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.
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Idk if it has been done, but I need a deep yearning/longing fic from Rafayel and MC, where he remembers their past and she's with Sylus and when Sylus and her are going through a rough patch, Rafayel unknowingly helps them get back together with a longing quote that's directed at her from their shared times and she is fully oblivious about their past bond and promises, she is just a woman living her life,loving Sylus irrevocably. Full pining Rafayel that wants her to be happy but still yearns for her and she even catches him looking at her with yearning/longing but never mentions it.
Hello! Thank you so much for this request and your patience in me writing it. This is something very different from my usual writing and I hope you enjoy it. I reread all of Tears of Romirro to find quotes for Rafayel to use!
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The argument had started small. It was a missed call. Then another. Then silence that stretched too long between two people who were trying not to say what they really meant.
“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, voice tight. “I can’t keep adjusting my life around your hours, Sylus.”
His gaze hardened, his mouth a stern line.
“You knew what my life was,” he replied. “Onychinus doesn’t stop because you want attention.”
“That’s not what I’m asking for.” Your hands curled tightly at your sides. “I don’t need gifts. I don’t need jewelry. I need you. Your time. And you keep asking me to fit into a life you aren’t even offering me space in.”
There was no response. The silence was heavy, suffocating.
Then you shook your head, stepping back before it turned into something worse.
“I can’t keep doing this alone,” you whispered.
And you left before he could answer.
--------
The café smelled like bitter coffee and warm bread, too normal for how unsteady you felt.
Rafayel sat across from you, listening as you vented in exhausted fragments, your hands moving more than your voice could keep up with.
He didn’t interrupt until you stopped speaking.
Then, softly, almost disbelieving, he said, “Why are you letting humans mistreat you?”
You blinked. “Humans?”
He waved it off like it meant nothing, like the word itself wasn’t important enough to linger on.
“You’re worth more than being worn down like that,” he said instead, leaning back in his chair. “If the hatred from that time could be offset by him dying instantly, I would happily grant your wish at this very moment.”
Your expression twisted. “That’s…a bit extreme. I don't want him dead, I just need him to care. To compromise. Anything more than this.”
He didn’t blink.
“If you knew those despicable aspects and flaws, would you still fall in love?”
You hesitated thinking it through. “I already do love him.”
Rafayel fell quiet after that.
--------
Later, the beach wind cut through everything, and you walked beside Rafayel in silence until he spoke again.
“The sea inevitably returns to where it belongs, and separates from the land.”
You looked out toward the horizon, thinking.
“But the sea always meets the shore,” you said slowly, a realization forming in your mind. “We could see each other again.”
The words settled differently in your chest as you said them, like something clicking into place. The distance wasn’t absence. This separation wasn’t final.
“Oh,” you murmured, softer now. “I think I understand. Thank you, Rafayel. Sylus and I willl make it work, we're not so different from the sea and the sand.”
You turned and hugged him without hesitation.
He stiffened for half a second before returning it.
“…Of course you do,” he said quietly.
Something in his voice cracked just slightly at the edges, though he kept smiling, you didn't notice the sorrow that flashed in his eyes.
Then a voice called out behind you.
“Kitten.”
You turned.
Sylus stood there in daylight. Something that he had never done before for you, and it brought tears to your eyes. Everything in your mind, your heart shifted.
Without thinking, you ran, straight to Sylus. You didn't even think to say something to Rafayel.
Sylus caught you without hesitation, arms closing around you and pulling you close. You knew this time he wasn't going to let go so easily and you settled comfortably against him.
Behind you, Rafayel didn’t move.
Just watched.
A long silence passed before he spoke under his breath, almost to himself.
“…My bride,” he murmured, barely audible. “I refuse to accept this betrayal!.”
Hi, happy new years!! I really love the way you write, how about a situation when LIs have introverted girlfriend who has little social battery? Usually when I go out with my friends, I talk too little to reserve the energy and if I will talk in an hour my "battery" drops from 70% to 20%. And when I'm getting too tired it's really noticeable — I walk slower, blink slower, don't even hum or nods when someone talks. I get even more tired in crowdy place.
I really wonder how they would behave if their girlfriend was like this — not too talkative, reserved. Because when I go out with a friend (1 on 1 "date"), usually I'm somewhat talkative only for the first hour and later on I'm just silently listening, getting sleepier with each minute kkkk. Even if at first I joke and laugh, later on its hard even to nod or say a word. I also get really overstimulated by a lot of noise and jumping from topic to topic my friends my can do.
I would love focus on Rafa and Xavier, if its possible, please ^^
Hello! I am back and I am so sorry you have been waiting since January for this response! I'm about to have a lot of freetime on my hands so I will hopefully be catching up on all my requests by the end of June and be able to reopen them in July! Please enjoy!
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Xavier:
Xavier noticed the pattern long before you ever suggested it.
At the beginning of outings, you were brighter. Laughing softly at his jokes, humming under your breath while you walked beside him, tugging on his sleeve to point out something you saw. But as time passed and the crowds thickened, you slowly faded.
Your replies were shorter. Your steps dragged slightly behind his. The emotive expressions he adored went blank with exhaustion.
Tonight was no different.
Tara had invited the two of you out with other hunters, and the restaurant was loud enough that conversations overlapped into a garbled noise. Xavier watched carefully from beside you as your social battery drained in real time.
At first you smiled politely when people spoke to you. Then you only nodded. Eventually, even that stopped.
All of your movements felt as if they were in slow motion. Your gaze unfocused somewhere beyond the table. When someone asked you a question, you took a moment too long to answer, they repeated it three times before you could actually respond.
Xavier reached over quietly, brushing his fingers against your wrist beneath the table.
“Starlight,” he murmured, “do you want to leave?”
You looked at him with visible relief.
He stood immediately, making an excuse to the group before helping you gather your things. The moment you stepped outside, the cold air wrapped around you, and your whole body visibly relaxed.
“You noticed?” you asked quietly.
He simply nodded.
His voice was soft as he guided you down the quieter side street instead of the crowded main road.
“You don't have to force yourself to keep up with everyone else.”
You leaned lightly against his shoulder as you walked.
Xavier smiled faintly. “I like your silence too.”
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Rafayel:
Rafayel loved talking.
He bounced between topics like waves crashing against each other, one thought blending into the next before the previous one even finished. Most people struggled to keep up with him.
But you always listened so carefully in the beginning.
You laughed at all his dramatics, teased him back, rolled your eyes whenever he got distracted halfway through a story. He adored that look on your face.
Then slowly, over time, he saw the shift.
Your responses grew quieter. Your eyes glazed over. The spark in your expression dimmed under the weight of too much noise, too many people, too many overlapping conversations demanding pieces of your attention.
Tonight, the arcade was crowded and loud, lights flashing brightly enough to make your eyes ache.
Rafayel was halfway through complaining about losing a claw machine game when he noticed you had not responded in several minutes.
You were sitting beside him silently, shoulders slightly slumped, staring blankly at the floor while the sounds around you swallowed the room whole.
His expression softened instantly.
“Cutie,” he said gently, crouching slightly in front of you. “Battery dead?”
You gave the tiniest nod.
Without another word, he took your hand carefully and led you out of the arcade. The further you got from the noise, the more your body relaxed.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I know I got quiet.”
Rafayel stopped walking, turning toward you fully.
“Why are you apologizing for being tired?” he asked softly. “You stayed as long as you could.”
The city lights reflected softly in his eyes as he brushed his thumb across your knuckles.
“You never have to perform happiness for me,” he murmured. “I like being beside you, even when you have nothing left to say.”
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Could you do the same request but for a reader who's insecure about her big chest? It really isn't all that fun.
Yes! I knew this request was coming the moment I posted, and several others followed in suite. I do have a larger chest and most of the time I don't mind but there are moments where I wish it were different. I hope you and the other's who have requested this enjoy the read.
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Xavier:
You were barely three steps into the café before you felt it again. That familiar sting of eyes dragging across your chest like you were something on display. You crossed your arms, shoulders tightening as the irritation bubbled up.
Xavier noticed instantly, concerned about the shift in your mood.
“What happened, starlight?”
You sighed, refusing to look around. “I hate this. I hate that I can be fully covered and people still stare. I hate feeling like I’m being looked at instead of seen.”
His expression shifted. Calm, patient, but threaded with something darker. His evol flickered at his fingertips, a soft insistence of light he had not summoned intentionally.
“Who?” he asked quietly.
“It doesn’t matter,” you muttered. “It’s just exhausting. I’m tired of being objectified. I’m tired of feeling like my body is an invitation.”
He stepped in front of you, blocking your view of the room, gaze locked only on you. “You're not an invitation,” he affirmed, voice soft but edged with steel. “You're not something anyone is entitled to look at like that.”
You felt your throat tighten. “I just hate it. I hate being treated like I’m not even a person.”
Xavier reached for your hand, his touch grounding. “If someone makes you uncomfortable, you tell me,” he said. “I will make sure they never try again.”
You blinked. “Xavier.”
He worked his jaw, trying to calm himself. “I am not threatening anyone. I am promising that you are not alone. Not ever.”
A slow breath left your chest, and you smiled in response.
He squeezed your hand gently. “Walk with me, starlight. Let them look elsewhere. Your peace is mine to protect.”
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Zayne:
You sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at your hands. “Zayne, can I ask you something?”
He looked up from his notes immediately. “Of course.”
You hesitated. “I've been thinking about breast reduction surgery.”
His pen stopped moving. He placed it down carefully, giving you his full attention. “Tell me what brought this on.”
You exhaled. “My back hurts. My shoulders hurt. Clothes never fit right. People stare no matter what I wear. I just feel so tired of dealing with all of it.”
Zayne nodded slowly. “Those are valid concerns. Chronic pain alone is reason enough to consider it.”
You picked at a loose thread. “But…what if you don't find me attractive after?”
That made him pause. Not confused, but surprised you would even consider it. “Attractiveness is not determined by a single feature,” he said. “You are not defined by your chest. And my feelings are not dependent on its size.”
You looked down again. "“I just want to be comfortable in my own skin.”
“My job,” he said calmly, “is to advocate for your health. Physical and mental.”
He shifted closer, resting a hand gently on your thigh. “I want you to be comfortable in your body. I want you to live without pain. And I will support whatever choice helps you do that.”
Your eyes softened. “You mean that?”
“Yes.” He brushed a thumb over your knuckles. “Your body is already deserving of care. If surgery improves your quality of life, then it is worth considering. But don't ever make a decision based on fear of losing my attraction. You will not, it's impossible.”
You leaned into him, and his arms wrapped around you, steady and reassuring.
“You deserve relief,” he whispered. “And I will stand with you through every decision that brings you closer to it.”
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Rafayel:
You were already irritated before the third dressing room even closed.
“Why is everything either ugly or painful,” you muttered, glaring at the selection of bras hanging on the hook. “It is like designers think having a big chest means I want to wear something that looks like tactical gear.”
Rafayel lounged outside the curtain like he owned the boutique, legs crossed, expression relaxed. “Let me see.”
“No,” you groaned. “None of these fit right. They all hurt. And the cute ones are never made in my size.”
“Then show me,” he insisted, gentler this time.
You stepped out with the defeated slump of someone who had tried too many options. He took one look at the straps digging into your shoulders and stood immediately.
“Go change,” he said. “You are not wearing that.”
You rolled your eyes but retreated to change again. When you came out in the next one, he circled you thoughtfully. “Support is wrong. Band too tight. Cups too shallow. This is not your body’s fault.”
You sighed, staring at the mirror. “I just want something that fits. And maybe something that looks nice for once.”
Rafayel tapped his chin. “Then we will make it.”
You blinked. “Make it?”
“Yes.” He pulled out his sketchbook. “You tell me what you want. Shape. Color. Lace. Structure. Everything. I will design it myself and commission it from someone who actually respects you, and understands the human body.”
Your chest loosened in a way that had nothing to do with fabric. “Rafayel, that is so much work.”
“For you,” he said simply, “I am willing.”
You smiled, excitement brewing inside you as he began sketching.
“Let me build something beautiful for you,” he murmured. “Something worthy of you.”
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Sylus:
The impact of your punch echoed through the training room, but you hissed as soon as your stance shifted.
“Again?” he asked.
You frowned. “My chest hurts when I move like that. My back aches too. It throws my balance off. Having a big chest is annoying.”
Sylus stepped closer, reading your posture like a manual. “Turn around.”
You raised a brow. “Why?”
“Just do it.”
You turned, and his hands settled beneath your chest, lifting gently but firmly, redistributing the weight with startling precision.
You froze. “Sylus…you cannot hold me like this the entire session.”
“Watch me,” he said calmly.
Despite yourself, you laughed. “You cannot support my chest forever.”
He leaned in, voice quiet near your ear. “If it eases your pain, I will. But I can also adjust your routine, strengthen the right muscles, teach you ways to stabilize your frame. I'd do anything to make you comfortable, to make you happy, Kitten.”
Your breath caught. “Sometimes I just feel like my body limits me.”
“No.” His hands stayed steady, grounding you. “Your body is strong. It only needs support in different places. That's not a weakness.”
You turned slightly, meeting his crimson eyes. “You really think that?”
“I don't believe in faulty design,” he said. “Only in the wrong approach. And I will find every right one for you.”
His hands remained warm, steady, and you relaxed into his support without even realizing it.
“You do not have to endure pain alone,” he murmured. “Not when I can help carry it.”
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Caleb:
It happened again in the middle of the store. You tugged at your shirt, huffing as the fabric pulled in a way that made you instantly self conscious.
Caleb looked over from the cart. “Pips?”
You shook your head. “It's nothing. I just hate how my chest makes everything fit weird. I hate how noticeable it is. I feel like people stare.”
He frowned, walking over immediately. “Who stared?”
“No one! Not now anyway. I just feel…wrong in my own body sometimes.”
Caleb’s expression softened. “Come here.”
You knew that tone. One that was full of protection and concern. He tugged you gently into the aisle corner, shielding you with his body like he always had when you were kids.
“You know,” he said softly, “I have seen every version of you. Every stage. And this is still you. The you that makes me laugh. The you I want to come home to. Your chest does not change any of that.”
You exhaled shakily. “I just wish I felt comfortable.”
“Then we will find what makes you comfortable,” he said. “Different clothes. Different cuts. Whatever you need. And if anyone stares, they can deal with me.”
You raised a brow. “Caleb.”
He grinned. “What? I can be intimidating.” You smiled hesitantly, knowing he could be more than intimidating if needed.
He bumped his shoulder gently against yours. “You don't need to hide from me. You never have. You are safe with me, pips.”
How do you think the boys would react to being jealous about a male f riend from college coming to visit ?? 👀
Hello! Thank you for the request! This was a lot of fun to write and I hope you enjoy!
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Xavier
You were already smiling when you introduced them. “We actually met at my university’s Lumiere fan club,” you said, proud of your past self for having friends with shared interests, interests you knew would make Xavier squirm.
Xavier’s expression didn’t change at first. Then his eye twitched. Just slightly. His smile tightened, polite in a way that should have warned your friend to run.
Your friend held out a hand. “So, are you a Lumiere fan too?”
Xavier took the handshake. His grip tightened to a level that made your friend’s shoulders rise, and Xavier shook his head once. “No,” he said. “I am not.”
The rest of the visit was…tense. Not for you, but for them.
Your friend tried to make conversation. Xavier answered curtly. Your friend laughed nervously. Xavier didn't laugh at all. You could practically hear the murderous intent flowing through his mind each time your friend mentioned Lumiere’s name. And that sharp, flashing glint in Xavier’s eyes? Your friend definitely noticed.
You kept having to hide your snickers in behind your hands.
When the visit finally ended and the door closed behind your friend, Xavier inhaled slowly, like he’d survived a battle.
You nudged him. “Thank you for not exploding any lights and letting him leave unmaimed.”
He looked at you flatly. “Starlight, I was very close.”
You burst out laughing. He didn’t. But the way he wrapped an arm around your waist afterward made it clear he considered the threat eliminated.
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Zayne
Zayne greeted your visiting college friend with perfect manners. Too perfect. Polite tone, impeccable posture, exact handshake pressure. You watched your friend blink, a little startled, like they’d just met a very gentle, very polite wall.
Throughout the conversation, Zayne kept smiling that calm, serene, doctor smile that somehow managed to be both comforting and deeply intimidating.
Your friend told stories from your college days. Zayne listened closely. At one point, he tilted his head just a fraction, eyes narrowing in thought, and your friend immediately lost their train of thought.
Later, you all stopped at a café. You barely sat down before Zayne quietly started preparing his coffee.
One packet of sugar.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Your friend stared in horror.
Zayne stirred. “It has been a long week,” he said simply, entirely unfazed.
Your friend leaned in to whisper to you, “Does he always drink it like that?”
You shrugged. “That’s actually less than usual.”
By the time the visit ended, your friend still couldn’t tell if Zayne liked them, hated them, or was clinically evaluating their entire personality.
Zayne kissed your forehead on the way out, perfectly calm. “Your friend seems kind. Slightly anxious. Understandable.”
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Rafayel
Your friend recognized him immediately.
“Oh my god,” they whispered. “You’re Rafayel. Like…THE Rafayel.”
Rafayel beamed. “Finally. Someone with taste.”
Your friend practically vibrated with excitement, listing all the pieces of his art they’d seen online, all the reviews, all the critiques.
Rafayel basked in the compliments, revelled in them. Chin lifted, shoulders back, radiating smug satisfaction like sunlight.
“You know,” he said lightly, nudging you with an elbow, “you never compliment me like this.”
You rolled your eyes. “I do.”
He gasped dramatically. “Lies. My bodyguard never appreciates my genius. But you,” he pointed at your friend. “You understand.”
Your friend looked delighted. You looked exhausted. Rafayel looked like he’d just found a new favorite person.
“Do you want a picture?” Rafayel asked them casually. “Most people do. My good side is all sides, by the way.”
You groaned. He winked.
He was charming through the entire visit, effortlessly stealing the spotlight, effortlessly keeping an arm around you the whole time.
When your friend finally left, Rafayel stretched like a cat.
“Nice person,” he said. “Very correct opinions.”
You shoved his shoulder. “They’re going to worship you.”
He grinned. “As they should.”
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Sylus
You introduced him as Skye.
Your friend stared at him. Then stared at the fruit sign over his stall. Then stared at him again.
“He’s…your fruit guy?” your friend whispered, weary.
Sylus smiled pleasantly, all teeth. “I have many talents.”
Your friend’s eyes darted to Sylus’s arms. His height. His scars. His whole aura of quiet danger.
“Some people in my line of work have been disappearing lately,” Sylus added conversationally. “Accidents happen.”
Your friend went pale.
You kicked Sylus lightly. He didn’t stop smiling, the smile that made children cry.
The tension only worsened when the twins arrived, flanking you with casual precision. Your friend froze, sensing instinctively that these were not fruit vendor coworkers.
Sylus draped an arm over your shoulders. “You alright?” he asked, tone warm. “Hope things aren’t too…overwhelming.”
Your friend swallowed. “I...should probably get going...”
“Safe travels,” Sylus said cheerfully.
Your friend practically sprinted.
When they disappeared around the corner, Sylus smirked. “Friendly guy.”
You sighed. “You scared him off.”
“I did nothing,” Sylus said, utterly unbothered. “People scare themselves.”
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Caleb
You weren’t home when your college friend arrived.
Caleb was.
He opened your apartment door, saw a stranger standing there, and immediately slammed it in their face.
You got a call two seconds later.
“Pips. Why is there a random guy at your door?”
You groaned. “Caleb, that’s my friend from college. Let him in!”
There was grumbling on the other end, then the door creaked open again.
By the time you arrived, the tension inside the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Caleb sat stiffly on the couch, arms crossed, watching your friend like they were a suspicious package.
Your friend whispered, “He hates me.”
Caleb answered immediately. “I don’t hate you. I just don’t know you. And I’m not letting anyone get close to them unless I know they’re safe.”
Your friend blinked. “Oh.”
Caleb didn’t look away, and the poor guy looked ready to cry.
The visit was short. Very short. As soon as the door shut behind your friend, you turned to Caleb.
“Caleb. You do not control my life.”
He held up his hands. “Never said I did, pips. But I’m not letting some stranger just stroll in like they own the place.”
“You slammed a door in his face.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
You groaned. He smirked. And then he hugged you, protective as ever.
Hey, do you think you could do how the boys react/help MC/reader who has dyslexia? Also, I love your writing!
Hello! Thank you so much for the request and kind words! My partner is dyslexic and I asked him how he would like the lads men to help him through it and he just walked away.
I hope you enjoy~
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Xavier:
You stand in the hallway with the mission briefing Jenna shoved into your hands, staring at the tight block of text that refuses to hold still. The words blend and slide, letters switching places faster the harder you try to force them into line. You keep pretending you are just taking your time, studying the detail, but Xavier has been watching you and knows instantly.
He steps closer, his arm brushing against your side. “Starlight,” he murmurs, “you're holding your breath.”
Only then do you realize you are. You let out a slow exhale and flip the page, hoping the movement makes you look occupied instead of overwhelmed. His hand comes down gently over yours, stopping the motion.
“You don't have to pretend with me,” he says softly. “Not in any part of your life.”
A flush creeps up your neck “It's nothing. The text is small. I'm just tired.”
His eyes hold your gaze and soften. “You're struggling to read it. That's all. There is no shame in that.”
You hesitate, “I don't want to slow you down.”
He shakes his head and nudges his shoulder against yours. “You have never slowed me down. Let me help you.”
You nod and relief spreads through you as he takes the page and reads aloud, steady. When you whisper thank you, he presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“My star,” he says quietly, “you never need to fight the anything alone.”
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Zayne:
Your notes lie open across your knees, thick paragraphs stacked in tight columns. You read a line, lose your place, go back, lose it again. Your eyes burn with the effort. Zayne notices instantly. He always does.
He taps his pencil against your knee. “Hey. Look at me.”
You lift your head. His grin is bright, easy, the kind that takes the pressure out of your lungs. He flips the book around and pulls it closer.
“We can break this down,” he says. “If we take it in chunks, it won’t feel like the page is yelling at you.”
You let out a tiny laugh at that. “It really does feel like that.”
“I know.” He leans his shoulder against yours, warm and grounding. “And I am here. We are doing this together.”
He starts sectioning the chapter into small bullet points, circling key terms, drawing little doodles in the margins to help you remember. He reads every line aloud, slow enough for you to process. Then he holds out a handful of colored pens.
“Pick a color. Whichever you like best sticks in your mind, right?”
You grab the purple one.
Zayne grins as if he already knew. “Great. Purple is our wanderer identification color now.”
You work through the chapter at your pace. When you answer something correctly, he celebrates like you have just earned your hunter badge on the spot.
By the time you finish, your shoulders finally drop. Zayne looks at you with so much pride.
“You are doing great,” he says softly. “I promise, you are going to pass this test.”
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Rafayel:
You hold the instruction sheet in both hands, reading aloud as best you can, stumbling over a word here and there. Your frustration grows each time the letters blur or switch places. When you miss a line entirely, you sigh and mutter under your breath, something sharp and unfair aimed at yourself.
Rafayel freezes.
“Don't say that,” he says quietly.
You blink at him. “What? I was just...”
“Insulting yourself,” he interrupts gently, stepping closer. “I will not allow that.”
You want to look away, but he lifts your chin with a his hand, guiding you to meet his gaze. “There is nothing wrong with the way you learn, cutie,” he says. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”
You swallow hard. “I just…feel slow. Like I can never keep up.”
He smooths a palm along your cheek, warm and steady. “You could never hold me up. I asked you to help because I want you beside me. And if reading is difficult, then it'll just take a little more time. That's how this goes.”
You shake your head. “It is embarrassing, Raf.”
He folds the instruction sheet neatly and sets it aside. “It is human. And it does not change how I see you.”
His fingers lace with yours, carefully. “I love you,” he says softly. “All parts of you. Even the ones you judge too harshly.”
Your eyes sting, but you nod. Rafayel smiles, resting his head against yours.
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Sylus:
The restaurant menu glows on your phone, long descriptions written in that tight font you dread. You try to skim, but the words refuse to stay in place. You tilt the screen, blink, refocus. Sylus watches you with that careful, observant stillness he has.
Without comment, he leans closer and pretends to be thinking aloud. “This one looks good. And this one has the spice you like.”
You exhale, grateful without saying it. He knows. Of course he knows.
When the waitress arrives, Sylus orders for both of you, saying everything the way you would have if the text stopped fighting you. Once she leaves, you whisper an apology.
“I should be better at this by now. I just…freeze up.”
Sylus looks at you for a long moment, then shakes his head. “You don't need to apologize for how your brain works.” His tone gentle. “I adapt. That's what I do.”
Your brows knit together in frustration. “I don't want to be difficult.”
“You're not difficult.” He reaches out and takes your phone. “I just want things to be easier for you. Like how I text with more spacing. Clear fonts. Voice messages when it's longer.”
You blink at him. “You did that on purpose?”
He gives a small, smile. “Of course, kitten. I would do anything for you.”
He lifts your hand, brushing his thumb along your knuckles. “You never have to struggle alone. Not when I am right here.”
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Caleb:
Caleb sits on your bedroom floor like he has a hundred times before, legs crossed, posture relaxed. The book between you is much more complicated than the ones you tackled as kids, but the feeling is the same.
“You remember this?” he asks with a crooked smile. “You, me, and your absolute hatred of phonics.”
You groan. “I hated phonics, I couldn't do it.”
“You were trying,” he corrects. “And you learned. Slow and steady. Just like now.”
You try reading the paragraph again. Letters shift. Your tongue stumbles. You lose your place halfway through a sentence. Caleb just waits, patient as ever.
Finally, you let out a frustrated breath. “It should not still be this hard.”
Caleb tilts his head. “Who said that?”
You start to answer but fall silent. He nods as if that confirms something he already knew.
He nudges the book toward you. “Want help?”
You nod, embarrassed, but he only smiles. “I have been helping you read since we were kids. This is nothing new.”
He reads the sentence slowly, giving you time to follow, repeating words when you need him to, celebrating quietly every time you get through a full line without stumbling. Wit him, reading feels safe. It feels like home.
When you finish the section, he squeezes your hand. “You have always been smart,” he says. “You just learn in your own way. And that way is good. It always has been.”
You lean against his shoulder. Caleb rests his head on top of yours.
