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hii!!! i really enjoy your works and wanted to request the LaDS men with an MC who has anorexia/is in the early stages of anorexia recovery. Im recovering myself but unfortunately with most EDs relapse happens a lot, even 2 years after recovery, but things do look better in time! If this is a request you are not comfortable writing i understand given the subject matter! Please dont feel forced to write about it. I hope you have a wonderful day and I look forward to your next works! (⑅•ᴗ•⑅)
Hello and thank you so much for the request! I hope your recovery is still going well, and you can find some comfort in this fic!
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Xavier:
Some days you were able to finish a meal without thinking too hard about it. Other days, the sight of food alone made your chest tighten painfully. He didn't like how you called those moments failures. He knew how strong you were.
Tonight, he arrived at your apartment carrying takeout containers from your favorite restaurant, smiling softly as he set everything onto the counter. “I remembered you liked this place,” he said.
The smell hit you immediately, heavy and overwhelming. Your stomach twisted uneasily.
Xavier noticed the shift in your expression almost instantly. “Starlight?”
You looked down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I know I should just eat it, I just…” You swallowed hard. “I can’t right now.”
“Alright,” he said gently, thinking of his words to make sure nothing triggered. “Then what sounds manageable?”
You blinked. “What?”
“What would feel safe right now?” he asked softly. “Sweet? Salty? Warm? Something small?”
Guilt curled painfully in your chest. “Xavier, you already bought dinner. I don’t want to be difficult.”
“You are not difficult.” His response came immediately.
He stepped closer, voice quieter now. “Eating something uncomfortable just because you think you should is not kindness to yourself.”
Your eyes burned slightly at how easily he said it.
Xavier picked up his phone without hesitation. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured. “I’ll order it.”
You hesitated before quietly naming something simple. Something safe.
“Done,” he said after placing the order, then moved to sit beside you on the couch. “And while we wait,” he added softly, “you can stop apologizing for needing care.”
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Zayne:
Zayne approached your recovery the same way he approached medicine.
Formulaically and carefully.
He understood quickly that large meals overwhelmed you. The portions alone could send you spiraling before you even picked up a fork, and pushing too hard only made things worse.
So he adapted.
Instead of heavy plates piled too high, he prepared smaller meals throughout the day. Protein-rich soups. Rice bowls portioned carefully. Smoothies with added nutrients you didn't notice. Things easy on your stomach while still giving your body what it needed.
“You do not need to force yourself into discomfort to recover,” he told you one evening while setting a small plate in front of you.
You stared down at it cautiously. “This is…less than usual.”
“That is intentional,” he replied calmly. “Your body is still adjusting. Smaller portions are easier physically and mentally.”
You looked up at him uncertainly. “You don’t think I should just push through it?”
Zayne shook his head once. “Recovery built on fear rarely lasts.”
He sat beside you while you ate, not watching closely enough to make you nervous, but present enough that you never felt alone with it either.
“You deserve to feel safe while nourishing yourself,” he said quietly after a moment. “I am not interested in forcing you. I am interested in helping you heal.”
Your throat tightened. Sometimes recovery felt humiliating. Fragile. Like your life revolved around food in ways you hated.
But Zayne never made you feel childish for struggling. Instead, he treated every small victory seriously. Every finished meal. Every honest conversation. Every difficult day survived.
And slowly, with his guidance beside you, recovery stopped feeling impossible.
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Rafayel:
Rafayel noticed the way you looked at mirrors long before you realized he was watching.
It wasn't casual glances. Not normal self-consciousness.
You stared too long. Pinched at your skin. Turned sideways repeatedly like you were trying to find something wrong with yourself, something no one else could see.
And lately, it had gotten worse.
Recovery had put a small amount of weight back onto your body, enough for your doctor to be relieved, enough for Rafayel to quietly celebrate. But every time you caught your reflection now, your expression twisted into something devastated.
One afternoon, he found you standing frozen in front of the mirror in his studio, fingers digging into your waist.
“You’re staring again,” he said softly.
You flinched immediately. “I look huge.”
Rafayel’s face fell.
“Cutie,” he murmured carefully, “you really believe that, don’t you?”
Tears burned behind your eyes. “I know it sounds ridiculous.”
“No,” he said gently. “It sounds painful.”
Later, he spread a large sheet of paper across the floor of his studio and handed you charcoal. “Draw what you think your body looks like.”
You hesitated, embarrassed, but eventually drew.
The outline you drew was much larger than reality.
Rafayel said nothing about it. He simply guided you carefully into the center of the drawing before tracing the actual outline of your body around you.
When he stepped back, your breath caught painfully.
The difference was staggering.
Your knees nearly gave out as tears spilled down your cheeks. “I don’t understand,” you whispered shakily. “I know this one is wrong but I still see it.”
Rafayel crossed the room immediately, pulling you gently into his arms.
“Oh, cutie,” he whispered against your hair, heart breaking at the sound of your crying. “Then I’ll remind you every day until your reflection stops being cruel to you.”
His hands held you carefully, securely.
“You deserve to see yourself the way I see you,” he murmured softly.
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Sylus:
A pair of jeans fitting tighter than expected could ruin your entire day. A shirt hanging too loose could spiral just as quickly. Recovery had made your relationship with clothing fragile, unpredictable.
So Sylus removed the problem entirely.
Every piece of clothing in your closet was custom tailored now. Dresses adjusted perfectly to your measurements. Sweaters fitted comfortably without clinging too tightly. Nothing too small. Nothing oversized enough to make you disappear inside it.
At first, you were embarrassed and ashamed of the money he was spending.
“Sylus,” you sighed one morning while slipping into a perfectly tailored outfit, “normal people buy clothes at stores.”
“And normal people are often dissatisfied,” he replied simply.
You rolled your eyes, but the truth was it helped more than you admitted aloud.
There were fewer breakdowns now. Fewer moments spent crying in fitting rooms or obsessing over the size on tags.
Sylus also made sure movement never became punishment for you.
Instead of intense workouts, he built softer routines into your days. Walking Mephisto together every evening. Stretching beside him in the mornings. Exercises focused on strength instead of shrinking yourself.
“You should feel powerful in your body,” he told you once while adjusting your posture gently. “Not at war with it.”
And somehow, with him, you slowly started believing that might be possible.
His chef always prepared meals he knew felt safest for you, nutrient-dense without overwhelming you, and Sylus always had chocolate tucked away somewhere for the moments cravings hit unexpectedly.
“You keep emergency chocolate on you?” you laughed once.
“For you?” He looked entirely serious. “Always.”
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Caleb:
Caleb took your relapse harder than you did.
Not because he blamed you, never that, but because he remembered every version of you growing up. The stubborn kid who climbed trees too fast. The teenager who stole fries off his plate. The way you used to laugh so freely before food became something frightening.
So seeing you like this hurt him deeply.
Even now, sitting across from him picking apart your dinner instead of eating it, you looked exhausted in ways that made his heart ache.
“You’re moving in with me,” he said suddenly.
You blinked. “Caleb,”
“I’m serious.”
His voice softened immediately after, concern replacing the firmness. “Pips, I can’t keep wondering if you’re taking care of yourself when I’m not there.”
Guilt twisted inside you. “I don’t want to be monitored all the time.”
“That’s not what this is.” He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face before crouching beside your chair. “I just…” His expression cracked slightly. “I need to know you’re safe.”
Caleb rested his arms across your knees carefully. “You don’t have to do recovery alone anymore. Let me help.”
He became quietly protective after that.
Cooking meals for you himself. Keeping snacks around the apartment. Sitting with you during difficult meals even when you barely spoke. He never forced you, but he always noticed when you were struggling.
Sometimes it overwhelmed you, how much he cared.
“You hover,” you complained weakly one evening.
Caleb grinned faintly. “Yeah, well. You’re my favorite person.” Then his expression softened again. “And I’m not losing you to this.”
The possessiveness in his voice should have felt suffocating.
Hi again 😅 im sorry for second request, its just me loving the way you write Xavier a lot, it brings me comfort and so much recognition, I dont know how to explain it.
I have quite heavy request, and it's okay if you dont want to write that, I was just thinking lately how Xavier would react to Reader who was SAed not so long ago (before starting relationship w him), and he only found out now. Maybe it would happen during their first foreplay, when he notices how tensed and uncomfortable (yet trying to hide it for his sake) the girl is? Maybe she would try to brush it off, ask him to continue (because she was worried about his arousal more than herself?) but eventually after him pleading she told him the truth. I really wonder what his reaction would be.
The request is kind of dark and I understand if you wouldn't want to write it 😅 thanknyou either way, have a nice day 🫶
Thank you so much for another request! I am so grateful that you enjoy my writing so much, and I love seeing you pop up into my requests! I hope you enjoy.
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You were sitting on his bed, legs brushing, close enough that you felt a certain warmness all over your body. Xavier leaned in, and kissed you softly. His hand lifted to touch your waist, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt.
Your whole body froze at the touch.
He stopped immediately, hand withdrawn like he had touched fire.
“…Starlight?” His voice was soft, gentle. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
You shook your quickly, a brief look of panic in your eyes. “No, your hand was cold. It just surprised me.”
He studied you, making sure you were okay, but you leaned back into him again, hoping he wouldn't look too closely.
A minute passed. His fingertips grazed the same spot, gentle and warm.
You pulled back so fast that you almost fell off the bed.
Xavier froze. “My star.” He held his hands up. “It's alright. I'm right here.”
Your breath stuttered. “I'm, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I want to do this, I want you to feel good, I just can't. I don't know why I am like this.”
You didn't look at him. Shame filled your head as you turned away from him.
Xavier reached for you slowly, giving you every chance to move away. When you didn't, he cupped your cheek with both hands.
“You aren't doing anything wrong.”
Your eyes burned with tears and you took a deep breath before speaking. “I was assaulted,” you whispered. “Before I met you. Not that long ago. I thought I was okay. I thought I could handle…this. But when you touched me it felt like my body was somewhere else. I knew it was you but all I could feel was him”
Xavier’s expression shifted, rage first but then it softened, protective in a way that you had never seen before.
“I am so sorry someone did that to you,” he murmured. “You never deserved that pain.”
Your breath stuttered. “I don’t want you to think I don't want you.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, gentle. “I don't want you to give me what hurts you. I want you safe. I want you comfortable. I want you here because you want to be, not because you think I expect anything.”
His hands slid down to hold yours, fingers lacing through yours slowly.
“We can stop. We can slow down. We can stay like this for as long as you need. There is no timeline you owe me.”
You exhaled shakily, leaning into him.
Xavier kissed your temple, wrapping his arms carefully around youfic
“You are my starlight,” he whispered. “Being close to you like this is more than enough.”
It’s Xavier and MC’s first time on a mission as a couple. Their company knows they're dating, so they decide to save money and get one hotel room instead of two.
The mission briefing had been completely normal, until the very last line. “Due to budget optimization, assigned operatives will share accommodations.”
There had been a pause. A long one. Xavier had very deliberately not looked at you.
By the time you reached the hotel, neither of you had said a word about it. Not in the car. Not in the elevator. Not even when the receptionist handed over a single keycard with a polite, knowing smile.
It wasn’t until the door clicked open that reality finally settled in. One room. One bed.
Xavier stepped inside first to scan over the room. Everything looked clean and safe. A king sized bed sat right in the center. Not even two small ones, no, an actual king sized mattress.
Just one. For us.
He set his gear down carefully on the table, buying himself some time. “We can… request another room.”
Xavier watched the way you sat. The very cautious way you laid down like the bed might reject you. “…You’re going to fall,” he said quietly.
He stepped closer, then sat on the bed beside you. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, shifting you just a little closer without him even touching you yet.
When you pulled the blanket up to your chin and stared at him like that, he paused. “…Xavie?” That nickname, it did something to him. His expression softened almost immediately.
“We can cuddle, right?”
“…Yes,” he answered without hesitation, ike there was never a world where the answer would be no. “…You feel shy because this is new,” he said quietly. “No mission. No urgency. Just… us.” A small pause. “…You’re aware of it.”
When you asked about the second blanket, his gaze dropped to the one you were currently gripping like armor, then back to you. “…No.” His hand reached out and gently caught the edge of the blanket. Just easing it down slightly from your chin.
“You don’t need it,” he murmured. He shifted closer. One arm slipped around you, resting more securely at your back. He guided you just a little closer, away from the edge of the bed.
“…Stay here,” he said softly. His other hand adjusted the blanket properly over both of you this time. A quiet pause settled. “…Is this okay?” he asked, voice lower now.
She lets him pull her a little closer. Settling closer to him, she looks up at him with big eyes, watching him closely.
"...this blanket is too little", she whispered. Perhaps, it could be considered too little — if you were saving a distance while sharing one blanket. However, it was big enough to cover the king sized bed.
Slightly shifting, almost warily, she slips closer to him. Just a little.
"We should... uhm... rest", she murmured quietly, looking at his face as if she sees it for the first time.
What's so bad? They were a couple, so sleeping together is normal, was it? It could be, if he was wearing his white T shirt, but no. He was laying in robe that barely hid anything once he laid on the bed. Perhaps, the belt accidentally weakened its knot.
She could see his neck and collarbones. So instead she looked at the ceiling.
"...Xavie?"
...
"I feel shy", she confesses quietly, her gaze still on the ceiling as she tries to collect herself and ignore her attractive boyfriend. Perhaps, this bed was her biggest enemy. Even scarier than this mission.
She gulps loudly (even though she tried her best to hold composure).
So that's what sleeper build was. He was a hunter, of course, he has muscles. But now, seeing them slightly (thanks to the robe) instead of seeing his oversized hoodie, she felt like screaming and clawing her face from internal panic.
"...Xavie?"
...
"I got very lucky with you", she whispered softly, still staring at the ceiling.
"I want to grow comfortable with you, but I feel like panicking because you're acting differently today. Something about you is... I don't know—... makes me shy, you know? And this stupid blanket and one bed and–... and this stupid robe. My cheeks are burning", she says quietly, pouting in defeat.
“…It’s the robe.” He said it simply, like he’d identified the core of the problem with quiet precision. A faint exhale left him, almost amused. “…And the situation.” His hand shifted slightly against your back, a slow, reassuring motion. “You’re not used to seeing me like this,” he added. “And we’re not in a mission.”
His gaze dropped to you, still staring at the ceiling. “…So your mind has too much space to think.” He adjusted slightly, just enough to make things more comfortable, but also, subtly, to pull the blanket higher around you both.
“…You don’t have to force yourself to get used to it all at once,” he said quietly. “No one expects that.” A small pause. “…And I’m not trying to make you shy.” His hand stilled briefly against your back before continuing.
“If anything,” he added, “I should be the one apologizing.” Another pause. “…I didn’t think about how this might feel for you.” He shifted slightly again, reaching for the edge of the robe, adjusting it more securely. “…Better?” he asked quietly. “Or should I get dressed now?”
She smiles wearily, shaking her head. She looks at him with adoration now, perhaps, his attentiveness and desire to make situation better made her feel at ease.
Now turning to side facing him properly, she propped her cheek with her hand. Her eyes met his as she smiled.
"Thanks. I think," she murmured quietly. A thought occurred in her head. She let it sit with her for a while, pursing her lips.
"It's a silly thought, but if I were the one in the robe, would you feel shy or not?" there was no teasing or anything — she was just curious enough to know his opinion. Xavier always seems to be stoic, as if nothing affects him ever. So she wondered if there was anything to make him break out of that image.
She scooted closer, hiding her face in the crook of his neck and in his chest.
"Tomorrow will be very long day. We should get rest", she whispered quietly, humming softly as she slightly shifted.
"Usually you were sent on such missions alone. What changed? I haven't heard from Jenna about upping my rank, so I'm quite curious why I'm here on S rank mission with you," she murmured sleepily, step away from falling asleep.
"Was it you pulling the strings?" she asked quietly — her voice already sultry and low.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Rafie, what's your favourite movie? How about a movie date tonight?🍿
“A favorite?” he murmurs, tilting his head as if genuinely considering it for the first time. “That’s a dangerous question. It changes depending on my mood… and my company.”
He finally glances at you over his shoulder. “But,” he adds, setting his brush down, “I have a weakness for films that feel like paintings. The kind that linger a little too long on a glance, a hand almost touching.” His lips curve. “Stories where something is always about to happen.”
He rises from the stool, bare feet silent against the floor, apron still tied loosely around his waist. A faint smear of paint stains his fingers as he reaches out, gently catching your wrist.
“A movie date, though?” His voice dips softer, teasing. “You’re not just asking me to sit still for two hours, are you?” He steps closer, the scent of salt and paint wrapping around you. “Fine,” he concedes. “You pick the film. I’ll pick the… distractions.”
"Such movies really stay long in your heart, I agree," she hums, watching him walk closer to her. She keeps sitting on the sofa, completely not minding him in her space — she got used to that, after all. Glancing at the hand around her wrist, she smiles.
"Movies can be shorter than two hours. Or longer. But it is an art to make long movie interesting enough", she thinks out loud, watching him closely.
"Most of long movies could've ended a long time ago, but they stretched it for one other hour"
She purses her lips.
"Some are too short and needed more time to have pleasant experience"
Looking at him, she smiles as her knuckle grazed his cheek.
"And tonight... I feel like we could watch some calm movie. I'm getting tired of bestsellers with too many actions going on there. How about something like LaLaLand? Surely, you have watched it?"
She tiptoes behind him, glaring at the papers he's been buried in for a while now. His glasses were resting low as his eyes were barely sharp anymore after grading numerous works.
She pouts thoughtfully, glancing at him.
"Professor Rafayel works so diligently lately. Is there something I could help with?"
Walking across the room, she settles in a chair across the table. Her hand supported her chin as she pouted, glancing at the pile of papers.
At first, it almost seems like he hasn’t heard her. His pen still moving in slow, red ink bleeding into the margins of yet another paper. But then the corner of his mouth lifts, like he’d sensed her presence long before she spoke.
“Mm,” he hums, voice low and worn from hours of silence. “You’ve been standing there long enough.” Only then does he glance up. His glasses have slipped dangerously low on his nose, and there’s a faint crease between his brows.
“You want to help?” he repeats, leaning back slightly in his chair. The wood creaks under him as he studies her, pouting, chin in hand, clearly more interested in him than the papers.
A quiet exhale leaves him, almost a laugh. “That’s a dangerous offer, you know.” He taps the stack lightly with his pen. “These are first year critiques. Half of them think abstract means I forgot what I was doing halfway through. The other half…” His eyes flick down briefly. “Well. Let’s just say they test my patience.”
He pauses, watching her more closely now. “But somehow,” he adds, voice softer, “I doubt you came here to debate composition theory.” His pen comes to a stop. He sets it aside and folds his hands together on the desk.
“Tell me,” Rafayel continues, tilting his head just slightly, “are you offering actual assistance… or are you here to distract your professor from his responsibilities?”
Under his gaze her confidence slightly falters, however, she straightens her back, trying to return it (which works, in a way). She glances at the pile of papers and back to him.
"Initially... I came here for the office hour", she says, gesturing to the clock behind him, reminding him of his official office hour time.
"But mr. Rafayel appeared to be way more busy with papers to notice. Perchance, getting straight A's means I won't have questions to ask my professor now?"
She hums, looking down, thinking of what to say next. The thin line between professionalism and pure interest in him is always so fragile, that she's not sure how any borders are still there.
Not only by her fault, though. His participation, too, played crucial role in it.
...
She glares at the pile of papers. Then at him.
"Of course I want to help. Is it the essay for the midterm period? I remember writing one. And getting A, as well"
She purses her lips.
"I could help. If you want me to. Otherwise, I can ask my question on the class tomorrow. Sorry to interrupt your evening, professor Rafayel", she says softly, standing up from her seat.
Rafayel watches her stand, and that’s the exact moment something in his expression shifts. “Sit down.”
He exhales through his nose, pushing his glasses up properly this time before setting the pen down for good. The faint smudge of red ink on his finger doesn’t escape notice, but neither does the way his attention is now entirely on her.
“You walked in during my office hours,” he says. “Which means you didn’t interrupt anything. I’m the one failing to do my job properly.” His gaze flicks briefly to the clock, then back to her.
“And no,” he adds, “getting straight A’s doesn’t revoke your right to ask me questions. If anything, it gives you more of them. Though I’m beginning to suspect,” Rafayel continues, leaning back slightly, eyes narrowing in thought, “that your question might not be entirely academic.”
His fingers tap once against the desk. “As for helping,” he gestures lightly to the papers, “I won’t have a top student do my grading for me. That would be irresponsible and unfair.”
A small pause. “…even if I trust your judgment more than most of my assistants.” That slips out a little too honestly, but he doesn’t take it back. Instead, he studies her. “Sit down,” he repeats, gentler this time. His voice lowers just slightly. “Ask your question.”
The playful smile suddenly drops immediately at that tone – he rarely spoke like that. So instead of poking into it, she complied. She sat back down with straight posture, knees pressed against each other with hands on top of them.
She looks at him, at the papers, at the clock. And now she knows — he's serious. Was there a lot of paper work today? Or some student upset him?
She thinks of a question now. She didn't have one, she lied. She didn’t need office hours as expected from A student. She just goes in here like her second home. To talk with him and help him with mundane tasks.
She pursed her lips.
"...how to express emotions on canvas? Composition might be good, colors could be good, but how to find the fine line between academically correct drawing and... sincere one?"
She looks at him with genuine interest and some sort of vulnerability if he'd looked deeper.
Her fingers nervously play together as pads collided in circling movements.
"There is one painting I was working on. It looks perfect. From... casual viewer side. But it's plain. It's like a photography on big canvas. I don't feel emotional connection with it"
...
"I can't show it though. It's deeply personal", she says quickly before he could ask. Her gaze steadies on him, his eyes, his expression as she pursed her lips.
"Perhaps, adding more of lilac wouldn't hurt..." she thought
I wanted to buy a pair of heels. I've been searching for something like this for god knows how long, I found shop that sells them for cheapest and afforadble price. I waited my whole work day to buy them! But then the nuisances of commotion got me... And I mean traffic and bus STOP WORKING and another traffic. And the shop seller closed earlier even though I begged her to wait for me two hours in advance. Oh, I'm so sad, Raf. I'm going heel-less home and I wasted my two hours and money on three bus rides for nothing. I'm a sad, no, ANGRY fish. I have no fangs but I'm not better than a shark rn ;(
Rafayel lounges atop a sunwarmed rock, golden skin glistening, his long tail lazily swaying beneath the water. A strip of seaweed clings across his cheek, unnoticed, as he listens, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Mm… my poor little princess,” he murmurs. “Two hours, three buses, and nothing to show for it? I would’ve flooded the streets for less.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Traffic dares steal your time… a merchant dares refuse you? How bold of them.”
He flicks his tail, sending a ripple outward. “Come here.” His tone softens. “You can be angry. Sharks bite, don’t they? I wouldn’t stop you. But next time, you tell me. I’ll have every shop in the city waiting… or I’ll bring the heels to you myself.”
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