💪 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕗𝕠𝕦𝕣 ⋮ ♂ 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙 ♂
๋࣭ ⭑ 𓆩 Xylo Forbartz - Sentenced to Be a Hero 𓆪 ⭑ ๋࣭
MASC MARCH MASTERLIST | 2026
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[A03] [Fanfiction.net] [Wattpad]
The Night Watch (2.4k words)
Xylo Forbartz x Reader
summary: After fairies destroy your village, you’re escorted to safety by the Penal Hero Unit. That night, when sleep refuses to come, you discover the man who stands watch at the edge of the camp.
warnings/themes: Reader Insert, Vaginal Sex, Riding/Cowgirl Position, Outdoor Sex, Quiet Sex/Risk of Being Caught, Protectiveness, Strangers to Lovers, Survival, Refugees, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Safety, Intimacy, Trust, First Tme, Kissing, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Size Difference, Pre-Canon.
You expect Holy Knights when the bells ring.
You expect white-lacquered plate armour, every edge trimmed in gold, every visor lowered so you can’t see the eyes behind it. Men who look like the stories told to children when they are meant to sleep without fear. The fairies came in a swarm of crawling mouths and colour; fat shapes low to the ground, eyes shining, ugly, glowing growths pulsing on their backs as they pushed through your home. Your village was half-burned and half-empty by the time the noise finally stopped, and you clung to the promise of Holy Knights the way others clung to buckets and blades.
Holy Knights restore order.
Instead, you are escorted from the wreckage by criminals.
That is what the whispers say when Penal Hero Unit crests the hill—that they are condemned men, oath-breakers, murderers bound by sacred seals and forced into service. They arrive in dark armour scarred by use, cloaks torn at the edges, weapons strapped in more places than seem necessary. They do not ride under temple banners or offer soft reassurances. They look like men sent to do things no one wishes to witness.
And yet, they move the children first.
You notice that before anything else. One of them lifts your neighbour’s boy with careful hands, despite the metal claws fitted over his gloves. Another carries sacks of grain as though they weigh nothing at all. No one lingers to admire the damage. No one wastes any time.
The one who gives most of the orders stands apart.
He’s tall and broad across the shoulders, enough that, even among the other armed men and women, he draws the eye. His skin is sun-darkened, his hair is brown and unbound, spiking where sweat has dried it stiff, strands falling over a face marked by experience rather than vanity. His armour fits him close; bandages wound around his forearms to keep his broken gauntlets strapped in place. A red cloak hangs at his back, heavy and weather-worn.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
He points, and the others move.
When the cart jolts over broken stone during the march out, and you stumble, he catches your elbow without looking at you, steadying you before turning back to scan the path ahead.
You had been told heroes like him were monsters.
But monsters don’t check that strangers can keep walking.
Camp is made beyond the ridge, where the trees grow thicker, and the ground dips low enough to shield firelight. The villagers are arranged toward the centre. The heroes form an outer ring without discussion, as though they have done this a hundred times before.
Your bones ache from the walk, so you lie beneath a borrowed blanket and tell yourself you are safe.
Your eyes close.
The dark behind your eyelids is wrong.
You see your village again—fire catching in the thatch, those swollen shapes pushing through the smoke, their sickly glow spilling across the ground. The moments after most of the screaming stopped, when the village went horribly quiet.
You sit upright before you can stop yourself. The camp is quiet. Someone coughs softly. Beyond that, the forest breathes in the dark.
Your breath comes unevenly. The dark presses too close. You tell yourself you are not a child. You’ve seen winters harder than this plenty of times. But fear sits under your ribs anyway.
The canvas of your tent suddenly feels suffocating. You need air.
You slip from the tent as quietly as you can manage, careful not to disturb the bodies sleeping close together beneath their blankets. The flap falls shut behind you, and the night air meets you immediately—sharp and cold against your skin.
It helps.
The chill sinks through the thin fabric covering your body, grounding in a way the cramped warmth of the tent was not. For a moment, you simply stand there, breathing it in. There is no smoke in the air tonight. No bitter, burned smell clinging to the back of your throat.
You tilt your head back and look up.
The sky stretches wide above the treetops, clear and unbroken, stars scattered across it. Your shoulders loosen a little as you look at them. Then your gaze lowers and settles on him.
You find him exactly where you expected: perched on a moss-covered log, positioned at the very perimeter of the clearing. His back is straight despite the long march, and he faces outward, toward the forest, toward whatever might try to slip through the trees. He hasn’t removed his armour. His dark hair is a messy crown against the moonlight, and even from here, you can see the dull gleam of the knives tucked into the straps across his thighs.
You fill a waterskin from the water barrel, your hands still a little unsteady. As you approach, you expect him to startle, but he doesn’t move a muscle. He knew you were there long before you cleared the circle of the fire.
"You should be asleep," he says without turning. His voice is a low grumble that barely carries over the wind. He doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay fixed on the tree line.
"I couldn’t," you murmur, stepping closer. You hold out the waterskin. "I thought you might be thirsty. You’ve been out here since the sun went down."
The man finally shifts, his armour clinking softly. When he takes the waterskin, the leather of his glove brushes your fingers.
"I’ll sleep later," he replies, taking a long sip. You find yourself staring at his throat as he swallows, then looking away like you’ve been caught doing something foolish.
You lower yourself onto the log beside him despite the cold seeping through your skirts. Up close, you notice a faint scar across his eyebrow, small lines at the corner of his eyes that speak more of squinting into the distance than of laughter.
"I know you... I think—Xylo,right?" You press quietly. You had heard the name more than once during the march here, whispered between the villagers whenever he moved ahead of the group to speak with the others.
"Yeah, that’s me."
Something shifts somewhere beyond the trees. His attention moves instantly. You watch the change in him, the way his focus locks, and realise he hasn’t let his guard drop once.
"They say you’re ruthless," you blurt, then wince. You’re not sure why you said it at all, only that sitting this close to him has your stomach tight, and you can’t tell if it’s fear or something else.
Xylo scoffs, his hand drifting to the hilt of one of his throwing daggers. "People talk too much. You saw what happened to your home. You’re either standing or dead. I prefer standing."
"I... dreamed they came back," you admit.
His gaze shifts to you at last. The firelight catches in his eyes when he turns, lighting them gold in the dark.
"They won’t," he says. His jaw sets, the kind of look that warns you he’ll say it once and won’t dress it up for you.
You pry anyway. "How can you know that?"
"I just do." The certainty in his tone is not boastful. It’s the same tone he’d use to tell you the sky is dark and the ground is cold. It makes something inside you steady a little, containing your fear.
You rise, looking at his broad shoulders, how the fur on his pauldrons has caught the frost, and you feel an overwhelming need to thank him—not the hero. The man. You lean down, intending to press a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek.
But just as you move, a branch snaps in the distance. Xylo flinches, his head whipping around to check the sound at the exact second you lean in.
Your lips meet his instead.
The contact is a shock. His lips are soft and thin, and the warmth of them makes you want more. When you draw back slightly, you realise distantly that his hand is on your waist, steadying you where you stand.
"Oh... erm... sorry," he mutters, though his voice has shifted lower, and he’s still not pulled away.
He studies you—the tightness in your shoulders, the way your fingers have twisted in the fabric of your skirt, the small tremble that won’t leave you alone. His hand slides to cradle your jaw, thumb resting just beneath your ear, and he leans in again.
This time, the kiss deepens not in haste but in intention, gentle in a way that makes your pulse climb slowly rather than race. It occurs to you, suddenly, that a man like him might not have room in his life for this anymore—no time, no freedom, nothing that belongs to him alone. He draws you toward him, and you find yourself straddling his lap, your knees digging into the rough bark of the log. His cloak falls around your shoulders, enclosing you both in a small pocket of heat against the chill.
The physical reality of him is staggering. He’s all solid muscle and heavy gear. The leather straps of his chest plate press into your chest. He smells of old leather and iron and the faint, sharp bite of woodsmoke. Your fingers curl into the fur over his shoulders.
Your skirts gather higher as you settle, and you clearly feel the answering firmness between your thighs, pressing insistently against the fabric barriers between you. He exhales through his nose, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
"You should go back," he murmurs against your mouth.
You nod. "Yeah, I should."
But your hands find the straps at his waist, working them loose with trembling fingers while you keep your eyes on his. He groans, a low, frustrated sound, and hitches you closer, grinding you against him. His hands on your hips somehow feel safer than any canvas wall, safer even than your village ever did.
When he’s free, you guide him into you, the sensation steals a soft sound from your throat. He’s silent, save for the heavy sound of his breathing, but his head bows until his forehead rests against your shoulder.
You begin to move together in the dark, slow at first, adjusting to the stretch and heat, to the unfamiliar fullness that makes your thoughts blur into nothing. You lean back, your hands finding the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck. His hands direct you in subtle shifts, his hips thrusting upwards, ensuring the rhythm doesn’t falter. Still, his restraint is palpable—the strength in his grip, the way he reins himself in rather than driving into you. It is that control that makes you feel protected even now.
You can’t help the moan that slips from your lips.
"Quiet," he warns you gently, mindful of the sleeping camp behind you.
Each motion eases something knotted inside you. The fear that had clawed at your ribs recedes under the steady cadence of his body meeting yours. When you breathe his name, his eyes lock onto yours with a fierce intensity. He reaches up, his thumb pressing over your bottom lip, before he pulls you down for another bruising kiss.
It doesn’t take long for either of you to reach the edge. The tension between you finally gives way, the release catching both of you at the same time and rolling through your bodies in a shared shudder. It’s not frantic or violent. It feels, strangely, like peace.
You keep moving even after. Some stubborn part of you, trying to stretch the moment out before it disappears. His hands tighten on your hips then, steadying you, holding you there until your breathing begins to slow. You rest your chin against his furs, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath it.
He holds you like that for a while, still watching the treeline over your shoulder with one arm around your waist; never relinquishing vigilance. When you finally lift your head from his shoulder, you realise you have no idea how much time has passed.
You press a final kiss to his jaw. "I guess I really should get some sleep."
A faint hint of amusement touches his mouth. "Go."
You slip from his lap, smoothing your skirts, legs a little weak. As you step away, another figure slips out of the dark—pale-haired, freckled, and a little hunched at the shoulders, his gaze darting around the camp as if he’s waiting for something unpleasant to crawl out of the trees at any moment.
He stops a few paces away, glancing between you and Xylo before settling his attention on the latter.
"You’re still up?" He says quietly.
"Someone’s gotta keep watch," Xylo replies without looking at him.
The smaller man rubs the back of his neck, shifting on his feet. "Yeah, well… someone should probably take over."
"You?" Xylo finally glances his way. The doubt in the single word is unmistakable.
The man scowls faintly. "I can do it."
"You sure you’re not gonna start going through people’s packs?" Xylo says flatly.
"Hey! I said I can do it." The two stare at each other for a moment. The man straightens a little under the look, stubborn despite the nervous energy still twitching in his shoulders. "…Get some rest," he adds more quietly.
There’s a brief pause before Xylo pushes himself off the log.
You’ve nearly reached your tent when you hear his steps behind you. You pause, then turn, the tent flap still in your hand.
He stands a few paces away, half in shadow, the firelight catching the edges of his armour and the gold of his eyes. For a moment, he just looks at you, then the corner of his mouth lifts into a smile.
He tips his chin toward a smaller tent near the camp’s edge. "Come on."
Inside, the tent is dim and close, the noises of the camp reach you like they’re coming through thick cloth; distant, softened, not quite your concern. When you lie down, he settles behind you, solid and warm against your back, one arm heavy across your waist as if it belongs there. You wait for your thoughts to spiral back into that night, for your body to tense and listen.
But the silence stays ordinary.
For the first time since your home burned, you let the dark exist without fighting it. You let your eyes close without bracing for what comes next.
Ep 4 made me a total simp for Xylo. A man whose favourite hobby is reading. He even mentioned wanting to become a poet has he not joined the military. Damn...♥️
This breaks my heart because I think that, just for a moment there, he actually did forget. That’s why he was looking at her the way he did. It’s always been sad how being with Teoritta has brought everything back for Xylo about his time with Senerva, both good and bad. But in this instance it wasn’t just like a recall he’s had before and snapped out of, where we see her only in his mind’s eye. He really thought he saw her there, present in front of him which is why the shock was so great. Then, when his mind came back and he knew it was Teorritta, I think he felt genuine pain at making her cry and thinking he’d forgotten her so he lies and says he didn’t even though to me it appears he did, if only for a moment.
It’s a touching scene as it’s the first time he chooses to pat her and give her the praise she’s so longed for. Yet, at the same time, it’s bittersweet because it shows that over time, if Xylo continues to be damaged and fight like this, he could forget her for real and whatever bond they manage to forge may not last under the strain of the “hero” contract. This story is so good but I just want these two to have a happy father / daughter-esque ending, no more tragedies for them.
This breaks my heart because I think that, just for a moment there, he actually did forget. That’s why he was looking at her the way he did. It’s always been sad how being with Teoritta has brought everything back for Xylo about his time with Senerva, both good and bad. But in this instance it wasn’t just like a recall he’s had before and snapped out of, where we see her only in his mind’s eye. He really thought he saw her there, present in front of him which is why the shock was so great. Then, when his mind came back and he knew it was Teorritta, I think he felt genuine pain at making her cry and thinking he’d forgotten her so he lies and says he didn’t even though to me it appears he did, if only for a moment.
It’s a touching scene as it’s the first time he chooses to pat her and give her the praise she’s so longed for. Yet, at the same time, it’s bittersweet because it shows that over time, if Xylo continues to be damaged and fight like this, he could forget her for real and whatever bond they manage to forge may not last under the strain of the “hero” contract. This story is so good but I just want these two to have a happy father / daughter-esque ending, no more tragedies for them.
