a-hermit-pining

Reactions

LADS Men When You Move in with Them

LADS Men as Omegas (🫣😳)

LADS Men When They Betray You

LADS Men Role Reversal with Reader

LADS Men as Gamers

LADS Men React a Picture of You with Another guy

LADS Men React to You Being a Corporate Weapon

LADS Men If You Turn Evil

LADS Men React To Thinking You're Moving Out

LADS Men React to You Pining for Them

LADS Men React to You Being Different From Other Lifetimes

LADS Men in a Matriarchal Society

LADS Men Pretty Woman au

LaDS Men React To An Unexpected Pregnancy

LaDS Men React to Seeing You in Armor for the First Time

One Shots

Househusband Caleb

Gods Who Walk the Earth (Sylus x Reader)

A Reflection of Him (Sylus x Reader)

Worth a Wait (Rafayel x Reader)

Events

To create is the instinct of a species. To leave your mark, your future, etched into the world.

For eons, kings have fought for pure bloodlines. Wealth has been hoarded by the chosen few. Human instinct has evolved into a rhythm of survival.

Children are called a gift. Their smiles light up the stars. Their laughter makes the world feel less heavy.

But in this moment, you don’t feel it. You want to want what everyone else seems to adore. But you don’t. And something has to be wrong with you, right?

Even with the man of your dreams beside you, the thought of a child leaves a pit in your stomach.

He wasn’t supposed to find out like this. Not through a forgotten file buried in your chart. Not through data.

Hysterectomy consult: birth control prescribed. Tubal ligation: denied.

A single bullet point, barely a sentence:

You’d let it go.

Not because you were okay with that decision, but because you weren’t allowed to make it in the first place.

The world doesn’t listen when women say they don’t want children.

It edits them out quietly, then calls it kindness.

You’ll change your mind.

You’re just scared.

You’ll see.

Anything else is selfish. Flawed.

You're expected to mature into motherhood eventually. After you’ve done your time in the workforce. After you’ve proven yourself stable.

After you’ve stood shoulder to shoulder with the men long enough.

Women who don’t want children are broken.

Or so they say.

And now Zayne knows.

Everything.

The version of you no one was supposed to find.

You want to tell him you’re not broken. That you never wished to be infertile. That you don’t freeze because you’re cruel. You freeze because you’re terrified.

Of disappearing. Of loving until there’s nothing left of you.

Of being asked to give everything, again.

“You’d be an amazing mother,” they always say.

“You and Zayne would have the cutest babies,” they coo.

Friends hold up tiny baby shoes in shops and wink at you like it’s a joke everyone’s already in on.

So why don’t you feel it? They can’t all be wrong. So it must be you.

Zayne sits across the room, hunched over a file. Yours is next to it. Pages flutter in the open air, damning and pulling you with a force greater than gravity.

You walk to the window, grip the edge, and slam it shut.

“I don’t want kids.”

He doesn’t move.

“I don’t want them. Ever. I’m not going to change my mind.” Your voice cracks, but you keep going. “It won’t change. I know my heart. I know myself.”

Zayne stands. Quietly. He walks over. Then his hands are on your face. Warm and so steady. Like he’s done running the equation in his head, and the answer was always obvious.

“I do want them,” he says. “Always have.”

You flinch.

“But I want you more.” His tone is low. Final in its declaration.

“I’ve thought about it,” he adds. “Some version of a kid. One that’s... tolerable.”

You almost laugh.

He continues. “A small hand in mine. A laugh that sounds like both of us. Yeah, I think I’d be good at it.”

Your hand finds his wrist. “You would be.”

He nods. “I know.” Then he glances away, just briefly, before looking back. “But I’m not interested in building a future where I get to be a dad by losing you first. That’s not a win.”

Tears prick your eyes, uninvited.

“I chose you before I knew this. I’m choosing you now. And I’ll keep choosing you, even if there’s never a crib in the corner or a baby seat in the car.” He says it so simply, like he’s saying what kind of coffee he takes.

“You’re enough. Exactly as you are.”

Zayne reaches for your file, flipping through it with clinical precision. “It shouldn’t have ended up here,” he says. “In paperwork. You should’ve been heard the first time.”

His tone is measured. Professional even. But his eyes are darker than usual. His delicate brow furrowed. “We don’t get to erase someone’s autonomy just because we think we know better.”

He closes the file and sets it aside. Like he’s done with it. Done letting it speak for you.

“I’m not mad at you,” he adds. “I’m mad they made you think you had to hide it.” His hand finds your waist as he steps closer. And just like that, he understands. He just knows. He always knows.

“You’re not broken. You’re not selfish.”

A silence lingers.

Then, in that familiar, dry cadence: “I do want kids. Not loudly. Mostly small ones. Not too annoying.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

“But I want you more. And I’m not giving you up because we landed on different sides of a cultural default.” He lifts a brow. “Bad cost-benefit logic.”

You let out a laugh. A nervous yet blooming one.

He leans in, voice lower. “We’ll go back to Tyson. After the wedding. I’ll speak to him. He listens when I talk. Most people do.”

His hand settles on your lower back. “I want you to have that choice. Even if it’s no. Especially if it’s no.”

You rest your forehead against his chest. His other hand moves to the back of your head.

“I know myself,” you whisper.

“I know you too,” he murmurs.

You don’t scream anymore. No one wants to wake the twins before they choose to wake up.

You just pull him into a hug. “We can do this,” you whisper, patting his head like a tired golden retriever.

He nods against your shoulder, half-asleep already. “Yeah… after breakfast though. I think the baby wants pancakes.”

You sigh. Fifth time’s the charm. And probably the last time your birth control gets the benefit of the doubt.

Rafayel:

He was made for the woes and dramatics of pregnancy.

Rafayel is radiant and entirely unbothered by the chaos his body is stirring up. He preens under your fingers when you massage the stubborn knots from his shoulders.

Ethereal glow? Check.

Insane cravings? Check.

Artistic dreams? Absolutely.

His Pinterest boards? Overflowing. Photoshoot inspo. Gender-neutral flower crowns. Aesthetic stroller mods.

Sometimes he catches his reflection and gasps: “Look at me,” he whispers reverently. “I’m glowing like an angel even with morning sickness.”

And somehow… he really is.

When the baby kicks, he grabs your hand with wide eyes. “She felt my aura and responded,” he insists.

You don’t argue. Because you do not know what will greet you on the other side of offending him in this state.

Zayne:

You’re in the kitchen mixing brownie batter when Zayne groans from the couch. Classic.

Then he sits up, totally calm. “My water broke.”

You nearly throw the bowl. “What do you mean broke?”

“I’ve known for three hours,” he says casually. “Contractions are ten minutes apart. We should probably leave soon.”

You gape. “You’ve known this the whole time?”

He glances at the oven timer, unfazed. “I’m not leaving without the brownies.”

You blink. He gestures seriously. “They’re almost ready. I can push between batches.”

And sure enough, five minutes later, he’s striding to the car with foil-wrapped brownies and the calm of a man checking into a spa.

When the nurse asks when labor started, he shrugs: “Around whisking the yolks.”

Sylus:

Dragons lay eggs. There is no way he’s making you do that.

From the minute the hatching is confirmed, he’s in full fire-breathing mode. Fortifying the hideout. Stalking the perimeter.

Even before that, he’s a hormonal hurricane. Snapping at the twins. Glowering at colleagues. Suspiciously sniffling at the rom-com next to you.

So you better be the one to keep him grounded: Reminding him to eat. Pulling him back into bed when he insists on checking the security system for the 24th time.

When the baby finally arrives, the adrenaline fades. He crashes hard, snoring into your shoulder like a battle-worn knight returned home.

Caleb:

Twenty feet deep into therapy when he finds out.

Not the ideal timing.

But he keeps it. A secret. From you.

Long enough that it’s too late to do anything but ride it out.

Is he mentally stable enough to have a child? No.

Will he have the child? Absolutely.

There’s no way he’s giving up on your baby.

Your kid is the most protected person on Earth. Even more than you.

His pregnancy glow? Unmatched.

The world is grim. It is broken.

It tears itself apart beneath the hands of men.

And yet, It survives.

Not by miracle, But through the ones who stand in the wreckage, Look the dark in the eye, And drag light from within.

Once, Xavier was that light. The beacon. The golden standard. The sovereign they believed could save their world.

Until he lost everything.

Lost in the loops of time and space, He watched his comrades fall in a world not their own. Consumed, transformed into monsters, The very ones who once vowed to protect Philos.

He survived. They didn’t.

The world still called him hero, but he never answered to the name. Because what use is a world that calls you "hope" While the people you loved are ashes in your memory? What use is light, If it blinds you to the cost?

He asked himself that. Alone in orbit. Alone in silence. Questioning if he traded too much for a cause too small.

For you.

Because you weren’t the mission. You weren’t the world.

You were just one person. One life. And still, he would choose you every time.

There is no reality where he could let you suffer And not stand beside you.

He knows this now.

He’s known it in the field reports scrawled through blood and grief, In the missions that took him across worlds, In the firm grip of your sword hand, And the grief in your eyes that mirrors his own.

You are no longer Atlas, carrying the weight of a crumbling world alone.

In the wars that scorched a hundred years of sky, he was the general. And you, the one who charted his attacks.

He led the charge. But it was you who ensured his soldiers returned home. You tracked rations, terrain, timing, and loss. You didn’t leave room for variables. You couldn’t afford to.

They said you could see five moves ahead. That your battle maps could outwit even the gods. But they never spoke of how your hands shook after every mission.

Zayne wasn’t perfect. He was hopeful. A flaw, when the world bled. He dared to care. To defy orders and schemes.

There came a mission. A plan to rescue the prisoners of war from the Black Fort, a fortress said to devour light and memory.

You worked by candlelight, night after night, drawing maps in ink and calculation. You accounted for every guard, every gate, every risk.

You gave him a plan.

A flawless plan. A narrow path to salvation...if followed without fail.

“You can’t improvise,” you told Zayne. “Not this time. There are no extra moves. No room for mercy.”

He promised. He smiled that rare smile, the one meant to assure you. And then he left.

He never returned.

The reports came slow. Rumors slower.

Until your own boots carried you down the path he took, your steps moved more by grief than duty. You walked the length of the escape route. Every turn exactly as you had drawn it. Your plan was perfect, it should have worked. Then how did you go wrong?

And there, within the shattered walls of the prison, they lay.

All of them.

His men. Him. Nothing left but drops of blood on stone and steel.

They had almost made it. The plan had almost held.

Until the general saw a peasant chained in a deeper cell. A prisoner not counted. Not planned for. And the general, driven by mercy, by hope, by that same flaw you had tried to silence...broke from the plan.

“She chose me. Let her go. You only bring her pain. You are the reason for her misery.” The words are bitter, harsh. Cruel, even. But you don’t regret them.

Xavier falters. You catch the twitch in his brow. Your strikes have landed. “Return to Philos,” you say, your voice low. “Let me have her. Let me die with her.”

You plead, not for yourself, but for her. Your wife, who you know will love him, as she always has. Who will weep for you both. Who will die for the world.

You know the script. But this time...this one last time, you want to hold her until the end. To savor what little time you have. To let the world end, with her by your side.

Rafayel:

Eons of conflict, and behind it all, him. Not fate. Not chance. Rafayel. He doesn’t just compete for her love. He engineers your downfall.

In every lifetime, he plants the seeds. A whisper here. A lie there. A nudge, just enough to tip you into the villain's role. And by the time you realize it, she’s already looking at you like she doesn’t know who you are.

He’s not loud about it, he doesn’t need to be. He moves in shadows, the magnanimous god.

And the worst part? You used to trust him. Once, in a life now buried, he was your god. The one who bled life into your world. Into the beautiful seas of Lemuria.

He knows how to break you. Not with swords or bloodshed, but with doubt. Doubt in yourself. Doubt in her love.

You watch her slip through your fingers, convinced that you're the one hurting her, when it's always been him.

And when her blade pierces your chest, when your knees hit the earth, he’s there. Watching.

You die by her hand. She dies for his cause.

And he lives. Victorious, empty, and alone.

Zayne:

This is the kind of rivalry that never quite becomes one.

You both love her, deeply, selflessly, ruinously. And yet, neither of you can bring yourselves to hate the other for it.

In one life, you were heralds, voices of prophecy, fighting gods and monsters to keep her alive. Dying side by side to protect the only thing you both cared for. In yet another, you were strangers who bled together, until comradery overtook rivalry.

Lifetime after lifetime, you fight fate to protect her. And when everything collapses, and it always does, you find each other again. Not to fight. But to endure.

You’ve held him while he sobbed over her broken body. He’s carried you from burning cities, whispering, “Not yet. Not this time.”

And when the dust settles, when the stars fall and the timelines bend, there is a pact between you.

She will not be alone.

In the lifetime after this, and the one after that, and the one after that, you will find her. You will protect her.

And if fate allows… maybe you will even protect each other.

Sylus:

There is more heat between you and Sylus than you ever had with the woman you both claim to love.

You are rivals, yes. Enemies, sometimes. But there’s something deeper, humming beneath the surface.

He could have had you killed. Should have, many times over.

But Sylus is a competitive soul, a man who revels in the hunt. He doesn’t want to win easily. He doesn’t want her unless you lose. It’s not enough for her to love him. He wants her to stop loving you.

He wants to see the devastation in your eyes when she looks at him the way she once looked at you. Wants to hear your silence when she chooses him, again and again and again.

And the truth you won’t admit...even to yourself? You want to see it too. You want to see what you look like, reflected in his eyes.

But neither of you say it aloud. Because the game is still going. And neither of you want it to end.

Caleb:

You're dead queen/king/sovereign 🫂

jk

Caleb never lets you die. Not when there’s still data to extract.

You wake up with twenty chips embedded in your brain. One tracks your memory. One alters your pain tolerance. Another simulates entire lifetimes of loss just to see how you’ll break.

He logs your screams, tears, breaths. Compares timelines. Runs tests. Does love make you more resilient? How many deaths before you beg for one more chance to see her?

He doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t love you either. You’re just a specimen. A pattern in motion.

But the worst of it, the one that rots behind your teeth even after you wake, is the Skyhaven timeline. In Skyhaven, he enjoyed it.

The pain he once endured in the EVER labs. The pain she endured alongside him. He replicates it perfectly. The restraints. The panic. The silence. He almost records it for her.

No lab coat. No false detachment. Just Caleb, smiling as he tears you apart with his bare hands, laughing at the way you still crawl back for her. As if love could outmatch his precision.

“I’m dating you.”

You wave him off. “Yeah, yeah. Obviously. But like, if I weren’t in the picture.”

“If you weren’t in the picture,” he cuts in, “I’d be grieving. Not dating my best friend.”

“That’s what makes it tragic.” You look genuinely moved. “The yearning. The ‘we can’t, not like this’ kind of tension. Ugh. Peak heartbreak.”

He stares at you. “Do you… want me to date Jeremiah?” he asks slowly.

“No! No, of course not.” You pause. “But if you did, I’d support you.”

“I don’t want to date him.”

You nod thoughtfully. “That’s exactly what someone would say in chapter three of a slow burn.”

He sets his fork down. “Are you shipping me. With Jeremiah. In real life.”

“I mean, I already made a playlist.”

There’s a long silence.

“You made a playlist,” he repeats, flat.

You smile. “It’s mostly indie songs about repressed longing. Want me to send it to you?”

“I’m not listening to music that implies I’d cheat on you with our mutual friend.”

You shrug. “It’s not cheating if it’s well-written.”

Xavier exhales through his nose. “You need new hobbies.”

You sip your drink again, completely unbothered. “You and Jeremiah. Endgame.”

He stares at you, soul slowly leaving his body.

Rafayel:

He had a fan.

The chart-breaking singer who wrote song after song about his sweet-sounding muse, artistic muse.

A very public proclamation… for your boyfriend.

Not that you were afraid of the competition.

On the contrary, you were a woman of culture.

The OTP was blooming beautifully on AO3. A perfect balance of raunchy and angst fics. And the fan edits? Chef’s kiss.

You reveled in the supreme ship, even when the fandom cast you as the evil Ursula keeping the poor merman away from his one true love.

“It’s SeA GoD’s BrIdE! Not GROOM” Rafayel cries, pointing at your screen like it’s cursed. “And apparently, I’m just a side character in my own love story now?”

He collapses, devastated. “Do I not bleed? Do I not suffer? Where is my POV chapter?”

He drops onto the couch beside you with a dramatic sigh. “Go back to the first chapter,” he mutters petulantly.

Zayne:

“Hi, nice to meet you. This is my boyfriend Zayne, and his boyfriend Greyson,” you mutter to yourself, smiling as you walk in on Zayne and Greyson passed out on your couch again.

Meal prepping? Greyson’s there. Going on a date? Greyson calls with an emergency. You’re sick? Worry not, homewrecker Greyson will be there, putting a suspiciously caring hand on your boyfriend’s shoulder.

You let out an evil little cackle at the soap opera unfolding in your head. Then, dramatically, you mix the poison (his favorite electrolytes) into the older doctor’s water.

“No longer shall you sully my hearth, wench,” you whisper, relishing in your villain era.

Only to look up and see Zayne watching you, one brow arched in concern.

“I’m unsure if this demands I be flattered or concerned, love.”

And, to your dismay, he drinks the poison (flavored water) you prepared for the wench.

Sylus:

“Now kiss.”

That’s the first thing you say after walking in on your husband and the opposing faction leader glaring at each other. Noses inches apart, tension practically radiating off their bodies.

They both turn to you.

Sylus looks at you like you’re the crazy one. The enemy looks equally flustered and defensive.

“I would be offended,” you say sweetly, “but the two of you are doing God’s work, bringing mob boss enemies-to-lovers BL to life.”

“This is my wife,” Sylus says, deadpan.

The enemy looks skeptical.

“That means nothing,” you grin. “Do continue.”

You kiss Sylus on the cheek and gesture encouragingly with a manic twinkle in your eye.

The enemy clears his throat again, now visibly unsure what reality he’s standing in.

You smile. “Well? What are you waiting for? Make a deal or make out. I’m starving.”

Caleb:

“Hold still,” you bark, furiously sketching on your tablet. “Yes. Good. Now blush.”

You draw the flushed cheeks in with precision.

“Can you do the face, Gideon?”

Your friend obliges, pulling the sultriest expression known to mankind.

“I won’t be the bottom. Not again!” Caleb complains, shifting where he sits.

“Act like that and you’ll never escape the allegations,” you mutter, unbothered.

“No. I refuse. I want to be the top!”

You raise a brow, barely glancing up from your sketch.

“Bottoms are prettier.”

That shuts him up.

Done with your part of the meeting. A soft flush crept across your cheeks, your brow furrowed as you stared down at your notes.

Xavier reached over and took your hand in his. "That was funny," he whispered.

Your exasperated look said everything, he was a terrible liar, and you both knew it.

Rafayel:

"I too love birds," you gush to the random art curator at his exhibition. "Oh, peacocks? My favorite. That’s why I’m with Rafayel."

He doesn’t interrupt. The offense of being compared to a damn bird robs Rafayel of any urge to rescue you.

Not even when you are, in truth, the farthest, most avian-averse person alive.

Even as the curator starts making birdwatching plans with you, you shoot Rafayel a look. A clear signal for help.

He promptly turns his back, suddenly engrossed in conversation with Thomas, as if he’d been listening to the man all along.

Zayne:

You should have known. Heavens, you were a fool. You’re standing in Zayne’s office, arms folded, still mildly annoyed about the coffee spill. Black shirt. Black pants.

Across from you stands Zayne. Black shirt. Black pants. You make eye contact. Neither of you says a word. You’re twinning.

Then someone knocks. “Dr. Zayne? They need you upstairs for a consult." He sighs and gestures for you to follow. “You’re already here. Might as well come.”

You regret it the second you walk into the pediatric ward. Bright, loud, and filled with witnesses.

A little girl spots you instantly. “Mommy! Are they siblings? Did their mommy dress them matching like you do for me and Eli?”

Immediate soul death.

Zayne stiffens. You forget how to breathe. He turns to clarify. “We’re not siblings.”

You nod. “Not related.”

The mom smiles. The girl keeps staring.

“Just friends,” Zayne adds.

“Very casual friends,” you blurt. “Situational,” you tack on.

Zayne glances at you. “You sound guilty.”

“I’m trying to sound normal.”

“You’re failing.”

The receptionist snorts. Someone behind the counter is definitely texting about you.

“She’s just visiting,” Zayne says.

“Temporarily,” you add. Now it sounds like a custody agreement.

The girl waves sweetly. “Byyyyye, twins!”

Sylus:

You were tracking a Wanderer.

What you found instead was Sylus in an apron, a straw hat, and bright yellow crocs, standing behind a neatly arranged fruit cart.

“…Sylus?”

He looks up. “Skye.”

You approach cautiously. “Are you selling fruit?”

“I’m blending in.”

“At a farmer’s market?”

He picks up a mango. “Everyone has to be something.”

You stare. “You’re in crocs.”

“They're tactical.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I didn’t know you had calves.”

He blinks. “Most people do.”

“I mean—not in a weird way, it’s just...your pants are short. Not judging. Or staring. Or anything.”

He silently hands a banana to a passing child.

You lower your voice. “Is this for a mission?”

“Not anymore. I ran out of mission. But the fruit’s doing well.”

He gestures to a hand-written sign: TRY OUR BEST CITRUS OR LEAVE IN SHAME

You reach for a tangerine, trying to look normal.

Sylus watches. “Careful. That one bites.”

You hesitate. “Are you serious?”

He doesn’t answer. Just rearranges a basket of pears with quiet precision.

You sigh. “I hate this.”

Without looking up, he replies, “Good. That means it’s working.”

Caleb:

Recipes. YouTube channels. Basil preferences. Caleb and the woman were deep in it.

You stood nearby, half-leaning into the spice rack, trading stiff smiles with the woman’s husband. Two unwilling hostages. Pasta aisle purgatory.

Then Caleb said it. “You bored?” Just loud enough to put in the spot.

You forced a smile. “No, it’s… fascinating. I didn’t even know there were that many types of tomatoes.” You gestured weakly at the spice rack. “Oregano’s great. I, uh… always mess up nutmeg. And I hate black pepper.”

You were still rambling when your elbow clipped the rack. Not hard. Just enough.

A tiny clink. A wobble. Then, disaster. Spice jars tumbled like judgment day. Thyme. Paprika. Bay leaves. Glass. Chaos.

One jar nailed Caleb’s shoulder. Another bounced off the woman’s sandal. Her husband took a hit to the chest. Rosemary, full speed.

A tub of Italian seasoning burst mid-air, raining herbs in slow motion. A bottle of cumin rolled into the next aisle like it, too, wanted to escape.

Somewhere, a child gasped. Then, softly: “Oh my god.”

Caleb turned. Parsley flakes on his sleeve. A jar still in his hand.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. You closed it again.

Even the overhead music had paused.

He is absent, always off leading noble quests. Too absent to know you. Too absent to be a father.

So you grow to resent the perfect hero. And in turn, you become the opposite. The disappointment. The failure.

And Xavier, in his absence, becomes a stranger. He does not know the child he left behind to save the world. He does not understand your bitterness.

It is a painful dynamic. Full of shame, confusion, resentment, and unfailing love.

You realize it too late. You get too little of him. The scraps of a man who was supposed to be your father, not just the world’s hero.

Rafayel:

He’s a handful.

A swirling mess of sighs, complaints, and passive-aggressive commentary about the “crushing burden of fatherhood.” The kind of man who gives you breakfast and a guilt trip in the same breath.

He’s also the kind of dad who says he “doesn’t believe in controlling you” right after emotionally blackmailing you into staying home.

Everything is a performance. Everything is layered.

He pouts when you don’t tell him things. He disappears when you need him to stay. He loves you too loudly, and listens too little.

You grow up juggling his moods like knives. Never sure when the jokes will cut, or when the praise will tighten into a leash.

He keeps you close. Too close. Always wrapped in the silken web of “I’m doing this for you.”

And when your powers manifest, the mask finally cracks. He stares at you like you’ve already been taken from him.

“I should’ve sealed them off,” he says, hands trembling. “I should’ve kept you safe. You don’t know what this means...” He spirals.

It is then that you see him. Not the god, the artist, the man of theatrics. Just your father. Terrified, flawed, and breaking open at the seams.

You could hate him for it. But you don’t. You’ve never known how to hate him.

He is your loving, infuriating, catastrophically imperfect father. Still hurting from a past he never let you carry.

Zanye:

He is the most dedicated father alive.

Soft kisses when you were little. Packed lunches. Quiet good mornings. He loves you so much.

He makes the world gentler just for you.

Yes, he’s strict sometimes. Yes, he expects a lot.

But you feel his love in every peeled fruit. In every violin concert he never misses. In the silent tears he shed the first time you displayed his powers.

He is quiet. Constant and steady. And it would be easy to mistake that for coldness. For distance. But Zayne won’t allow that.

He tries his best. He learns the slang (uses it wrong 97% of the time). He carves time from nowhere to stay close to you.

He treasures you. Because you exist, in this world so different from the ones in his nightmares as the Dawnbreaker.

He doesn’t say anything when people mention how alike you are. But he smiles to himself later, when no one’s looking.

If Zayne is your dad, you probably have the least amount of issues.

Relatively.

Sylus:

Let’s be real. The issues are loud and unignorable.

He is a high-profile criminal. And as his child, you’re the perfect leverage.

Which means you’ve faced kidnapping attempts. Assassination plots. Blackmail. Manipulation.

You’ve seen him drenched in blood. You’ve seen him eliminate threats without hesitation.

He is your shield. Your terror. Your safety.

But it’s too much for a fragile heart.

You are afraid of him. Afraid of raised voices. Afraid of his anger, even when it isn’t aimed at you.

Your relationship is messy.

After a particularly close call, he sends you away. To a hidden safehouse. Away from enemies. From friends. From him.

And that breaks something.

He loves you more than anything. But he fails to make it feel real.

You resent him for the distance, yet spend years checking news, chasing rumors, trying to be sure that he’s still alive.

Trying to reach him. Even when he doesn’t reach back.

It is painful. It is heartbreaking.

You both have issues. And neither knows how to fix them.

Caleb:

It starts perfect. He is the most doting father. You are his baby. His precious. His pride and joy. Inside jokes. Special snacks. Saturday craft projects.

You have the best childhood. He is your best friend.

Until he isn’t. Until you hit your awkward teenage years. Until the fights start; about clothes, curfews, partners, privacy.

You snap. He snaps back.

He checks your phone. Grounds you for talking back. Fights your choices with desperation disguised as discipline.

God help the first person you date. He terrifies them into fleeing.

So you push him away. And he fights harder to hold on.

Sweet childhood memories rot under the weight of arguments and silence.

He just wanted to be your whole world. He didn’t know how to let go.

Eventually, there is distance. Then no contact. Then snacks left in your dorm fridge when no one’s looking.

He keeps tabs. Quietly. He waits. For years.

And when you finally hug him again. Older, wiser, softer, he all but breaks.

You were superior. How could he not see that?

You yank the sword away with a pointed glare, trying to refocus him.

"And the mask..." Xavier murmurs, fingers brushing reverently over the ornate piece sprawled across the coffee table. "So beautiful."

He looks up at you with those ridiculous doe eyes, the pout already forming. "Wear it for me, please?"

Your throat goes dry. God damn it.

With a dramatic grumble, you snatch the mask and pull it on. "There," you say, voice muffled slightly. "Happy now?"

Xavier lets out an actual gasp. "Lumiere..." he breathes, like you just descended from the heavens.

You blink at him. "You know it's me, right?"

He waves a hand, starry-eyed. "Shh. Don't ruin it."

Zayne:

"Can't you..." You pause, hands lifted in a vague gesture. "I don't know. Fight in moderation?"

You look at Zayne.

The hunter stares back, deadpan. The sleeve of his shirt is rolled up. New scars, deeper ones this time.

"Would you rather I kill wanderers softly? With snow, instead of ice?" he snorts, clearly not too injured to be sarcastic.

Hunched over his arm, you look up and raise a brow. "Really? That’s not what I meant, Zayne."

"You have to be careful. You can't keep doing this. Listen to the pain. It’s the voice of your body." You fold your arms, meeting his defiant gaze. "Don't make me admit you for longer."

At that, the said hunter sits up straight, eyes wide. "You wouldn’t..." he whispers, genuinely afraid.

"Oh, I absolutely will." You grin, typing away the miraculous recovery report that will leave him under your supervision for the entire week.

Rafayel:

The sudden hubbub in the middle of your exhibition announces your beloved.

Hunter armor, poorly hidden beneath a dramatic coat. Muddy boots on pristine marble floors. A sight destined to send Thomas spiraling.

After getting distracted by five different displays, Rafayel finally makes his way to you. He slumps into your arms, entirely unbothered by the small crowd gathered around to hear you speak about your work.

Well, work can wait.

Smiling politely at the most elite of Linkon society, you continue your far more important task: flooding your beloved with attention.

"Long day?" you whisper against his cheek, your hands already checking for blood or bruises.

He squirms when you brush his ticklish sides and buries his face in your neck. "Do not get me started," he whines, pulling you closer like the drama he is.

Behind him, you catch Thomas glaring at you both.

You smile wider.

Sylus:

He was in your area again.

That annoying, smug hunter, hellbent on dying in Zone N109 and dragging the entire Hunter’s Organization to your doorstep when he did.

So, before he could sabotage more of your carefully constructed plans, you did what any reasonable leader of Onichynus would do.

You kidnapped the damn hunter.

Technically, Luke and Keiran were the ones who carried the mountain of a man into your home.

Now he was unconscious and hidden in your guest room.

Did the entire situation set off every alarm in your body? Absolutely.

Was there anything to be done about it? Not until he woke up.

And when he did, you were going to give him a piece of your mind, starting with the fact that you, in fact, did not kill his brother and grandmother.

Caleb:

He was there. In the crowd. Wearing the Fleet uniform.

Your heart lurched when your eyes met his. Wide. Frozen. Like he was seeing a ghost.

The ghost he’d mourned next to your grandmother. The ghost everyone assumed was dead.

You.

And now he was here. Walking into the fire you tried so hard to keep him away from.

By the time you left the runway, you were simmering. Ready to grab him by the collar and drag him somewhere private to yell, to scream, to ask him why he came.

But then you saw him up close.

How pale he looked. How hollow his cheeks were. How tired his eyes had become.

Had he not been eating? Not sleeping?

You clenched your fists.

How dare he let grief wear him down.

And together, you defeat the wanderers with the power of your yapping and his sword.

There’s a reason you’re paired with him, the best hunter in the Association.

A truly shameless ploy by Captain Jenna to make you come to work more often.

"Did you see that?!" you gasp, flinging your arms wide. "I nearly perished, Xavier. Slain in the prime of my beauty!" He hums, cleaning his blade. "You tripped over your own foot." “It’s called flair, Xavier." He glances at you, expression fond. "Of course."

Zayne:

His residents are always the happiest to see you coming.

Every sniffle or faint cough has you booking the VIP room and requesting, very seriously, that Zayne be the one to check on you.

It gives the students a rare chance to relax in your room, running all the very necessary scans that any flu patient clearly requires.

They’ve mastered the art of hiding their laughter. Even when they walk in to find their senior feeding you fruit, or when Dr. Zayne offers what he insists is medical-grade cuddle therapy.

More than once, they’ve hidden you from a furious Captain Jenna as she storms in to drag you back to work.

Doctor’s notes are a currency you carry in abundance.

"This isn’t real medicine," Zayne mutters, tucking a blanket around your shoulders. "It’s preventative care," you reply, mouth full of grapes. "If I get stressed, my symptoms worsen. You said that last week." "...I did say that," he admits peeling another orange for you.

Caleb:

He is the ultimate enabler.

The reason you are the most spoiled, poutiest person alive.

Scraped your knee? Caleb will hold your hand all the way to the hospital.

He is the reason your standards for men are off the charts. Because apparently, cooking only your favorite meals isn’t something everyone does?

Wild.

"You’re babying me," you mumble, lip quivering as he bandages your barely-there scratch. "You’re my baby," he says calmly, kissing your forehead. "...Fair," you whisper, holding out the other knee.

Sylus:

Sylus is scary.

But you are terrifying.

Everyone in Onichynus knows it.

The sweet, innocent kitten with claws everyone has learned to fear.

Where Sylus is brute force, you are strategy. The slow poison of sweet smiles and shining eyes.

Contracts fall apart after a well-timed wink. Rules rewritten without resistance. No one dares question it.

Kieran and Luke, of course, have loved every second. Because you, and only you, have made their boss stumble over his words.

All it took was a pout.

"You’re doing it again," Sylus mutters under his breath. "Doing what?" you ask, all wide eyes and soft lips. "That... face." "Oh no," you whisper, hand to your chest. "Not the face."

Rafayel:

Librarians hate to see you both coming. Truly.

The end of the world begins with this pairing.

He pouts. You pull the sullen voice.

He sighs in melancholy. You launch into soliloquies of existential woe.

And Thomas is now a bald man.

Absolutely no work gets done. Ever.

Foes have given up. EVER crumbles. Plotlines collapse.

Because two drama queens are in love, and nothing can survive that.

The ultimate fix-it.

Xavier could not fight that. He could not keep you close just make you miserable.

If you could not love a man, Xavier would become your friend.

One minute he was pulling you away from a trashed apartment, pulling you in his arms as you sobbed, next minute, you were on his couch, your lips on his.

He did not know you could love him. Like this. That, in this lifetime, he could be someone you craved. Desired.

But he had been wrong...so very wrong.

And it did not take long to rectify his ignorance...explicitly with unmatched eagerness.

Rafayel:

Rafayel told himself he would resist. That if you ever came crawling back, he would turn his face away and let the sea swallow your pleas. He told himself he would deny you the love you had spurned.

He wished he could.

But when you collapsed into his arms, trembling and undone, he did not hesitate.

Anger seethed beneath his skin. Resentment sharpened his every breath. You had chosen another. You had left him waiting, aching, cursing the hollow place where you should have stood.

And yet, even as that bitterness coiled inside him, he was smiling. Giddy, almost drunk on the simple fact of you against him. His arms tightened, covetous. You were here. Finally, you were here.

“I should cast you into the deep for making me wait,” he murmured, his voice sharp and wavering. "You are an idiot."

His grip did not loosen. Instead, his thumb traced the line of your jaw, reverent, possessive.

“But look at me,” he laughed, low and unsteady. “Holding you as though I will never let go. Do you see what you do to me?”

“I told you,” he hissed. “I told you he would fail you. That no one would love you as I do. But you...” his hand pressed against your chest, his bond flaring in response, “—you had to learn it the hard way.”

Silence stretched, filled only by the sound of your breath and the faint echo of the waves beyond the stone walls.

Then, softer, almost boyishly, he bent close again. “Never again,” Rafayel whispered. “Do you hear me? Never again. You are mine now. Even if I must remind you every day with a thousand ‘I told you so’s.’”

Zayne:

He was never there.

For the longest time, your husband, Ian, was nothing more than a fading tint at the edge of your life.

An absent father to your daughter, Alice. A man who never came to the pediatrics appointments, who was never there for the long nights of coughing fits or fever spikes.

Sure, the world saw family photos on your socials. Smiling faces, posed and polished. But Zayne had never seen the man in person, not since your wedding day.

And then, one day, Ian was simply gone.

So Zayne filled the void he left.

He stood by you during the endless hospital stays when Alice declined. Made a bed for you in his office so you wouldn’t have to drive home in the dark. Held you when the divorce papers arrived, and when grief and exhaustion threatened to break you.

He saved you, not with grand gestures, but with presence. With patience. With the certainty that if you leaned, he would catch you.

He sat beside you, explaining meds and dosages, the nutrition charts and the careful diet. And when your hands shook too much, he delivered them himself.

Neither of you noticed when he became her father. Not at first. Not until Alice’s small hand reached for his instead of yours, or when she called his name in the middle of the night.

It happened long before he became your boyfriend.

Perhaps Alice knew better than either of you. She always did.

Sylus:

He was everywhere.

Picking up your things from your ex’s apartment? He pulled up right behind you.

“Figured you’d need moral support,” he said, already grabbing a box you’d rather he didn’t read the label on.

Later, when you made a grief-fueled snack run in the middle of the night, he was already at the counter with your favorite ice cream. “What a tragic coincidence,” he grinned.

He walked you home, made himself comfortable on your couch, and never technically invited himself in.

He didn’t press. Not really. But his shoulder always seemed too close. His smiles, a tad too wide.

And whenever you glared at him, he just leaned closer, teasing all the bounds he once followed out of respect for your relationship.

“You know,” he said one night, stealing the blanket halfway through a movie, “if this is your villain origin story, I’m fully available as your morally flexible sidekick.”

You snorted. “You mean emotional support criminal?”

“Exactly. With great abs and better taste than your last mistake.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t deny it.

Then, as the room went quiet, he tossed a stray popcorn kernel in the air, caught it, and added, casual, like he was commenting on the weather, “If he so much as texts you again, I’m breaking his knees.”

He didn’t even look at you. Just sipped his drink, eyes on the screen.

“I’m kidding,” he said, a beat later. “Mostly.”

Caleb:

Don't be delusional.

You do not date others while this man breathes.

Your exes are a concept more fictional than this fic.

It glimmered faintly now in his hand. The voice came again, faint and trembling, as if afraid it no longer had the right to speak. “…Sea god?” The word barely reached his mind, soft and unsure.

It is I, Rafayel answered the bond. His voice was steady, though his hands were not. His eyes blurred, not from time, but from memory.

The dagger pulsed once. Its presence flickered, uncertain. "I didn’t mean to hurt her," it said. "I told her no. I said stop. But she didn't listen."

A pause, small and scared. "I didn’t understand what she was doing. I didn’t know what dying meant."

It faltered. "She pulled me to her heart. I felt her go. I didn’t want her to go."

Rafayel closed his eyes. He could still see it. Her face, bright even in death. The way she had chosen it. The way he hadn’t been able to stop her.

"Are you mad at me?" the dagger asked.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm not."

"I was scared," it whispered. "And then you left. You put me in the dark, and I thought I did something wrong."

"You didn’t," Rafayel said. "You were just born. None of it was your fault."

The dagger’s light dimmed, shrinking as if trying to vanish into his hand. "Are you going to put me back?"

Rafayel looked down at it. No longer a weapon, just a small, frightened soul that had been alive for only a moment before it learned what loss was. He held it gently.

"No," he said. "You’ve been alone long enough."

The blade gave a small hum. Barely audible. "...Can I stay with you?"

Rafayel nodded, voice thick in his throat. "As long as you want."

Xavier:

The last of the Wandered screeched as Xavier buried Eversoul to the hilt in its chest. There was a spark, a flash of wanderer evol, and silence.

Then the sword began to hum. “Did you see that one? It exploded! Do you think the next one will explode? I hope it does. Can we find more? Can we go now? I’m hungry again.”

Xavier yanked the blade free and sighed. “You just ate.”

“I know, but it was a small one. Barely a snack. More like... a nibble. I want a feast! A banquet of bad things!”

“Stop calling them that.”

“But they’re bad! And you always kill bad things. So that means I’m helping, right?”

“You're helping. Just... stop humming.”

“But it’s the victory song! Do you not like my singing?”

“Eversoul. You don’t have a mouth.”

The blade paused, then said; with great thought, “Then where does my voice come from?”

Ignoring the ramblings of Eversoul, Xavier stepped into another energy field.

Zayne:

"Let go of me," the staff roared, its handle frosting over with biting cold. It resisted his grip like a living thing.

"You have betrayed me, Foreseer. You are no longer worthy," the voice echoed. Too much like his own. "Be gone."

Zayne clenched his jaw and pressed his hand tighter around the freezing metal. "You can’t hide, Heraial. Not anymore."

Frost cracked under his fingers as he forced the staff to stay. "It’s time you returned. Time you did what you were forged to do, as the Staff of this tower."

"You stole my Protocore," Heraial thundered. The frost dissolved into heat; the handle burned now, blistering his skin. "You betrayed us. You are no longer my wielder."

All around them, the tower trembled. The sky outside was bleeding fire. And yet, Zayne stood here. Arguing with a staff. He didn’t feel anger. He couldn’t afford it. Not now.

Not when, in touching Heraial, he realized the full weight of what he’d done. The pain this weapon, this companion, had endured when he shattered their bond to save the one he loved.

"I’m sorry," Zayne said quietly. "But the world is ending. And your grievances… they come second." He closed his eyes, and willed.

The staff fought. Twisting. Rejecting. But it was weakened. Worn by the centuries, frayed by heartbreak. It resisted, but Zayne endured. At last, it solidified in his grasp. He gasped. Not from pain, but the sudden, unbearable quiet.

The one he had heard after so long. His staff was quiet. Scared of it's wielder. The one who had once destroyed in saving his lover.

Heraial was silent. The voice he had not heard in lifetimes, gone.

And in that silence, Zayne understood. The staff wasn’t defiant anymore. It was afraid. Afraid of the one who had once wielded it.

Sylus:

"Boss! Boss! Boss!"

The pistols practically squealed with joy as Sylus pulled them from the display case. A dozen high voices echoed in his mind, overlapping like a crowd trying to speak all at once.

"Easy. One at a time." He chuckled, bringing them to the table with the rest of his gear.

“We knew you’d come back!”“You always come back!”“We got dusty! Do we still shine? Do we still shift?”“Watch! Watch!”

The pistols pulsed in his hands, their metal warping with a ripple of light. One melted into the shape of a curved dagger, the other twisted into a shortbow, then a sword, then back to pistols again — quicksilver transformations.

“Still showing off,” Sylus muttered, smirking as he wiped them down.

“You’re proud of us!”“You missed us!”“He did, he did!”

You perch over the edge of the table, eyes wide. "They speak?!" you gasp. "Your guns speak... Are they even guns?"

“Hunter!”“It’s the hunter!”“Do we look good?”

The weapons chirped as they shifted again, metal flowing smoothly to reshape themselves for your grip. One handle curled to match the lines of your palm, the other narrowed, sleek and balanced.

They hummed, almost purring.

“Fit good?”“We can fix! We can fix!”“Do you like us?”

Sylus raised an eyebrow. “Now they’re showing off for you.”

Caleb:

"You must not. You must not." The spacecraft under Caleb’s command resisted.

“Not... hurt human. Not correct. Not allowed.” Its voice stuttered, deep sound cracking against the soft edges of human speech. But still, it resisted. Refusing Caleb’s command.

“Not hurt,” it said again. Slower now. As if testing the shape of the thought.

It would not fire on the colony beneath them.

The words, halting, broken, cut through everything. They silenced the overriding commands from EVER. They dulled the alarms. Muted the blinking alerts. Drowned out the distant voices in his earpiece.

For a moment, Caleb floated inside the stillness.

He should fight this. He could. He had override codes. He had rank. Authority.

But he didn’t want to fight. He wanted to listen. To obey the will of a ship that had learned to listen so well to him.

So Caleb let go. Of the control column. Of the orders. Of the war grinding its way toward the stars.

He let Argentum choose.

The ship gave a low, unsteady rumble. Approving of it's small victory. “Colonel is... breathing. Unwell. Not enemy,” Argentum said. Then, quieter: “Sleep now.”

The lights dimmed. The cushions beneath them adjusted with a quiet hiss. The power thrum in the walls dropped to a soft, steady murmur.

Caleb leaned back into the seat, breath slowing. Muscles uncoiling.

Argentum wrapped the cockpit in silence. Not machine silence, but protective quiet.

“Rest,” Argentum said. “I will hold. I will hold.”

And Caleb, for the first time in weeks, closed his eyes.