This Is One Of My Fav Xav Arts I Have Seen ....🥹🥹

Lumiere re-run: Aftermath

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Xavier, you're such a meanie... >n<!!! you better come home early the next banner or your cheeks will be so sore...!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Original Post | Xavier's Story

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

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

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

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

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

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

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

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

Again. And again. And again.

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

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

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

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

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

Not six days.

Six weeks.

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

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

But something in him breaks.

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

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

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

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

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

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

He turns back.

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

At himself.

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

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

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

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

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

A blade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only to let it fall.

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

Then you fall with it.

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

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

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

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

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

You pull back, just enough to see him.

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

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

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

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

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

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

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

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

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

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

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

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

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

He says nothing for a moment.

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

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

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

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

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

💗 Rafayel

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

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

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

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

You tell him.

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

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

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

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

He just looks at you.

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

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

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

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

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

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

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

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

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

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

And he does.

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

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

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

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

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

Then he starts making coffee.

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

And then—

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

You blink. “A cat?”

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

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

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

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

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

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t stop there.

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

You smile. Follow.

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

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

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

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

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

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

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

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

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

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

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

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

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

His fingers tighten on your leg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He exhales.

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

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

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

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

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

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

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

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

Then—he turned back to you.

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

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

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

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

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

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

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

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart folded inward.

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

He didn’t smile.

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

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

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

“Come here,” you murmured.

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

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

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

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

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

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

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

And Sylus knows you.

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

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hit you.”

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

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

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

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

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

Your silence says enough.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s reverent.

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

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

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

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

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

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

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

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

And still—he doesn't move.

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

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

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

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

And then—he moves.

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

Then the bathwater starts.

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

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

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

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

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

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

“Pip-squeak.”

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

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

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

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

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

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

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

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

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

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

“I believed you would.”

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

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

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

“Or worse—too much.”

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

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

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

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

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

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

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

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

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

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

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

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

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

Then he shudders. And looks up.

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

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

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

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

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

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

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

His hand strokes your hair once.

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

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

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

I turn to Ares.

Thanks to Tyler Miles Lockett who allowed me to draw inspiration from his ARES piece for page 2! Look at his etsy page it's SICK

⚔️ If you want to read some queer retelling of arturian legends have a look at my webtoon

Xavier is for the people who have always listened to other’s woes but themselves never been on the receiving end of the same gratitude. He will hear you out and let you cry and rant to your heart's content.

Xavier is for the people who have always had to do everything on their own and have become used to only relying on themselves. He’ll let you do your thing but will always have your back when you need him.

Xavier is for the people who have always been in positions of responsibility. He’ll let you take the lead but will also be there to himself lead and take care of things if you ask him to.

Xavier is for those who enjoy museum dates and book fairs. He will share random historical facts with you. He will read to you as you two cuddle in bed. He will discuss and rave about those minor characters in obscure book series that no one talks about.

Xavier is for those who sometimes just don’t wanna head out and would rather chill at home. He’d order your comfort food, co-op with you on your games and join you for movie nights, and warm snuggles.

Xavier is for the people who sometimes don’t wanna talk and simply enjoy the comfortable silence. He'll lay out with you on the rooftop or join you at the balcony/window so you both can quietly stargaze, and enjoy the serenity of each other’s company.

Xavier is for those who find it difficult to express themselves, who have always been so guarded, who feel a lot but simply can’t find the right words to say. He will be patient and wait for you, no matter how long it takes.

Xavier is for the foodies. He will never judge your weird eating habits and will even join you for a late night snack.

Xavier is for the people who cherish small, seemingly insignificant gestures. He’ll place his hand on the sharp corners of a table when you bend your head to pick up a fallen spoon/fork. One look into your eyes and he’ll do that task that you wordlessly request him to. He’ll twirl your locks around his fingers, play with your hair, and kiss you out of nowhere at random times ♡

this was requested by someone on reddit DMs ♡ who saw similar posts for other LIs..

» MASTERLIST «

©️ Xavier divider is my own. Credit me if you use ♡

How do the LADS men react when they catch you reading smut. 🫣

Hope you like it!! Vote at the end of the chapter for the next LI.

As the train rumbles along the tracks, you sit curled up in your seat, engrossed in the book Tara had lent you. The romance novel started off innocently enough, with witty banter and a slow-burning connection between the leads. But now, as the train was getting closer to the station near your apartment building you found yourself blushing furiously at the explicit scene unfolding on the page.

Tara forgot to mention that one particularly steamy chapter was tucked away amidst the otherwise tame love story. You squirm slightly in your seat, feeling a warmth pool low in your belly as you read the detailed descriptions of the couple's passionate encounter.

You quickly flip the page, trying to cool the sudden flush of heat that crept up your neck as you read on. The words on the page were so graphic, so vulgar compared to the usual romance you enjoyed. But there was something undeniably thrilling about the raw passion described in such vivid detail.

The male lead gripping the female lead hips, pounding into her with deep, powerful thrusts that left her breathless and aching for more. His groans filling the room as he chased his release, determined to fill her to the brim with his seed.

You feel your heart race as you read on, the scene playing out like a dirty movie in your mind. You know you should look away, but you can't. Can't stop reading about the way he uses her body for his pleasure, fucking her raw and hard until he finds his explosive finish.

It was filthy, it was wrong, but a part of you almost wanted to experience it for yourself. To be wanted, needed, craved with such desperate hunger. You squirm in your seat again, thighs clenching together as you feel the telltale ache begining to build between them.

You put the book down and close your eyes taking a deep breath.

"You are a pretty fast reader Y/N, I wasn't able to read the whole page"

You nearly leap out of your skin at the sound of the deep, all-too-familiar voice murmuring so close to your ear. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you turn your head to see Xavier, in your flustered state, you hadn't even registered Xavier's presence beside your seat. Now here he was, looming over you with a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"I... I was just..." You stutter, feeling the heat in your cheeks deepen at being caught red-handed. The book is face down on your lap, the incriminating page still open beneath your fingertips. You quickly flip it shut, as if that could somehow hide the dirty thoughts still swirling in your head.

"I didn't hear you come in, I thought you were working late today" you say lamely, hoping to change the subject. You take in his appearance, from his disheveled silver hair to the way his dress shirt clings to his broad shoulders. Part of you wonders if he always looked this good after a long day, or if the sight was amplified by the naughty images still seared into your mind.

The train stops, the announcement overhead crackling to life with the familiar stop near your apartment building. Around you, passengers begin to gather their belongings, the sound of chatter and shuffling feet fill the air. You gather your things, shoving the book deep into your bag. You could feel the heat of Xavier's gaze on you as you fumble with the zipper, your cheeks still flushed a telling shade of pink.

"You know..." Xavier murmurs, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingertips linger, grazing the sensitive skin of your jawline making you shiver. "I don't think I've ever seen you read a book quite so...intensely before."

Your eyes widen at his bold words, a fresh wave of embarrassment crashing over you. Did he really know what you'd been reading?

Xavier straightens up, offering his hand to help you out of your seat. As you place your palm in his, he gives it a gentle squeeze, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles. "Come on, let's head home"

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

As you step into your apartment, you let out a sigh of relief, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. Xavier follows close behind, shutting the door and setting down his bag before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair.

You busied yourself in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients for dinner and trying to act as natural as possible. You can feel Xavier's eyes on you as you chop vegetables, the sizzle of the pan and the scent of garlic and herbs filling the small apartment.

So, how was your day?" Xavier asks, loosening his tie as he leans against the counter, watching you work. "Anything interesting happen at the office?"

You shrug, focusing on the task at hand. "Not really. Just the usual paperwork and meetings. Nothing out of the ordinary." You glance up at him, taking in the way his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the muscles of his forearms flexing slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"What about you?" You ask, hoping to steer the conversation away from your own agitated state.

Xavier's lips quirk into a small smirk. "It was a long day, but worth it in the end." He steps closer to you, reaching around to grab a carrot stick from the cutting board. "Why? Did you miss me today?"

You roll your eyes, but can't help the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Don't get cocky," you say, batting his hand away playfully. "I just know how much you love your job, that's all."

You turn back to the stove, stirring the contents of the pan with more vigor than necessary. As you do, you can't shake the memory of the book from your mind, the way the male lead had taken the female so roughly, so passionately... Your stomach flips at the thought, a sudden wave of heat spreading all over your body.

Lost in your naughty thoughts, you don't realize that Xavier moved closer until he was right behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot against the side of your neck.

"What's on your mind, Y/N?"

You tense at the sudden closeness, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt. You grip the spoon tighter, using the task of stirring the sauce as an excuse to put some distance between you.

"I'm just tired," you lie, hoping your voice sounded more convincing than you feel. "It's been a long day, that's all."

But even as you say it, you know that your racing thoughts have nothing to do with fatigue. The ache between your legs, the flush on your cheeks, the way your heart hammers in your chest at his proximity, it was all thanks to that damn book and the dirty images it had seared into your mind.

You can feel Xavier's eyes on you, studying your profile intently. He is quiet for a moment, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of your cheek, the way your lower lip caught between your teeth.

Slowly, he reaches around you to grab the wooden spoon, his arm brushing against yours as he does. Your breath hitched in your throat at the contact, your body betraying your true state of mind. You know he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, the way your pulse jumps beneath his touch.

I didn't forget y/n" he whispers "how could I possibly forget the way your cheeks flushed so prettily while you read, the way you squirmed in your seat as if you couldn't wait for me to bend you over it?"

You gasp as the spoon clatters into the pan, the sudden noise jarring you from your daze. Before you can react, Xavier's hands are on your waist, spinning you around to face him. His grip is firm, unyielding, as he pulls you against his chest.

"I think we both know you're not tired," he teases "Not really." His hand slides up your spine, fingers splaying across the back of your neck, tilting your head back to expose the column of your throat. "I think you're wound up tighter than a bowstring, and I think I know exactly why."

"Did you like reading about that? About being fucked raw? About her being filled with his seed until it leaked out of her? Is that what you want from me?"

You cant help but whimper at his words, a fresh flood of arousal crashing over you. You can feel the evidence of his own desire pressing insistently against you, and it makes you ache to feel him inside you, stretching you, claiming you as his own.

"I...I don't know..." you say, even as your body screams yes, please, more. You can feel yourself getting lost in the haze of lust, drowning in the scent and feel and taste of him.

But some small part of you still clings to sanity, still remembers the way he'd caught you reading such a vulgar thing. The shame of it burns hot and bright, even as your body craves his touch like a drug.

"Xavier, we shouldn't..." you protest weakly.

Xavier shuts you up with a kiss, his lips claiming yours in a bruising, demanding press. His tongue delving deep to stroke along yours, swallowing any further protests you might have. You can only cling to him, fingers scrabbling at the fabric of his shirt as he kisses you until you are breathless and dizzy, until the world spins and narrows down to the feel of his lips on yours.

When he finally pulls back, you are panting, your chest heaving against his. Xavier's eyes are dark, nearly black with desire as he drinks in the sight of your flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

"Shouldn't what?" he challenges, smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Shouldn't I want to fuck you until you can't walk straight? He punctuated his words with a roll of his hips, grinding his hard cock against your core. You cry out at the sudden burst of sensation, your head falling back as you arch into him. "Shouldn't I want to make all those filthy fantasies a reality? To bend you over every surface in this apartment and take you until you're sobbing my name?

You let out a soft yelp as you feel Xavier lift you easily, his strong arms supporting your backside as he sets you down on the cool marble countertop. The sudden height difference puts you at eye level, and you find yourself staring into Xavier's intense gaze as he steps between your splayed thighs.

He grips your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he tugs you closer to the edge of the counter. His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt up and over your head and tossing it carelessly to the floor. You sit before him in your lacy bra, your chest heaving and your nipples straining against the delicate material. Xavier's gaze drops to your chest, his eyes hungry and appreciative as he drinks in the sight of you.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs, reaching out to cup the soft swells in his palms. His thumbs brush over your nipples, teasing the sensitive peaks until they pebble even further. You gasp, arching into his touch as jolts of pleasure shoot through you.

"That's it, baby, don't fight it. Let yourself feel good."

One of his hands slides around to unhook your bra, freeing your breasts. Your cheeks flush hotly as you sit bare before him, but the way Xavier looks at you makes you feel powerful, desirable, wanted in a way you'd never been wanted before.

He leans down to capture one nipple in his mouth, suckling and flicking the sensitive bud with his tongue, your fingers tangle in his silver hair. You can feel the heat building between your legs, the ache growing more insistent with each pass of his tongue over your flesh.

"Xavier," you gasp, tugging at his hair. "Please..."

His teeth close around your nipple, biting down just hard enough to make you cry out. The sharp sting of pain melded with the pleasure coursing through you send a bolt of electricity straight to your core. He soothes the ache with his tongue, swirling around the sensitive peak before releasing it with a pop.

Looking up at you through hooded eyes, Xavier's gaze is intense, almost feral in its hunger. "Is this what you want?" he asks "Do you want me to fuck you raw, right here on this kitchen counter? Want me to spread your legs wide and plunge into your tight little cunt until you scream?"

You stare into Xavier's darkened gaze. "Yes," you breathe, the word tumbling from your lips before you can stop it. "Gods, yes Xavier, please..."

Spurred on by your desperate plea, Xavier, wasting no time unzips his fly, freeing his hard aching cock from the confines of his pants, his shirt follows soon after. You lift your hips, shimmying out of your skirt and kicking off your panties in record time, you bare yourself completely to his hungry gaze.

Before you can take your next breath, Xavier grabs your thighs, gripping them tightly as he pushes your legs wider, opening you fully to him. Then, with one powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, filling and stretching you in one swift, hard stroke.

You scream, head falling back as he stretches you impossibly wide, filling you so deeply you swear you can feel him in your throat. He doesnt give you time to adjust, just starts pounding into you with deep, brutal strokes .

"Yes, fuck!" Xavier moans, one hand gripping the edge of the counter while the other digs into the soft flesh of your hip, holding you in place as he fucks you.

You can only cling to him, fingernails scoring down his back as you meet each of his thrusts with the roll of your own hips. Its fast and hard, just like in the book, just like you both crave. Xavier's cock drags deliciously against your walls with each thrust, stoking the pleasure building low in your belly. 

"Harder," you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Fuck me harder, Xavier! 

You feel his control snap and with a surge of strength, he lifts you off the counter, only to slam you back down, impaling you fully on his throbbing cock.

You scream, the sudden force of his thrust making you see stars. He starts to move then, really move, fucking into you with deep, powerful thrusts that make your breasts bounce with each impact. The new angle allows him to hit that spot deep inside you, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body.

"Yes, fuck, just like that!" You cry out, fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back.

"Play with your clit, bunny. I want to feel you squeeze my cock" At his command, you reach down between your thighs, finding your aching clit swollen and throbbing. You circle the sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing tight, quick circles. The combination of his deep, powerful thrusts and your fingers on your clit push you rapidly towards a massive peak.

"Please, please..." You beg, too far gone to be embarrassed by your desperate pleas. "I want to feel you come inside me, Xavier."

With a scream of his name you come undone, your body convulsing as your orgasm crashes over you, cunt clenching around Xavier's cock, squeezing him as wave after wave of pleasure washes through you.

Xavier lets out a groan, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips even harder as he slams into you one, two, three more times before burying himself to the hilt. With a last, shuddering moan, he comes deep inside you, his hot seed spurting against your cervix as he fills you up just like you begged him to.

He holds your trembling body close as he carries you to your bedroom, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist. He can feel your mixed pleasure dripping down his thighs.

Laying you down gently on the bed, he follows you down, hovering over you as he slowly pulls out of your tender cunt. You whimper at the loss, feeling empty and aching already. But before you can voice your protest, Xavier reaches down, gathering your combined essence on his fingers. He brings them to your entrance, pushing the sticky, pearlescent liquid back inside you.

"There, now you'll keep my cum nice and deep inside you," he smiles "I want you to feel me there for the rest of the night.

“I wondered why I was always so lonely and then I realized that I was always playing different roles for different people but I never played the role of just myself and that’s why I was lonely - the person everyone was with wasn’t actually me.”

— sandralidell

Friendly reminder that Solo Leveling has a sequel called Solo Leveling: Ragnarok and you should totally read it because

you can see glimpses of Daddy!Jinwoo

you get to watch Jinwoo's baby boy Suho growing up and being the hot shit that he is (like father like son)

but most importantly, you can finally have the sexy villain you've been waiting for.

he's cute

but also hot

he's sexy

but also freaky

he's obsessed with baby suho (FIRST BL SHIP IN SL ??????????)

and he's CRAZY powerful like actually god-like

and ofc we love a gaslight king

Manifesting Lumiere...

It's just one of those times of the month... where it just HURTS and all you want is to just be in bed and hug something comfy _(:‚‹」∠)_

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕋𝕒𝕡𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕪 𝕠𝕗 𝕋𝕚𝕞𝕖

Pairing: Xavier x Fem!Reader Prompt: “No, you can't stay here.” Words: ~1.1k Genre: Angst, No Comfort Notice: Some spoiler of Xavier's Myth, Shooting Stars, although not entirely aligned

[ᝰ.ᐟ MASTERLIST]

He staggered back, clearly surprised by how your muttered words reverberated loudly in the otherwise dimly lit room. Cerulean orbs searched for yours skilfully, eyes bright as they were when tracking Wanderers in the darkest of nights.

“What did you say?” A hint of disbelief was palpable in Xavier's voice.

You stepped away from the shadow, hands trembling as you struggled to steady them. Despite anticipating this moment, when confronted with reality, you found yourself questioning whether you could truly accept your sacrifice without harboring any regrets.

“I said, no, you can't stay here.”

Revelation dawned on him. Despite Xavier’s frequent drowsiness, he remained inherently sharp. It was one of the attributes that had made him a highly respected hunter.

“How long have you known?”

“Enough time to understand the over-complicated truth.”

Irritation briefly flickered in his eyes. He looked at the thinning veil behind him, clearly cursing the other party that stepped through it earlier. “Jeremiah told you.”

“I was the one who convinced Jeremiah to tell me everything. You shouldn’t kick his ass when you see him again.”

Xavier couldn’t help but chuckle bitterly at that. Jeremiah, though physically not imposing, could defeat anyone on mind games. That’s why he brought him along on the mission as he needed a logical partner.

He couldn’t comprehend why Jeremiah had agreed to divulge the secrets they swore to keep between themselves—especially to the one person he had hoped would never uncover the truth.

“Besides, you’re not as secretive as you thought, Xav.” You gave him a small, sad smile. “I guess that's what makes us human, right? Despite not being a normal one, having an aether core-fused heart, or having lived for a hundred years, we still can’t stop ourselves from showing our deepest desires during moments of vulnerability. I used to believe that she was your unforgettable first love or perhaps an ex who taught you a crucial life lesson. However, that’s just me shying away from the undeniable.”

As much as you had steeled yourself for this moment, your vision began to blur, and Xavier was fast to engulf you in his hug. You couldn’t help but wrap your arms around his lithe but muscular figure, feeling his warmth and further breaking your heart.

He buried his face in your hair, taking a deep breath to blanket himself in your scent like he always did.

“That’s not true,” his voice came out shakier than he intended.

“But it is, Xavier. You don’t know how many times you called out to her in your sleep. Or sometimes when you look at me, I can tell that you don't truly see me for who I am in this current existence. You can’t deny this, because in doing so, you’re also hurting her…me.”

You had to force your head up to fully face your light. Xavier wouldn’t let you step away from him.

Gently cupping his cheeks, you urged him to focus on your next words. “Face it, Xav. Your queen and I… our resemblances are solely physical. We’re two entirely different persons, made up of distinct personalities. If she was the reason why you were in this timeline in the first place, you cling to the hope of going back to her one day, don’t you? You wouldn’t abandon her eternity, right?”

His hug tightened. “I’m sorry,” he said after some time, head bowed in shame. “I’m sorry, Y/N. Truly, deeply sorry for making you feel less than your worth.”

Despite his painful acknowledgment, you found yourself relaxing, accepting your fate. Xavier's thumbs gently wiped away the tears that had escaped from your eyes.

“But you’re going to be here all alone,” his voice cracked, almond eyes cloudy. “I can’t go back and live peacefully knowing that.”

“If what Jeremiah told me is the truth, I have left you more than once. It’s your time to experience having someone be there when you’re back. This is the time to redeem myself, even when the timeline has gone haywire.”

Xavier shook his head furiously. “We won’t know if the alternative aether core would work. If I go back and learn that I will lose you again and Philos, I would rather stay here with you in the past.”

“You know it will work, that’s why you were so insistent on sending Jeremiah back alone with it, and selfishly waiting at the other end just to make sure it disappears, an indicator that Philos has accepted the aether-core. You know how much Jeremiah wants to go back there, and for everything he has done for you, you believed it was your turn to help him. I can’t take you away from her; it’s not right. It’s not my time to have you.”

“What difference does it make when I’m also willingly leaving you here? You understand that once I step through that veil, we’ll never meet each other again in this timeline.”

As if aware of its existence, the veil dimmed. You eyed it wearily, realizing that the swirling vortex of electric blue and silver had turned almost transparent.

“Xavier,” you sighed when he cupped your hand, reveling at the contact, “we both know that my time in this realm will end, I can’t be immortal here. I would rather face the certainty of our eternal bond in another dimension than linger in the fleeting confines of this world.”

You placed your fingers against his lips, silencing his upcoming argument. “You do realize that if you abandoned me in the future, I would despise you, don't you?" you made a playful comment to lighten the mood, but he was miserable. Filled with guilt and disappointment that he couldn’t control the situation.

You guided his head down to meet your lips halfway. As both of your lips touched in a bittersweet embrace, a silent farewell woven into each tender touch. The palm pressed against his heart felt its rapid beats.

“Goodbye, my light. Be happy,” you whispered those words to his lips.

Xavier should have known that whenever you were around, his caution melted away. That was his greatest weakness. He registered the force that caught him entirely off guard a second too late.

Xavier reached out his hand, losing momentum. “Y/N! Wait—!” he called out, voice tinged with urgency.

As his body was hurled into the closing veil, it snapped shut, swallowing his unfinished words. Sobs wracked your body, each wave of emotion sent your body crashing to the wooden floor.

Moonlight peeking through the windows cast its glow upon the intricate gold of the gigantic frame before you.

Where the veil had shimmered moments before, there was now only emptiness, revealing a cold cement wall that stood as a cruel reminder of the end of a chapter you could never revisit.

While seemingly nearly empty every night, a profound silence enveloped Philo Flower Store differently. Vibrant blooms began to wilt, their once lively hues fading into desolation, while the lush vines that once cascaded down nearby buildings now curled and browned.

⤷ ᝰ.ᐟ MASTERLIST