LaDS Men When You Flinch During An Argument

At the Time of my Death

I've never fully understood why I feel so strongly in the manner of my death until very early this morning on a call with one of my good friends. I began to tell her how I wish to die, alone in the forest listening to the sound of wind blowing through the trees. Whatever age my death materializes makes no difference to me, as long as I have stayed true to myself, I will accept my end.

As I went on, I began to feel myself get excited at the idea of my body returning to the earth in a way in which the government would be most disappointed. I plan on disappearing, and every time I say it out loud, I'm met with uncomfortable stares and sometimes depending on who I say it to, I gain a lecture about how unfair that would be to my loved ones. Sure, whatever.

Why must people control every aspect of our lives in the name of loving us? I love you so you must... Even my own death wouldn't be mine if I allowed others to have a say in it. So much for final moments! The idea of dying in an institution meant for profit, then being placed in a plastic white bag to be brought down to a metal table, pumped full of chemicals, sounds exhausting.

Not to mention the viewing of my body in the morgue. Following with the wake, where everyone will show up in all black as if no other color exists, and cry as if losing me greatly affects how they wake up and make their coffee in the morning, ridiculous! Then there will be my subsequent burial or cremation, both are shit. Then a tombstone.

My tombstone would read something like Beloved Daughter and Mother. Is that all I amount to in this life, my titles? What about who I was? No, I'll gladly disappear into the woods and take my last moments away from prying eyes, medical supplies, and metal tables. Let my body break down into particles to enmesh with the earth the way it was intended to. Give me one final moment with the earth at the time of my death.

Source: At the Time of my Death

At first, I just wanted to make a silly eepy kitty Xavi drink milk, and before I knew it, I had already made all of this

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

You drag yourself through the door, muscles aching from the day’s mission. Tracking Wanderers had drained every ounce of your energy.

“Welcome back,” Xavier says, his voice even as he glances up from his seat. His eyes linger on your exhausted posture.

“I just need...” you start, but don’t finish the sentence.

Xavier nods once. “I understand.”

Without another word, he rises and disappears into your bedroom. Curious, you follow after a moment to find him arranging pillows against the headboard and smoothing fresh sheets over the mattress. He’s placed a glass of water on the nightstand.

“You had a difficult mission today,” he states rather than asks. “Rest will help.”

You feel a wave of gratitude as he steps back from the freshly made bed. It’s exactly what you need—no questions, no demands for conversation.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

The corners of Xavier’s lips lift slightly. “I’ll be in the next room if you need anything.”

As he turns to leave, his hand briefly touches yours—a fleeting warmth that speaks volumes more than words could. The door closes quietly behind him.

You sink into the bed, appreciating how he knew exactly what you needed without you having to explain. Outside, you hear the soft sounds of him moving around, close enough to be reassuring but giving you the space to decompress.

Just before you drift off, your phone beeps once—a message from Xavier: 

Sleep well. I’ll be here when U wake up.

Simple, direct, but somehow exactly the comfort you needed.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

You return to the Hunter’s Association HQ to report your mission. As you close the door, you finally muffle the chaos you’ve left behind. You text Zayne that you need space tonight—just a simple message before pocketing your phone.

When you arrive home hours later, you find the lights dimmed and a note on the counter: “Food in the fridge. Vitamins beside your plate. Take care of yourself.”

You open the refrigerator to find your favorite takeout neatly packaged beside a similar container labeled “Zayne” in his handwriting. A small smile forms despite your exhaustion.

After heating your meal, you sit at the kitchen island, grateful for the silence. The room door opens, and Zayne emerges, apparently just finished with his shower. His eyes meet yours briefly as he nods in acknowledgment.

“Rough day?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t press further, instead moving to heat his own meal. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it’s understanding.

Zayne places two capsules beside your plate. “B-complex and magnesium. You’re probably depleted from today.”

You take them without comment.

He sits across from you, both of you eating in a comfortable quiet. When your phone lights up with notifications, he reaches over and turns it face-down without asking.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Hmm,” he hums.

After dinner, he collects both plates. “I’ll be in the office if you need me. No obligation to talk.”

Later, you pass by the home office to find him reading, glasses perched on his nose. He doesn’t look up, giving you the space you requested, but the door remains purposefully open—an invitation without pressure.

When you finally decide to sleep, you find a cup of herbal tea on your nightstand, still warm.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

You close your apartment door, leaning against it with a sigh of relief. The text to Rafayel had been simple:

Need some alone time today. Nothing personal.

You switch your phone to silent and place it screen-down on the coffee table, determined to enjoy the quiet. Twenty minutes into your peace, the phone screen lights up repeatedly. Despite your resolve, curiosity wins, and you peek.

Flood of messages from Rafayel:

just found the most beautiful pearl today! [photo attached] not as beautiful as you though  do you think it belonged to a giant clam the ocean was perfect btw not rushing you but when you feel better we should go pearl hunting miss your face already cutie no pressure just know i’m thinking of you [photo of a ridiculous sand sculpture that looks vaguely like you] made special sand art for my miss bodyguard hope you’re feeling better take all the time you need but don’t forget come back to me  i love you cutieee

You can’t help but smile at his stream of consciousness updates. He’s respecting your space physically while still sharing his day with you.

Hours later, your doorbell rings once. When you check, there’s no one there—just a small package wrapped in colorful paper. Inside is a beautiful pearl, cleaned and polished, with a note:

For your collection of memories. Take all the time you need, and keep this little piece of the ocean with you. - Rafayel

The gesture is so like him—giving you space while still finding a way to connect. You place the pearl on your windowsill where the setting sun catches its iridescent surface, creating tiny rainbows across the wall.

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

You text Sylus that you need some alone time because you know how much he values communication between you two.

Take the time you need. Just keep me updated.

You sink into your couch with a sigh of relief, grateful for the quiet. A few hours later, your doorbell rings. The building attendant calls up: “Delivery for you that needs a signature.”

Inside the sleek black box is a soft blanket, a small air purifier, and some fancy tea with a handwritten note: ‘For your comfort. This should help you breathe easier. Let me know if it helps.’

You smile at the gesture and send him a quick message:

Got the package. Thank you.

His response appears almost instantly:

Good. how are you feeling?

You appreciate that he checks in without demanding your time or attention.

Better. Just needed some quiet.

Understood. dinner will arrive at 7.

True to his word, your favorite meal shows up, from a restaurant you mentioned once weeks ago. The note this time simply says, ‘Eat well.’

Before bed, you message him again:

Thanks for understanding today.

He replies quickly:

Your well-being matters to me. Now rest well. I’ll see you when you’re ready.

The message captures exactly what you appreciate about him—he doesn’t mind giving you space as long as the lines of communication stay open. It’s his way of showing he cares while still respecting your boundaries.

In the morning, when you finally feel recharged, you find another small gift outside your door—a sleek new communicator with a note: ‘This one has better reception. So we never lose touch, even when apart.’

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The door to your shared apartment closes behind you with a soft click. You’d texted Caleb earlier:

Not feeling too well. Need space tonight.

His reply had been immediate:

take all you need. I’m here.

True to his word, he’s nowhere to be seen when you enter, though evidence of his presence remains—your favorite comfort foods in the fridge, a freshly made bed, and your laundry neatly folded.

You curl up on the couch, wrapped in silence. Hours pass as you decompress, your mind slowly unwinding.

At 7 PM, a gentle knock at your door. “Hey,” Caleb’s voice, soft through the wood. “Dinner’s outside if you’re hungry. No need to talk.”

When you open the door, he’s already retreated to the other room. A covered tray sits on the floor—your favorite meal still steaming.

Later, as you’re about to tackle the dishes, you discover they’ve already been done. The kitchen is spotless.

Around midnight, you hear the front door open—Caleb returning from a late Fleet meeting. His footsteps pause outside your door before continuing to his guest room. He’s giving you the space in the bedroom reserved for you without being asked.

In the morning, you wake to find your uniform pressed and ready, your boots polished, and a travel mug of your preferred morning drink waiting. A note leans against it:

Hope you slept well. I had to head in early. Take your time today. I already called your Captain to clear your morning schedule. - Caleb

Through the window, you catch sight of him in the distance, his Colonel’s uniform crisp as he strides toward Fleet Headquarters. He glances back once, spots you in the window, and gives a simple nod before continuing on his way.

Based on this request.

I legit had to open the game and check the chats just to see how they typed, lol, so I tried to match the format as closely as possible.

SLEEPLESS NIGHTS AND KISSES

warning(s) mention of insomnia, comfort, established relationship, pet names, food/eating, physical touch and affection

synopsis xavier gets a call from you in the middle of the night. you have a last minute sleepover to help soothe nerves and connect more with your silver-haired lover! . ⟡ authors note a request from @sadfragilegirl hope you enjoy and sorry for the long wait! ⟡

the relationship between you and xavier was a new thing; a bit awkward and fidgety in the beginning, but blossoming and soft. you were used to his distinct smell of lavender and fresh laundry drifting through your apartment, the twinkle of his blue eyes, and his soft laugh that spread sparks of warmth through your body.

tonight, you were missing his presence. your apartment felt foreign and the silence all too loud. you bit your lip in the darkness of your room, finger hovering over the call button of his contact. you both had just finished a hard mission earlier today and decided to part ways for the night to rest and recuperate.

but the spot beside you in the bed felt too cold, empty of his long limbs and soothing voice lulling you to sleep. now, that sleep refused to come, and you tossed and turned until you finally bit the bullet and pressed call.

“what’s wrong?” his voice, still thick with sleep, immediately answered the phone. you could distinctly hear the rustle of linen bedsheets shift as he sat up, patiently waiting for your response.

you chewed your lip before answering, embarrassed beyond belief and nervous that you completely interrupted his rest. “I…well, I can’t sleep. was wondering if you could come over tonight—?”

you waited with bated breath, heart beating in your chest as there was a pause. then, “I’m heading over now. want me to bring some snacks?” you didn’t even have to respond— you heard the rustle of your favorite chips he kept stocked in his kitchen, making you giggle softly.

“see you soon, xavi.”

“I’ll be over soon.”

you occupied yourself with tidying up a bit before his arrival, setting comfy blankets and pillows onto the couch. you both loved soft mood lighting, no glaring overhead lighting to be seen, so you even lit a few candles around the surfaces of your apartment.

soon, you heard the distinct rap of your boyfriend at the door. you couldn't help a little thrill buzz through you in anticipation, quickly padding to the door and opening it with a flourish.

there stood your loverboy in fluffy checkered pajama pants and a plain white shirt, still rubbing sleep from his hazy blue eyes. his arms were wrapped around a bag of chips and a blanket.

you grinned up at him and a loopy smile greeted you back, as you then pulled him into the apartment with a click of the door. “y'know I gave you a key so you could come in yourself,” you teased lightly, watching as xavier dumped the assortment of objects onto the dining room table before turning back to you.

“I know. but still…” he murmured back, still wiping at his eyes before wrapping his arms around you for a hug. you greatly accepted it, immediately feeling better with his arms around you.

“I didn’t disturb you— did I?” you whispered after a beat, still a bit nervous at disturbing your cat-like boyfriend from his slumber.

in response, you felt the chuckle rumble through his chest before you heard it. his arms pulled you impossibly closer and lithe fingers soothed down your waist.

“silly, of course not. I missed you too, it was hard to sleep in my bed.” he confessed easily, patting your head affectionately when you pulled away to glance up at him. love is what you found in his eyes, steady and pure and adoring.

“so what should we do first?” he mused, yawning into your ear and practically leaning his full body weight onto you. you fought a dopey smile from breaking across your face, enamored by his relaxed aura he openly showed to you.

“skincare!” you clapped your hands together, startling him a bit as you pulled him to the bathroom. you pushed a pink my melody headband onto his head, securing his silver locks back. you fitted a kuromi one onto your head as he stared into the mirror.

“why do I get the pink one?” he questioned after a beat.

“because you’re adorable and cute, just like my melody.” you answered smoothly, grinning through the mirror as xavier’s cheeks immediately blushed a light pink. he rubbed the back of his neck as you laughed, setting the various bottles and ointment on the sink. he followed your instructions slowly, until you both walked out with matching hello kitty face masks.

“xavi, look over here!” you hummed excitedly. when he glanced over, you quickly whipped out your phone and took a picture with lightning quick reflexes.

he let out a startled gasp, playfully reaching for your phone as you laughed and twisted away from him. “hey!”

“now all our coworkers will know how cute you are at home. not the stuck-up they think, huh?” you purred, smiling as xavier groaned and slumped onto you again. you stumbled for a second under his weight, laughing once you realized this was another one of his tactics to get you to hand over the condemning evidence.

“I’m just joking. I have to keep your cute side all to myself,” you pouted, setting the picture as his contact photo instead. “this’ll do.”

xavier perked back up at that, but not before pinching your cheek as a warning. “‘m a little hungry. let’s make some cookies?” the silver-haired boy piped up, pulling you into the kitchen as you nodded eagerly. there was no way you were going to turn down his chocolate chip cookies— you had quickly realized that he was an astounding cook, able to make most anything from scratch, and his cookies were the best.

you hummed out a soft alexa, play favorite comfort song as you both maneuvered around each other. naturally, you found yourself sitting on the countertop watching as his distinct silver-hair moved back and forth. light conversation easily flowed between you both, and all you could feel was peace.

soon xavier came over to you, slotting between your legs and holding a finished cookie to your lips in a silent request. you obediently bit down, chocolate warmth and a nutty goodness spreading throughout your tastebuds. xavier’s eyes twinkled at your satisfactory hum of approval, popping the rest of the cookie into his mouth.

after removing the face masks and setting the cookies on a plate to cool, you both ended up wrapped in a shared blanket on the couch. a movie cut down on low played quietly in the background as you snuggled up closer to xavier’s distinct warmth.

“thank you for coming over,” you whispered up at him. he hummed back softly, setting his chin on your head as he gazed down at you.

twinkling eyes met you back. “of course. anytime you need me, I’ll be here. now let’s get some sleep.”

and sleep came easy again.

© SWEETEAAS 2024 do not repost/edit/copy my works. જ⁀➴ reblogs are appreciated!

S/O With Depression- The Love And DeepSpace Men

parings in order: Xavier x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Sylus x Reader, Caleb x Reader requested by: anonnie ⋆˚꩜｡ genre: comfort a/n: hihi lovelies! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ i would like to mention that everyone has different types of depression and goes through different things! i wrote the ones i’m familar with and what the anonnie requested! what might be common for me or from the anonnie that requested can be completely different to someone else! if you want to see more then i’ll write a part 2! hopefully this brings some comfort to those that need it enjoy reading! <3 any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

Will do his best to be a light and source of comfort for you

Xavier would stay close when getting out of bed feels impossible. But if you needed space, he’d respect that, keeping you company from a small distance in bed to remind you that you’re not completely alone. He wouldn’t let you stay curled up in bed for too long. He’d gently carry you to the kitchen to make sure you’re fed.

On days when your words don’t come easily and your thoughts feel jumbled, he never interrupts or rushes you. He stays quiet, a hand on top of yours, nodding along while letting you speak at your own pace even if your sentences come out jumbled. Occasionally, he might ask a question to understand the context. When you do finish what you’ve needed to say, he’ll work through it together with you

If you were taking any medications, he’ll go through the entire packet and read through any information about it online. He’ll remember all the side effects that come with it and checks up on you whenever you take them

When every little sound starts to feel like it was too much, he draws the curtains and does everything he can to make it more peaceful. He moves carefully, no sudden sounds will be made in this household. Even the way he eats or shifts in his seat would become more gentler. If you were comfortable with it, Xavier would gather you into his arms, holding you close against his chest. His hand rest gently over your ear, blocking out whatever noise is left.

Xavier would offer to listen and be the place where you can let it out. But if it’s an unexplainable feeling that you just can’t put into words then he’ll find a different way to cheer you up. He’ll settle beside you, pulling up your favorite comfort shows and have your snacks ready

Zayne:

Whenever getting out of bed feels like too much, he’ll leave a warm cup of tea and a few slices of fruit or your favorite snacks by the bedside table. He never rushes you so he waits. Sometimes he’ll sit nearby so you don’t feel alone. Other times, he gives you the space you want, trusting that you’ll reach out when you’re ready. But when it starts to feel like too much and the silence grows too heavy, he will step in. Never forcefully. He’ll encourage you to start off slow, a hand on yours. Maybe something as simple as sitting up or maybe just brushing your teeth.

Anytime you went through a depressive episode, Zayne has no problem doing the extra housework or helping you with your physical health. He’ll help you shower, brush through your hair gently, and help brush your teeth. He’ll praise you for each small step you take

The type to send you reminders to take your meds at the right time and that you should eat something before you take them so you don’t get nauseous.

Zayne would understand and has never taken it personally when you don’t want to be touched. He doesn’t try to hug or reach for your hand. Instead, he makes space for you until you you’re comfortable once again

He can tell when you get sad randomly. Zayne would never force you to explain but he will always remind you if you want to talk, he’s there. Sometimes when it’s just a quiet ache sitting in you for no reason, he’ll also understand that. He’ll suggest a walk out for fresh air or just for a different scenery if you’ve been inside for too long.

When the smallest sounds can feel too much, he’ll make sure to move extra quietly. He’ll offer noise cancelling headphones to drown out any sounds. Any open windows will be closed and he’ll draw the curtains to keep the noise out. He’ll make sure to close any of the doors inside softly, silence his phone and pager and he’ll make sure to give you the space you need.

Sometimes the words just don’t come out right but Zayne would never rush you. He would always be patient, even when your voice shakes or when you pause for too long. And when you do finally get them out, no matter how jumbled or messy it sounds, he listens. Every single word and every detail. Once you said all you needed to say, that’s when he speaks and helps

Reminds you that he is always there for you. Even if he was busy at work and you know he can’t reach you right now, you can still message him. He reminds you to never hesitate to reach out, spam him, leave him voice messages. He’ll read through every word and detail and he’ll find time to immediately reach out to you

Rafayel:

You would never feel alone if Rafayel was by your side. Even if he was away from an art exhibition, he would text you throughout the day. If you need him by your side, then he’s finding an excuse to get out of work and find his way to you.

When you’re having a hard time getting out of bed, Rafayel would be by your side under the covers so you don’t feel alone. However if you continue to have a hard time, he doesn’t hesitate to step in. He’ll scoop you up in his arms, carrying you to the bathroom. He’ll start with something simple, like a warm bath since it can maybe cheer you up.

When every noise seems to bother you, he’ll make sure to move around quietly in the studio. He’ll close up the windows and doors so his seagull friends won’t bother you. He’ll even breathe more quietly so he doesn’t bother you. Rafayel would still stay nearby but gives you your space to make sure you’re not alone. He’ll wait until you’re ready to talk with him

Rafayel would never take it personally when you did not want to be touched but he definitely does get a little pouty about it behind your back. He just misses holding onto you but he understands and gives you the space you need.

Feeling sad randomly? Rafayel would never push you to explain what’s wrong but he encourages you that it’s good to let it out and that he’s always there for you. However, if it was unexplainable, he doesn’t make you feel weird about it. He’ll find ways to cheer you up as best as he can. He’ll pull up videos on his phone and you silly videos he found that might make you smile. He’ll even suggest a quiet walk by the beach just for a change of scenery and for some fresh air

Sometimes the right words just won’t come. They get lost somewhere between your thoughts but Rafayel has never once looked at you confused or has never been impatient. He watches you carefully, trying to understand your expression. Sometimes he finishes the sentences for you, not to interrupt but because he’s piecing it together with you. And if you grow frustrated, he offers to sketch it out with you.

Sylus:

On days when getting out of bed feels impossible, he stays beside you but he doesn’t let you stay there for too long. He understands the weight of it all but he will step in. First he’ll start with encouragement, asking you to sit up just for a bit. But if your limbs feel too heavy and your body refuses to move, he never gets frustrated. He’ll carry you in his arms. He’ll run you a warm bath and help bathe you. Later he’ll encourage you to do some small activities with him to get you a little motivated

He would never take it personally if you were not in the mood to be touched. There’s no wounded ego or disappointment. He gives you the space that you need until you are ready to curl up next to him again. He’ll make sure you were absolutely comfortable with it before he reaches back

Sylus would always give you the choice to talk or cry or let it out to him in whatever way you need. But if it’s those days where it’s just unexplainable, he doesn’t press on. Instead, he’ll offer distractions. He’ll pull out a new vinyl that he’s been saving for or maybe stepping out to a new scenery to get rid of whatever ache you have in your chest

When the world feels too loud and your thoughts won’t slow down, no matter how hard you try to explain to Sylus through hiccupped sobs, he doesn’t ask you to make sense of it. Instead, he pulls you into his arms. He doesn’t say much at first, his hand moves slowly up and down your back. He doesn’t need you to have the right words. He’ll listen, hiccupped sobs or not, to every detail you have to say. When your sobs begin to slow, when you start to breathe a little easier, he’s still there, helping you sort through the weight you've been carrying. It doesn’t matter if the problem is big or small. He’ll work them out with you together.

Luckily your shared bedroom is at the top floor to avoid any noises from the city. However if any noise continues to bother you, Sylus wouldn’t ask what’s wrong, he’ll just move around quietly as best as he can. He’ll stop playing any music on his record player unless you don’t want him too. He’ll make sure Luke and Kieran are not in the same building and he’ll make sure to mute Mephisto

Caleb:

Having a hard time getting out of bed? Caleb would give you the space you need, leaving you your favorite snacks and water by the bedside table with a cute little note and a doodle for you. He’ll check in on you often to see if you’ve eaten or just by ‘passing’ by the room. However if it does stretch on, he’ll kneel beside the bed and offer his hand, suggesting a few easy stretches. He’ll encourage just a small stretch for your arms and then legs next and then a small little walk to the kitchen where he has a little meal waiting in the kitchen just for you

As much as Caleb loves to hold you and have you in his arms, he would never be offended if you did not want to be touched. He would never hover and never pressure you. He gives you all the space and time you need when you’re comfortable again

Feeling sad out of nowhere? He would be SO worried, it would be written all over his face. His first instinct is to check in, offering to let you vent out if you need to. He’s always been a good listener. If it just feels unexplainable and you can’t quite name the reason, then he’ll find ways to cheer you up. Caleb would curl up with you and pull up your favorite comfort shows or movies. Or he’ll bring you your favorite snack or make your favorite dish that you love. And of course, he offers his signature big bear hug.

If any sounds were bothering you, he’d make sure to not make a single sound in the house. No loud footsteps in the halls, no clinking dishes, you name it. He’d even go as far as making sure no plane flies in the direction over your home to make sure you get the peace you need.

Sometimes you can’t get the right words to come out and Caleb would be patient with you the entire time. He lets you speak and lets you take all the time you need to get it out. His hand rests on yours, his thumb traces slow, soothing circles over your knuckles as he reads your expressions carefully. If any tears come out from frustration, he cups your face with so much care and wipes away any stray tears.

ʚɞ cr. for the divider @/ cafekitsune

ʚɞ 𝘕𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯:

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ʚɞ Others:

Wattpad ( still updating it rn )

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L&DS BOYS - LOVE LANGUAGES

content warnings: fem!reader, fluff, sfw headcanons

XAVIER - PHYSICAL TOUCH

Xavier knows he is smart, and witty enough. But when things get a little too real, he finds it hard to express himself.

And the feelings he has for you are the most genuine ones he has felt in his long, long life.

While he might not be someone who can wax poetic about his affection for you, he shows it in other ways, and physical touch in his favorite way to get his feelings across.

When you walk next to each other, he sticks close, arm brushing against yours. Occasionally, the back of his hand makes contact with your own. It's almost as if the tension builds and builds, until he finally connects your fingers, either intertwining your hands together or linking his pinkie with yours. No words leave his mouth. His touch says enough.

If the train is too crowded, he will pull you closer to him with a firm touch on the small of your back, making sure you don’t receive any unwanted bumps from strangers.

For a few weeks in your relationship, he developed a strange habit of pinching your cheeks and lightly pulling on them. You let him do it, knowing he would eventually move on and find some other part of you to focus on. Though the action did make your face heat up.

Another weird hyperfixation he has is nibbling at your fingertips absentmindedly. He plays with them often, but when he is distracted by a movie you two are watching, he will bite at them every so often. Sometimes, he is so focused on the screen that you doubt he even realizes what he is doing.

(He realizes. He just thinks every part of you deserves love. Don’t question it. It makes sense in his head.)

Cuddling with him is the perfect gift for your senses, stimulating you wonderfully.

Small nips on your skin, little lingering touches. He traces your skin with eager yet gentle hands, as if trying to memorize every curve and dip.

He buries his face in your neck and breathes in deep, and in that moment, bodies tangled with each other and the sheets, vulnerable and open, he will whisper, “I love you”.

It’s an affirmation more than a revelation, since his actions up until this point have all shown you that he really, truly does love you. So you whisper it back, trying to pour all your love into it, before slotting your lips together and using physical touch to convey your feelings right back.

RAFAYEL - WORDS OF AFFIRMATION

Rafayel is, in the simplest of terms, a yapper.

This man could talk for hours if you don’t stop him. About his art, about the meaning of life, about his experiences. He can express so much while also having an impeccable talent of being completely vague. Sometimes, you don’t even understand the things he says. And you’ve given up trying to decipher his every word.

But when Rafayel is talking about you, he makes himself abundantly clear. There’s no ambiguity about it; he loves you. And he will say it a million different times in a million different ways. Whether it be a bold declaration of how much his heart yearns for you, or endless teasing that is meant to rile you up and get a reaction out of you.

“I don’t think your talent lies in art, babe. It’s a good thing you’re a walking art piece yourself. No wonder I’m in love with you.”

“You’re leaving so soon? But I don’t think I’ve admired you enough for today. Don’t leave me!”

I’m impressed, Miss Bodyguard. You’re talented, and easy on the eyes. No wonder you captivated me from that very first day we met.”

Expect to wake up with a lot of voice notes on your phone. Minutes long. Sometimes rambling, sometimes actual ideas for new pieces that he wants to run by you. You better reply to all of them individually.

When you cuddle at night, you can talk for hours. No topic on earth is off limits with him. He will lay you down on a blanket on the beach, and as you watch the stars, he will tell you stories from olden times about star crossed lovers and tragic fairy tales. And he will turn to you, tell you how beautiful you are, how ardently he loves you, how he will never forget any moment he spends with you.

It’s almost like you can tell the exact moment he falls in love with you. Because he tells you. He never stops telling you. He voices his fears of you leaving him, he makes you promise you will never go away. He is clingy and he is whiny, and he is so endearing.

It’s hard to dismiss him when he is so loud about his love. And it’s hard to not fall for him just as he falls for you.

ZAYNE - ACTS OF SERVICE

This is an indisputable fact. Dr Zayne shows his love through acts of service.

He is intensely aware of your needs, and is miles ahead of you in determining what you require at any given moment.

It’s his way of showing you that he cares. He worries for you, and born from that worry is the urge to take care of you.

If you have had a long day, you will come home to a text from him saying he has ordered takeout and it will arrive at your house shortly, since he knows you are too exhausted to cook anything. It is always something different, but it is always food that he knows you enjoy. He will mix it with some healthy options too.

If you ever crash at his place, you will wake up to a tall glass of water and two aspirin on the side table, along with a note in his neat handwriting telling you that there is fresh cooked breakfast in the oven (he made it before he left for work).

Once you two are in a steady relationship, he keeps his house stocked with products you use. A spare shampoo and conditioner, toothbrush, a bathrobe of your size, a hair brush, you name it.

When you mumble something about the hand cream in your purse that is nearly running out, you will find a brand new tube next time you open the purse, and there is no need to even ask. You know Zayne put it there.

He is intensely observant. Even after knowing him for so long, it catches you off guard. He knows which of your clothes need to be dry cleaned and which ones are good for the washing machine. He knows which scents you use. Which products are harsher on your skin. He knows that contacts irritate your eyes after long hours of wearing them, so he keeps a small bottle of eye drops in your side table for that very purpose.

He scolds you for neglecting yourself, and he won’t hold back the harsh tone if he thinks your behavior is particularly destructive. To him, the best way to show love is to make sure your beloved is living the best life they can.

It is the littlest things, the tiniest details. And it shocks you, even after so long.

Snow Day

Pure fluff | You and Xavier wake up one morning to a surprise snowstorm

Your alarm blares right on schedule. Each ring causes your head to throb as you slap at your bedside table in an attempt to turn it off. You are too comfy to get up now. Your blankets are just the right warmth, and you rest comfortably against Xavier’s chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. However, you have to go to work. It’s mornings like these that make you wish you were unemployed. You yawn and rub your eyes as you shift to the edge of the bed, but Xavier’s grip tightens, pulling you back against him.

“Five more minutes,” he mutters in his sleep. You giggle to yourself as you unlatch his arms from your body.

“Xavier, we have to work today. It’s time to get up.”

“I don’t wanna.” You playfully roll your eyes. Xavier is not a morning person. He has the sleeping schedule of a cat and would sleep all day if he could.

“I’m making tea. That’ll help you wake up.” Xavier quietly whines as you leave the bed.

Shuffling to the kitchen, you yawn again as you grab the teabags and kettle. You are beyond exhausted. Everyday, you wake up before dawn to hunt down and fight wanderers until late at night. The physical strain of your job is taking a toil on your body. You could really use a vacation sometime soon. As you fill the kettle with water from the sink, you glance out the window to see snow flurries in the air.

You drop everything as you stare out the window. The weather forecast said nothing about the possibility of snow. It’s supposed to be the last below-freezing day of the year before the temperature starts to rise for spring, but here you are, watching as the snow begins to come down harder.

You throw on Xavier’s white hoodie that’s lying on the couch and walk onto the balcony mesmerized. Sure enough, a fresh blanket of snow covers Linkon City. An alert sounds on your hunter’s watch:

Attention: Due to heavy snowfall and road closures, hunters are not required to come into the office today. Be alert for mission requests if an emergency does arise in this weather. Enjoy your snow day.

“Does this mean we can go back to bed?” a voice says behind you. You turn to see Xavier also standing in the snow with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Snowflakes stick to his hair, almost blending in with the color.

“Xavier, it’s snowing!” You grin as you point at the city, your eyes lighting up with joy.

Xavier laughs. He wraps the blanket around the both of you, pulling you against him. “I know. We also don’t have to work, sooo…” Xavier kisses the tip of your nose. “Let’s get back in bed where it’s warm. You’re freezing.”

Whether it’s because the cold air zapping all the energy out of you or the comfy heat radiating off Xavier enveloping your body, exhaustion overtakes you, and you fully lean into Xavier’s embrace. You can’t help but feel giddy from this wonderful surprise.

“Yeah, let’s go back to bed.”

Xavier wastes no time, practically teleporting the two of you back into the bedroom. In just a moment, you are under the covers in the exact same position you were in before the alarm went off.

Xavier hums in satisfaction as he nuzzles your neck. “You’re wearing my hoodie.”

“Is that okay? I didn’t even think before putting it on.”

“Mmhm, you look good in it. I don’t mind you wearing my clothes.” His emphasis on the word “my” causes heat to rush to your cheeks. You cover your face with the blanket out of embarrassment. Xavier chuckles as he pulls it back down. “Don’t hide. You’ll suffocate under there.”

You turn over to face Xavier. Looking into each other’s eyes, a quiet peace fills the room. Your morning wish came true, and now you get to have a day of rest with your favorite person. You couldn’t ask for more.

“You know,” he whispers, breaking the silence, “I’ve always liked snow days. They allow me to stay home and sleep as much as I want, but I like them a lot more now.”

“Why is that?”

Xavier kisses your forehead. His lips move down your face, and your breathing hitches. “Because,” he says in between kisses, “I get to have you all to myself.”

PLEASE PART 2 ON THE SELF DOUBT ANGEST PUHHHLEEEEEEASE

SELF-DOUBT │ PART 2

Pt.1

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x reader (reader is implied to be the MC in Caleb's part)

SYNOPSIS: Part 2 of "Self-doubt" - comfort!!

A/N: Finally, it's here. Hope you enjoy!

Xavier

Finally deciding to go home and drown your sorrows in sleep, you stood, your limbs heavy, your breath unsteady. But before you could take a step, the sound of approaching footsteps stopped you in your tracks.

Soft at first, deliberate, hesitant—yet steady. Familiar.

You didn't have to look up to know who it was.

A quiet sigh left your lips. "Xavier."

He didn’t speak right away, but you could feel him watching you. There was no judgment in his gaze, no demand for explanation. Just patience. A patience that made something fragile inside you crack even more.

Wordlessly, he sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, even in the biting chill of the night. Neither of you spoke, and for once, the silence wasn't unbearable. It was different. Softer.

"You scared me," he finally admitted, his voice quieter than usual, as if he was afraid that speaking too loud would shatter whatever fragile state you were in.

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. "I’m fine."

Xavier hummed, unconvinced. "You’re not. But I’m not here to force you to talk. I just... didn’t want you to be alone."

Something thick lodged itself in your throat at his words. The lump of emotions you'd tried so hard to suppress threatened to spill over.

"Why?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, so raw it almost hurt to speak. "Why do you always—"

"Care?" he finished for you, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes remained serious. "Because you matter to me. You always have. And I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but I know one thing for certain—you are not some afterthought. You are not unworthy. You are not less."

Your breath hitched, eyes burning. "You don’t understand."

Xavier exhaled, running a hand through his hair, frustrated but not with you—with whatever had made you feel like this. "Then make me understand. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll sit here with you until you do. If you want to pretend everything is fine, I’ll let you. But I’m not leaving."

You turned to him then, really looked at him. At the certainty in his expression, the unwavering belief in his eyes. It was so infuriatingly Xavier—so effortlessly kind, so utterly steadfast—that it made your heart ache in ways you couldn’t put into words.

You opened your mouth, but no excuses came. No lies. No ways to push him away.

Instead, your voice cracked, and before you could stop yourself, you whispered, "I don’t know how to stop feeling like this."

Xavier didn’t hesitate. He reached out, hesitantly at first, as if giving you the choice to pull away. But you didn’t. You let him take your hand, let his warmth seep into your cold fingers, grounding you.

"You don’t have to do it alone," he murmured. "I don’t care how long it takes. Just… don’t shut me out."

The dam inside you broke.

A choked sob tore through you, your body shaking under the weight of everything you had been holding in for far too long. And Xavier—he didn’t flinch, didn’t let go. He simply pulled you close, wrapping you in the kind of embrace that felt less like comfort and more like something solid. Something safe.

You clung to him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as alone as you thought.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to be.

His fingers traced slow, soothing circles against your back, his breath warm against your temple. "I don't want you to disappear into the dark. If you let me, I'll stay."

The words, so simple yet so profound, settled into your chest like an ember, slow-burning and tender. You lifted your head, meeting his gaze, and in the hush of the night, something unspoken passed between you—something delicate, something inevitable.

Xavier’s thumb brushed the damp trail of a tear from your cheek, his touch unbearably gentle. "I see you," he murmured, and before you could think, before you could hesitate, he was leaning in.

It was soft, barely there—a whisper of a kiss against your forehead, a silent promise. Not rushed, not demanding, just steady. Just real.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

Zayne

The city had always been too loud, yet tonight, it felt impossibly quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ribs, heavy and suffocating, filling the spaces between heartbeats with something unnamed and unrelenting. The café door had long since closed behind you, but the ghost of Zayne’s presence still lingered, his voice a phantom echo in your mind.

You walked without direction, only moving because stillness felt too much like surrender. The night air was crisp, laced with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen, and you breathed it in as if it could cleanse the weight of everything left unsaid. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

Your phone remained in your grasp, screen dark, thumb hovering over his name in your messages. A message unsent. A confession you didn’t dare put into words. You had told yourself you would let this go, let him go—but wasn’t that the cruelest kind of lie?

You stopped beneath the glow of a streetlamp, light spilling over you in fragile, golden threads. Your breath wavered, hands tightening around the fabric of your sleeves. And then, against every instinct screaming at you to forget, to move on—you typed.

“I’m sorry.”

It was inadequate. A pitiful offering for the storm that had brewed between you. But before you could backspace, before you could rethink, you pressed send.

The reply came faster than expected.

“I’m still here.”

Three words. Simple. Unwavering. And yet, they shattered something deep inside you.

You closed your eyes, letting the night swallow you whole. You should have walked away. You should have ignored him the way you had trained yourself to. But Zayne had never been someone you could ignore. And perhaps, just this once, you didn’t want to.

With unsteady fingers, you called him.

The line rang once.

Twice.

A third time.

And then—

“Come back inside.”

His voice was quiet, intimate in a way that sent a tremor through your chest. He wasn’t asking. He wasn’t demanding. Just offering. Leaving the choice in your hands, as he always did.

Your throat tightened. Your heart ached.

For a long moment, you said nothing. You listened to the silence stretching between you, to the quiet promise hidden in his words. And then, with a breath that felt too much like surrender, you turned on your heel, retracing your steps back to the light.

When you stepped back inside, the café was quieter than before. The world outside had not changed, and yet, everything within you had shifted. Zayne was still there, waiting, his gaze unreadable but warm. A cup of something hot sat across from his own, waiting for you, as if he had always known you would return.

You sat without a word, hands wrapping around the warmth of the cup. For a moment, there was only the quiet hum of the café, the soft clink of porcelain, the steady presence of him beside you. And then—

“I never wanted to be someone unreachable,” he murmured, his fingers resting just inches from yours on the table. “Not to you.”

Your breath hitched, something fragile pressing against your ribs. “Zayne—”

“I see you,” he said, voice as steady as the earth beneath you. “Not as an afterthought. Not as someone passing through my life.” His gaze flickered to yours, sharp and unwavering. “But as someone I want in it.”

Something deep inside you cracked wide open.

A shuddering exhale left your lips, and before you could stop yourself, your fingers brushed over his—hesitant, uncertain. But when he turned his palm upward, intertwining his fingers with yours, it was effortless. As if he had been waiting for this moment, just as much as you had.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight in your chest eased. The walls you had built so carefully, so stubbornly, faltered in the warmth of his touch.

And for once, you let them fall.

Rafayel

The world felt quieter without him in it.

You told yourself it was for the best, that you had made the right decision. And yet, as the days bled into nights, as the hours passed in dull monotony, you found yourself reaching—again and again—for something that was no longer there.

For him.

For the sound of his laughter, for the weight of his presence filling the spaces you hadn’t realized were empty. For the warmth he carried so effortlessly, the kind of warmth that lingered long after he was gone.

But you had done this to yourself.

And now, you had to live with it.

Or at least, you thought you did—until the knocking started.

Soft at first. A hesitant tap against the door, as though testing if you were even home. And then, more insistent. Steady. Patient. Unyielding.

You ignored it, at first. Pressed your hands against your ears and willed it to stop, to go away. But the universe was never that kind.

“Cutie.”

Your breath caught.

Muffled through the door, but unmistakable. His voice—soft, coaxing, laced with something raw beneath the teasing lilt. A plea hidden in a single word.

You curled deeper into yourself, fingers tightening around the blanket you had wrapped around your frame. If you stayed silent, he’d leave. If you waited long enough, he’d realize you weren’t worth it. That you were doing him a favor.

But he didn’t leave.

He sighed, the sound heavy, filled with something you couldn’t quite name. And then—

“I’m not mad at you.”

The words struck harder than you expected. You squeezed your eyes shut, hating the way your heart clenched, the way your resolve wavered like sand beneath the tide.

“I just...” A pause. A shift, as though he had leaned against the door. “I don’t understand.”

You swallowed. You didn’t want him to understand. Didn’t want him to see the ugly, selfish parts of you, the ones that whispered that maybe—just maybe—you wanted him to fight for you. That you wanted to be more than just another passing moment in his life.

“I thought you knew by now.” His voice was quieter, words woven with something impossibly tender. “You don’t have to keep up with me, cutie. You were never supposed to.”

Your throat tightened.

“I just wanted you there.”

Your fingers twitched. Trembled. Your resolve, already fraying at the edges, threatened to unravel completely.

“I don’t care if you don’t want to see me right now,” he continued, and there was something steady in his voice now. Certain. “But don’t think for a second that I don’t see you.”

A shaky breath. Yours, not his. He was always so sure. So steady. A lighthouse in a storm you hadn’t even realized you were lost in.

The silence stretched between you, thick with everything left unsaid. And then, softer—

“I miss you.”

Your hands clenched into the fabric of your sleeves.

A choice.

A breath.

A surrender.

With trembling fingers, you unlocked the door.

The moment it cracked open, he was there.

Rafayel—bigger than life, impossibly beautiful in the dim light of the hallway. But his eyes, sharp as they were, softened the moment they met yours. He looked at you as if you were something precious. Something worth waiting for.

Something he would wait for, as long as it took.

You exhaled, the weight in your chest easing just slightly. And for the first time in days, you let yourself be selfish.

You stepped forward, barely a breath between you, and before you could think better of it, his arms were around you.

The embrace was immediate, crushing in its intensity. His hands found the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he held you tight, as if to assure himself you were real, here, not slipping through his fingers like a dream about to fade.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmured into your hair, voice uneven, raw in a way you had never heard before. “Don’t shut me out.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, knuckles white, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.

“Okay,” you whispered, breath hitching when he pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands cradled your face, touch achingly gentle, reverent, as if memorizing the details of you in case you disappeared again.

He searched your face, gaze flickering between your eyes, your lips, before he exhaled sharply, like he had just made a decision. And then—

Soft. Slow.

His lips brushed against yours, a question, a promise, a silent plea. You melted into him, sighing against his mouth, letting yourself be held, letting yourself be wanted.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling with yours in the quiet of the night.

“Come inside,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, something warm, something yours, and just like that—the world wasn’t so quiet anymore.

Sylus

The hours slipped by in hazy disarray, the wine glass now empty, the room a blur of half-formed thoughts and aching silence. You could feel the chill of the night seeping deeper into your bones, but it wasn’t the cold air that made you shiver. It was the weight of your own thoughts—the gnawing self-doubt, the quiet loneliness that seemed to stretch out forever, wrapping itself around you like an unwanted lover.

You told yourself to be strong. You told yourself to forget. To move on.

But it was impossible to ignore the echo of his name in your mind, the memory of his touch, the way his eyes had looked at you—so soft, so gentle, like you were something more than just a fleeting shadow in his world. You had convinced yourself that it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter to him. But now, in the silence of your empty apartment, that lie was unraveling at the edges.

You were not enough for him, and yet you had never wanted anything more.

The sound of your phone vibrating again cut through the haze, and for a moment, you simply stared at the screen. The name flashed once more.

Sylus.

The familiar pang of longing twisted in your chest, a sharp, bitter ache. You didn’t want to open it. Didn’t want to be reminded of everything you couldn’t have. You had closed that door, hadn’t you?

But the phone buzzed again. And then again.

Without thinking, your thumb slid across the screen, the message lighting up the dim room.

"I’m outside."

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

You blinked, the words swimming before your eyes. Your pulse quickened. He was here. And for a moment, you almost convinced yourself to ignore him, to let him be just another chapter you could close. But that wasn’t you, was it? You were never one to run from what you felt, no matter how terrifying it seemed.

The sound of his footsteps echoed against the hallway, distant but unmistakable. The way his boots hit the ground with that gentle weight, as though each step was taken with purpose. You felt the air shift as he drew closer, your skin prickling with the intensity of his presence.

The door knocked softly, almost too softly, as though he was waiting for you to make the first move. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you hesitated.

“Please,” his voice reached you, quieter now, as if spoken through the layers of pain you had wrapped yourself in. “Let me in.”

Your breath caught, and without thinking, you turned the knob.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Sylus.

The light from the hallway cast him in a soft glow, outlining his silhouette in such stark contrast to the darkness behind you. His eyes—those eyes, the ones that could see straight through every defense you put up—were soft. Warm, even. There was an urgency to his gaze, but also a tenderness, as if he was afraid to touch you too suddenly, afraid to break the fragile moment that existed between you.

“I couldn’t leave,” he murmured, and his voice cracked just the slightest bit as he spoke, his own emotions laid bare.

Your heart ached at the sight of him, standing there, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before. The man who had once seemed so untouchable, so unreachable, now seemed almost fragile in his need for you.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whispered, voice shaking.

But he stepped forward anyway, and in that moment, everything shifted. His hands were warm when they cupped your face, his thumb brushing away the traces of tears you hadn’t even realized you were still holding back.

“I do,” he said, his voice low and firm, yet undeniably soft. “I do, because I’ve never needed anyone the way I need you.”

And with those words, your world fell away.

Without another word, he pulled you into him, his embrace fierce yet gentle, as though he was afraid you would slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough. His scent enveloped you, familiar and grounding, and for the first time in days, you allowed yourself to sink into it. You let yourself surrender to the warmth of his arms, the only place that felt like home anymore.

“I was so afraid,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. “So afraid of being nothing to you.”

His fingers threaded through your hair, and he pressed his lips against the top of your head, the softest kiss, a promise more than a gesture.

“You were never nothing to me,” he whispered. “You were never a fleeting thing. I just... I didn’t know how to show you, not when I was so terrified of losing myself in you.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, the depth of his words reflected in the dark pools of his eyes. For the first time, you saw it—the same raw vulnerability, the same fear of not being enough that you had harbored so deep inside.

And in that moment, it no longer mattered who was enough or not enough. All that mattered was that he was here. And so were you.

You kissed him then—softly, slowly, as if testing whether the world would allow such a moment of peace to exist. But his lips were insistent, and soon enough, the kiss deepened, your worries melting away with each touch, each press of his body against yours. The weight of your doubts lifted, replaced by something far more comforting, far more real.

In his arms, you were not lost. You were not a fleeting moment. You were everything.

And as the night wrapped itself around you both, the air no longer felt cold. It felt warm. It felt like home.

Caleb

It was almost absurd, how you could feel so much for someone, and yet, never have them see it. Caleb, your constant. The one who would always be there to crack a joke, to make you laugh when the world felt heavy. But as time passed, it became harder to pretend. Pretend that the ache in your chest was just something you could ignore, pretend that you could be content with the role of the background character, the one who never got the spotlight.

You stared at the ceiling, the dim glow of your phone still lingering in the darkness, his name burning through the cold night. You were so tired of pretending, tired of holding everything inside, locking it away like some precious treasure only you could see. But it was suffocating you, this secret love, this thing you never asked for but couldn’t escape.

The steady buzz of your phone in your hand felt like a pulse, like a lifeline, but also like a reminder of everything you couldn’t have. It hurt too much to answer. It always did. Because with Caleb, every conversation felt like an act of theater, a performance where you smiled and pretended to be happy, to be fine, when the truth was you were drowning. Drowning in a love that never had a chance to be returned, that was never meant to be returned.

Another message lit up the screen, and your chest tightened. "Pipsqueak, please answer me. I’m worried."

Worried. His words rang in your ears, his concern always just enough to make you feel seen, but never enough to pull you from the depths of your own feelings. You wanted to scream at him. To ask him why, after all this time, he still didn’t see you. Why couldn’t he see what was right in front of him?

But you couldn’t. Because if you did, you would break. And breaking meant losing him entirely. It meant letting go of the one piece of your life that was still solid, the one thing that still anchored you to the world.

With a trembling hand, you turned the phone face down on your nightstand, the silence between you now absolute. The emptiness felt suffocating, but you couldn’t take back what you had already done. You had locked him out, not just from the room, but from your heart. And maybe that was the best thing for both of you.

But as the hours passed, the weight of that decision grew heavier, until it felt unbearable.

Your phone buzzed again. It was him, and this time, you didn’t hesitate.

You picked it up, feeling that familiar pang of hope and fear coil in your chest. There was no turning back now. He was calling, and you—well, you couldn’t run anymore.

“Hey,” you whispered, almost too quietly. The sound of your voice was fragile, like it might shatter if you said too much.

“Y/N, you okay?” Caleb’s voice came through, low and concerned, but there was something more to it this time. Something you hadn’t noticed before—the way his voice lingered, the way it softened when he spoke your name.

“Yeah, just tired,” you replied, forcing a smile into your tone. It wasn’t enough to mask the sadness, but it would have to do.

There was a pause on the other end, and then he sighed. “You’re lying.”

You let out a small, bitter laugh. "Am I?"

“Yes,” he said simply. “I know you better than that.”

And for the first time, you felt the walls you’d carefully built between you begin to crack. Caleb, as oblivious as he was, somehow always knew when you were hiding something. It was frustrating, maddening even, but in that moment, you couldn’t deny it. His understanding of you, his ability to see through your armor, made everything feel even more impossible.

“I’m fine,” you said again, but it was weaker this time. "I just… I need some space, Caleb. It’s nothing. Really."

His voice softened, as though he could sense the lie even through the phone. “I don’t believe you.”

You were silent for a long moment, the weight of the conversation pressing in on you. There was so much you wanted to say, so much you had to say, but the words felt tangled in your throat.

“Caleb,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, “I just—sometimes, I feel like I’m invisible to you. Like no matter how much I try to be there, it’s never enough.”

And there it was. The truth. The raw, aching truth that you had buried for so long.

You waited for him to speak, to laugh, to dismiss your feelings as something trivial. But instead, there was a silence so thick it felt suffocating.

And then, in the quiet, he finally spoke.

“I never meant to make you feel that way,” Caleb said, his voice unusually quiet, the usual teasing lilt replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “I… I never saw it like that. But I should have. I should’ve seen how much you’ve always been there. How much I’ve taken you for granted.”

You swallowed, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. You didn’t know how to respond. You didn’t know if you even could.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he continued, and there was something in his voice now that made your heart ache. “You’re not invisible to me, pips. You’ve never been.”

And in that moment, you allowed yourself to believe him, just for a little while.

You didn’t know what would happen next, what this would all mean, but for once, it didn’t matter. Caleb had seen you. Really seen you. And that was enough to keep you holding on.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “Always.”

And in the space between those words, something shifted, like the universe itself exhaled, allowing you both to breathe again.

This brings comfort rn 😭😭😭

🗡️ “That time of the month again?”

because we all know that periods suck and characters are not immune to the horrors 🗡️ prompt list of comforting actions

Character A is bedridden from the cramps and Character B becomes their living heating pad (cuddles with arms wrapped around the waist >>>>)

B buys A their favorite chocolates a couple days before their period starts and keeps beverages with electrolytes on hand

A takes a day off to rest, bingewatch some episodes of a good show, and care for themselves (maybe do some yoga, and by yoga I mean curl up in the fetal position for a couple hours)

B thinks that making a nice bath for A will help and prepares everything for when A gets home (A laughs and explains why that’s not a great idea)

Searching for Shark Week’s episodes online to deal with shark week in person, but getting distracted by cute animal shows

B can’t be there for A in person so they send A $30 to cover extra snacks and/or medicine

Instead of getting emotional over posts online, A digs out an old book series and gets emotional over that (they are reliving their childhood, they swear it’s cathartic THEY SWEAR)

A can’t sleep with the back pain so B gives them a light back massage with several check-ins to make sure the noises are in relief and not pain

B keeps the lights dim and and TV volume low as A battles a headache

All meals are made with ahead of time and cravings humored (“You can’t just eat straight salt.” “I know that, which is why I’m putting all of it on this.”)

A asks for B to get more pads/tampons at the store, B calls and sends many pictures as they try to figure out what will work best for A

B quietly scrubs out any bloodstains from A’s clothes as they do laundry (and they’re really efficient at it, why are they so good at getting blood out of clothing—)

A snuggling up with their pet who knows the exact spot to be in for maximum comfy (B thinks it’s adorable and takes a picture to show A later)

“I’m sorry if I’m not really conversational right now…” “Dude you’re on your period and barely slept last night, you’re good. We don’t have to talk, we can just chill.”

B brings home a machine for homemade ice-cream and all the ingredients needed for A’s favorite flavor (they spend the evening making it and declare a “dessert before dinner” day for when periods strike)

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."