never think of anything else, ever.' You toil away for years and by some miracle you solve it, and it's the most fulfilling, exhilarating feeling in the world. It's perfect. You did it. And your brain is like, 'OK, here's my idea for three sequels and a spinoff.'

Save me Lumiere~

AT LAST SOMEONE WROTE A SICKFIC ..OMG THANK YOUUUU

𝑺𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒆. - 𝑋𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑑𝑎𝑦.

✧───── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ─────✧

𝖠 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖷𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆!

─˙✶ 𝖯𝖠𝖨𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲: 𝘟𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘔𝘤 (you)

─˙✶ 𝖦𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾: 𝘍𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧

─˙✶ 𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 594

─˙✶ 𝖠/𝖭: 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴! 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵.

The door clicks shut behind you as you step inside, groceries in hand, only to freeze at the sight of Xavier curled up on the couch. His normally pristine posture is replaced with a slight slump, shoulders tense under the weight of a thick blanket. His hair’s a bit messier than usual, and there’s a flushed look to his face — one that screams he’s barely holding it together.

You’re already walking toward him before he even looks up.

“Don’t,” he mutters, voice rougher than usual. “I’m fine.”

You raise an eyebrow at the disheveled state of him. He looks far from fine.

“Uh-huh,” you say, clearly unimpressed. “Sure, you’re fine.” You set the groceries down with a soft thud, walking closer to the couch. He doesn’t meet your eyes, though his jaw tightens at the movement, like he’s debating whether to stay silent or argue.

“Really,” he insists, trying to sit up straighter. “I don’t need—”

You place a hand on his shoulder before he can push himself up, your touch surprisingly warm against his skin. He stills instantly, and you feel his muscles relax under your fingers.

“Xavier,” you say, soft but firm, “you’re burning up.”

“Didn’t ask for a diagnosis,” he says, voice hoarse but laced with that typical Xavier dryness. But you know the edge of it isn’t just irritation — there’s a hint of something else, something he doesn’t want to admit: vulnerability. He hates it.

“Too bad,” you reply, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. You grab a damp cloth from the table and press it gently to his forehead. His eyes close in a long blink, and for a moment, he lets you.

“I’m fine,” he repeats in a murmur, but there’s no conviction in it this time. His words sound more like a plea than a statement.

You watch him for a moment, the way his brow furrows and the way his hand instinctively twitches toward the hem of the blanket. His breath is shallow, his body betraying him even as his mind tries to hold onto that veneer of strength.

“Yeah, sure you are,” you say softly, your thumb brushing his temple. He doesn’t pull away, but instead, he exhales deeply, letting the tension in his shoulders melt. It’s almost imperceptible, but you catch it.

“I hate being like this,” he mutters, barely audible.

You don’t say anything at first, letting the quiet stretch between you both. He’s always been the one to keep everything close to his chest — the walls built high, the walls that never seemed to crack. But right now, in the dim light of your apartment, his walls are lowered just a little.

“It’s okay,” you say after a beat. “You don’t have to be perfect all the time.”

Xavier finally opens his eyes, meeting yours with a steady gaze, though there’s still a flicker of something soft beneath the cool exterior. He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. You can see it in the way his body slowly sinks into the couch again, the way his hand relaxes against your wrist.

He’s never liked being cared for — not like this, not when he can’t hide behind his usual self-assurance. But tonight, he lets you care for him, lets you be there in the ways he doesn’t know how to ask for.

“Stay with me,” he says quietly, a simple request that makes your heart tighten.

And you do. You stay with him. You don’t argue. You don’t press.

You just let him rest.

Side note: ☆(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*

Thinking about how soft Xavier is with MC...

MC: That movie was so good, and the hotpot was yummy. All in all I feel like it was a good day off!

Xavier: ✨️ Yes... it was a good date.

Xavier: *gently intertwines their fingers together and matches his pace with MC*

MC: ☺️ yes, a good date.

Xavier: *pulls MC close*

Xavier: But I still... want to show you something... is that alright?

MC: Sure, what is it? 😇

Xavier: Come with me.

Xavier: *leads MC to a small hilltop that over looks a cute park*

Xavier: Soon the fireflies will come, and this place will be filled with nature's light... but for tonight. Let's create our own.

*lights dance like stars in the trees below and in the sky above real stars twinkle, making it look like they are in space*

Xavier: I want... I want to give you this light tonight, will you accept?

MC: *stares at him and smiles*

MC: Of course, this light can be ours.

MC: *cups his cheek*

FADE TO BLACK 😈