a-hermit-pining

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men When You are Jealous (and kinda crazy)

AN: Ugggghhh mother, I crave twisted, envious reader. This is inspired by that one Golden Son gala scene.

Ingredients: 99% envy/jealousy, 1% pathetic, crazy reader

My Fav: Zayne (the potential mmm)

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Xavier:

It’s just a mission. It’s just a mission.

Xavier repeats it with every hollow laugh, his arm draped around the woman he cannot bring himself to care for. The wine tastes like ash in his mouth. The weight of her hand on his thigh makes his skin itch.

He has to laugh. He has to look like the frivolous prince he once was, the harmless fool. Even if it means staring his nightmare in the face.

Because they caught you. His people.

This was what they had left Philos for, to find another source for their immortal world. Now they had it. Now they had you.

So he plays the part. Acts like the man who ensnared you.

But he can’t look too long. Not at those lost eyes, dulled by power curling in on itself. Power that remembers what it has done before.

The lack of recognition should be a mercy. Maybe it is.

Better than the other moments.

The fleeting flashes where panic breaks through the seals, and you do remember. When you fight against the chains to reach him. When confusion knots your face as you see him with another. When heartbreak collapses into the numbness his warriors force back over you.

Just a little longer, he promises.

And then he’ll free you.

Even if it means driving his sword through the hearts of his own men.

Rafayel:

He had not expected your arrival. Not here, not now. Not at his father’s court, not at a banquet meant for celebration.

The first warning was the thunder of your steps, the restless winds singing of your approach, and the rain that followed.

A storm had come to his betrothal. You were the storm.

You crossed the hall without hesitation, sword already leveled. Its point fixed on the deity seated at his side.

In an instant, a hundred warriors surrounded you, their spears a breath from your throat.

One could not kill a god. But they could be injured. Banished. Stripped of their divinity.

“I challenge you to a duel,” you said, voice ringing across the marble. To Talwyn, one of the old gods. The one whose power eclipsed yours by centuries.

Rafayel’s pulse spiked.

Before he even thought, his hand closed around Talwyn’s arm, trying to pull the god back, to force distance between you. If he could just draw Talwyn away, he could keep you alive long enough to make you see reason...

But you never looked at him. Not once.

Your gaze stayed locked on the god, as if Rafayel were nothing at all.

He told himself it was to hide your hurt. But he felt the truth like a blade between his ribs. You had locked your heart to him, sealed it behind the betrayal you believed.

Did you truly think him so shallow, so hungry for power, that he would trade you away?

The urge to drag you out of this madness burned in him like fire. But Talwyn shook off his hand, and Rafayel stayed frozen in place, watching his world come undone.

Zayne:

You are as beautiful as ever when Zayne sees you. Decades have passed, yet you remain unchanged, frozen in time.

You found him at last. Only yesterday you ran to him, bow discarded, arms around his neck.

Only to be torn away by the herald now seated at his side. The chosen of his god. A fate he had accepted.

To spare you.

It had been the only way to protect you from Astra’s schemes: to return to his deity, accept the punishment, and bind himself to another.

He has accepted Arivane. They are kind. They may even love him. Which had made it easier.

Until you came back.

Now, every moment near them is haunted by you. The way your gaze lingers on him, as though the time spent apart never came to be. As if, you have always been here. Always this present.

He notices the bow in your possession once more, and the quiver. Hidden by illusion, visible only to him.

It is full of arrows forged from glimmer protocores. The kind that, once before, had felled the divine.

Sylus:

You pull him away from the celebration without a word, fingers curling tight around his wrist. Eyes follow you both, but you don’t care.

Neither does he. He lets you lead him, though he puts on a face that says he’d rather be anywhere else. A lie, of course. He’d follow you anywhere.

“Tell me, what scheme of yours is this? There has to be another way.”

The moment your fingers brush his ring, his chest goes tight. You try to pry it off like it would undo all that has come to be.

He catches your hand before you can. Holds it. Just for a second. Just long enough to memorize the feel of it again. Then he pushes you away. He has to.

“Sylus.” Your voice frays around the edges. You reach for him again. “Why?”

Because enemy's eyes are everywhere. Because if he told you the truth, you’d try to fight for him. Because loving you is the most selfish thing he’s ever done, and he can’t afford it anymore.

He smiles. Trains his voice to be steady. Lie just one more time. “What do you wish, hunter?” The title tastes foreign. Wrong in place of any other term of endearment, he has ever called you.

“Have I done something wrong? Is this punishment? Why are you—” You falter, searching for the word.

“Why have I what?” he interrupts before the truth can slip out. “Chosen a better suited partner? Sought one who loves me? One who does not look at me in doubt?”

Your panic nearly unravels him. He hates himself for putting it there.

“I love you.” The words are soft, but they hit like an arrow. “I may not have shown it enough… I was wrong. I didn’t know. But I have always loved you. I just...I had to realize it.”

He wants to laugh. Or cry. Or take you in his arms and say it back until you believe him.

Instead, he turns his back. So you can’t see how close he is to breaking. “Too late,” he says, voice cold because it has to be. “I do not love you anymore.”

And then he walks away, because if he stays another second, the lie will fall apart.

Caleb:

“And who are you to object to this?” Palona sneers, her manicured hand resting possessively on Caleb’s arm. “An adopted past? How uncouth, to feel that way toward one raised as your brother.”

The words draw low, vicious chuckles from the crowd.

“My, my,” she goes on, preening, “one would think you’d have heard of our union. I spread enough word to give you a hint. Yet even such truth hasn’t stopped you from seeking my husband.”

Caleb does not let himself look at you. Instead, he smiles down at Palona the perfect, charming act he has perfected.

Then comes the sharp crack of porcelain.

Your boots crush the wedding feast as you stride down the length of the table. Wine spilling, silver clattering to the floor, until you plant one foot on Palona’s shoulder.

“Yes,” you say sweetly, “I am uncouth. Destruction itself. Would you like me to unravel this world of yours? Unmake it, to show you just how very immoral I can be?”

You crouch, nose an inch from hers, and then you look at him.

And gods help him. No chip in his brain could stop his heart from stuttering at the madness and fire in your eyes. His hand twitches at his side, aching to reach for you, to pull you back before the guards close in.

“So, Palona dearest,” you purr, sliding your dagger into the seam of her sleeve and pinning it to the table, your gaze still locked on him, “return to me what is mine… and I will leave.”

Caleb’s smile doesn’t falter, but under the table, his other hand curls into a fist so tight it trembles.

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men as Moronsexuals

AN: I can't sleep so pls ignore if OOC

Zayne

You: “Oh… your ear binoculars!”

Zayne: “…My what?”

You: “Ear binoculars. For listening to people’s insides.”

Long pause. A soft, unwilling huff of laughter.

Zayne: “Stethoscope.” Already shrugging off his white coat and loosening his tie as he pulls you in.

You: “That’s what I said.”

Zayne:“…It’s really not.”

Dr. Zayne replied, voice low, eyes dark, looking very much hot and bothered for reasons that had nothing to do with medical terminology

Xavier

By the fifteenth time that morning, Xavier was starting to think your cloak had sworn a blood oath against you.

His beloved knight, sworn protector of the royal family, slayer of would-be assassins, utterly bested by a rectangle of fabric.

The court whispered about the tedium of royal ceremonies. Prince Xavier just looked forward to them, because ceremonies meant you were in the full royal uniform… which meant the cloak was back for another round.

Every time it managed to wrap around your arm, catch on your quiver, or nearly drag you off-balance, Xavier got to stride across the floor and free you from the clutches of your looming fate.

And his smile when he did it said, “Yes, I am in love with this disaster. This is my chosen warrior. May the gods never take them from me… or the cloak.”

The citizens ate it up every time. Their prince, absolutely besotted with a knight who could fell ten men in battle but lose to a cape before breakfast.

Rafayel

You: Peering at his palette, “Why do you have three different whites? Isn’t white just… white?”

Rafayel: “…Those are entirely different shades. Titanium white, zinc white, and lead white.”

You: “Okay, but if they’re all white, wouldn’t it be cheaper to just… not use paint?”

Rafayel freezes mid-brush stroke, staring at you like you’ve just stabbed him in the soul. Then, without a word, he sets the brush down and walks away.

You: “Where are you going?”

Rafayel: “To ensure you’re mine forever.”

You: “…Is that an art supply store thing?”

Rafayel: “No. A jewelry store thing.”

Sylus

From the kitchen, Sylus heard your voice carry into the hall: “You can’t ‘break’ a law. It’s not like a plate.”

A strangled snort came from Luke, followed by Keiran’s wheezy laugh.

You turned toward Sylus as he stepped into the doorway, chin lifted like you were ready to defend this hill with your life. “Right, Sylus?”

His brow furrowed like he was actually considering a rebuttal… then he just exhaled, crossed the room, and cupped your face in both hands.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, and with a flick of his evol, the twins were unceremoniously tossed out of the room.

“That’s not a yes or a no,” you pointed out.

He didn’t answer. He was too busy kissing you like your grasp of basic civics wasn’t wildly flawed.

Caleb

Caleb stood frozen. Your 'disguises' always did that to him.

Once, it was the stolen Sky Haven uniform. Complete with a name tag that read “Greg” in peeling letters. Now, it was a glaring pink wig sitting slightly crooked on your head, paired with your same jacket, same boots.

Everyone else in the room clocked you in less than two seconds. Caleb? He thought it was genius.

His heart swelled with pride as he crossed the floor, taking in every glorious detail like an art critic admiring a masterpiece. Perfect, he thought.

Wrapping you in a hug, he murmured, “No one will ever know it’s you.”

"Good, it's foolproof," you grin back, making Colonel weak in knees, half tempted to call off the entire mission just to keep your right there.

Sylus

You: “The plot thickens.”

Sylus: “…Yes.”

You: “Wait, there’s soup?”

Sylus stares, blinks once, then leans back in his chair like he’s reassessing his entire life.

Sylus: “…I should let you think that. You’re happier this way.”

You smirk, clearly pleased with yourself

Caleb

Caleb: “…Yes, meaning—”

You: “Time flies.” Reading off the code hella confused

You: “Yeah, but where does it go? Like… does it migrate?”

Caleb pauses mid-strategy briefing, staring at you like the mission just became secondary.

Caleb: “…Forget the op. We’re talking about this.”

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs as My Favorite Tolkien Elves

Xavier: Elrond. He is kind, a protector, even after all he went through. "As kind as summer," even when world did not bother to be.

Rafayel: Major ✨Glorfindel✨ vibes (would probably go into battle with long unbound hair)

Zayne: Male version of Galadriel (that means reader gets to be infamous Teleporno). Give him a magic basin to see future now!

Sylus: Thranduil. Period.

Caleb: Feanor i'm sorry

[a-hermit-pining]

Chat is it normal to bawl my eyes over the fact that one day I won't have my mom?

Nothing has happened for me to feel this. But I am so afraid. This never ending anxiety for what is to come.

I love her so much, how could my world exist without her?

Doesn't help that I am weirdly good at coming up with gut wrenching monologues.

It's probably my period.

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men as Greek Mythology Figures/Retellings

AN: There will be a part 2!! Or should I do oneshots?

Ingredients: 50% lore, 20% angst, 10% drama, 10% hurt

My Fav: CALEB but also XAVIER (I LOVE ALL THE MYTHS)

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader (mostly)

Sylus (Persephone x Hades)

You met him in the bloom of his season. Coying, sweet Spring, yet not without its thorns.

At your side, Cerberus squirmed, tail wagging, desperate to reach the one lounging beneath the trees. His flower crown toppled, half-crushed against his unbound hair.

Sylus, of the woods, his name meant. The god who breathed life back into the world after a bitter winter.

You’d wandered into a gathering of his druids, frenzy of their rituals buzzing through the mountain, until Cerberus’s bark scattered his beloved crow into the sky.

That’s when you saw him.

The ruler of the Underworld had fallen for the brightest of gods. The most guarded. The most dangerous to touch.

His mother, Demeter, was ruthless. Confining her son to stone-chilled caves each winter, releasing him only under the watch of forest spirits when Spring dared bloom again.

And across the clearing, the young god looked at you. Eyes alight with mirth. Druids slumped in sleep around him, lulled by some gentle spell or drugged by some potent wine.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The invitation shimmered between you, laid bare like a seamless meadow. He would not run. But if you wanted him…you’d have to steal him.

Rafayel (Orpheus x Eurydice)

He looked back. A glance. A reach... just as you vanished.

Stripped from him at the very precipice of salvation. Rafayel had walked the entire Underworld on the belief of your presence.

You were there. You had to be. Hades would not lie. He could not lie.

He had hummed familiar songs, trained his ears to catch even the softest thread of your breath. He had folded his hands behind him, offering his trust, his silence, his everything.

He had done it all to have you. To undo the injustice that claimed you. He sang. He spoke. He recounted the past. He built a future.

And still, only silence greeted him.

But no. You were there.

So when the gates of the Underworld materialized before him, Rafayel looked back.

Not because he doubted your love. Not because he had accepted a world devoid of you. But because, if he had been tricked, then one last glimpse of you would be a meagre blessing he would accept.

And that one glance, it shattered him.

The sight of your face, already fading. Your hand, reaching. Your lips, parted in a word he would never hear.

Then, gone.

The Underworld sealed itself shut. No second chances. No rebirth. No songs strong enough to pull you back.

And Rafayel, with all his music, all his love, all his hope, was left alone with silence.

Xavier (Eros x Psyche)

He was gone. Just a glimpse of his face...and then nothing.

You stood in the dim bedroom, frozen. The candles had long since burned low, wax hardened into thin pools across the floor. The sheets were still warm, but the space beside you was empty.

You would never see him again.

You curled into yourself, sobbing. Not because you had lost a god, but because you had lost your husband. You had lost Xavier. His warmth. His laughter. The man who held you so gently in the dark. And now, in the light, he was nothing but absence.

How could you ever win him back, when you hadn’t even known who he truly was? When your love had been blind., by design, and your only sin was wanting to see him clearly?

You remembered his face, the way it looked in that final moment. Not sorrowful. Not wounded. But angry. His eyes had blazed. Not with love, but divine fury. A god betrayed. And in that gaze, you had felt your heart shatter.

And still, you dropped to your knees. You wept, you begged, voice hoarse from grief. Not for mercy, only for the chance to make it right.

But Xavier did not answer.

It was his mother who heard you instead.

Aphrodite did not speak with softness. Her voice was sweet, but each word cut like glass. She offered no comfort. No promise. Only a challenge. A series of them, in fact. Each more impossible than the last.

Yet you nodded. You accepted.

Because to love a god was to suffer like one. And if pain was the path back to him, you would walk it, every step.

──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

Far away, Xavier felt the shift.

He knew the moment you began the first task. From the dull ache that bloomed suddenly in his chest. An ache that had nothing to do with wrath, and everything to do with fear.

A mortal, enduring the whims of the divine. For him.

His anger faltered beneath the weight of it. Had he been too proud? Too cruel? Had he listened too closely to the voice of his mother, and not the trembling in your voice as you whispered his name?

He should have returned the moment you cried for him. He should have held you and told you the truth.

But he hadn’t.

And now, you walked alone through trials no mortal was meant to survive.

Not for glory. Not for power. But for him.

Zayne (Odysseus x Penelope)

"Do not leave, my herald. Do not forsake your deity for a mortal," Astra said, stepping into Zayne’s path.

He stood tall in ceremonial robes, divine symbols embroidered in starlight. But beside him, Zayne’s hand was in yours.

You had won. You’d met Astra’s challenge and overcome it. Outwitting a dozen kings, securing Helen’s marriage to Agamemnon without war, without blood.

But now, the god who had set the terms sought to change them. Astra did not want his herald to leave. To give up divinity for a mortal. For you.

"A human who lies, who deceives," Astra said, voice still pleasant, still soft. "You dared to seek the favor of one not meant for your kind."

He gestured to Zayne, gaze fond and possessive. "You will lose your powers. The mortal world is no place for you. Stay here. With me. Among your brothers. In these halls." He smiled. "Won’t you, my treasured herald?"

At that, you turned to Zayne. Your expression was calm. Your voice, quiet. Gentle but resolute even in conflict. "Do you wish to stay, Forseer?" you asked. "I will not deny you your home. I may have won the challenge, but I will not demand your heart. If you wish to remain, I will leave without resentment."

It was a choice offered freely. No pleading. No bargaining. Just truth. And it was that truth that won him.

Zayne kept his hand in yours. And without a word, he stepped past his god.

His silence was his answer.

He chose you.

Caleb (Achilles x Patroclus)

The greatest of warriors had wept.

You had fallen to your knees beside him, clutching Caleb’s lifeless body as if you could still anchor him to the world. Your hands trembled against bloodstained skin. Your forehead pressed to his. You wept until your voice broke. Until you couldn’t tell where grief ended and the storm inside you began.

He had worn your armor. Taken your place. Stepped into the line of fate that should have been yours.

And now he was gone.

For a war that was not his. For a quarrel you refused to resolve. For your pride.

Caleb. Your beloved Caleb. The one who had steadied your wrath with a smile, who could silence your fury with a look. The one who burned brighter than any god. The best of men.

You kissed his brow, again and again, whispering apologies into cooling skin. You begged silently for time to turn backward. You wanted one more day. One more moment. One more breath.

But none came.

Still, your hands kept moving. You wiped the blood away with cloth too fine for war. You dressed him in your finest tunic. The one your mother had sent. You wrapped him in honor, when there was none left in the world.

And then, slowly, you sat beside him. The rage quieted.

You held his hand, still cold, and stared at the tent wall for a long time before speaking. "I will not make you wait long," you whispered. The words were calm now. Hollow, but true. You could feel something in you begin to harden. Something deep, and final. Strings of fate pulling the bow taut.

You looked up at the man who had come to collect your command. “Let our ashes rest in the same urn,” you said evenly. “Let us be one in death.” You place a coin in Caleb's palm.

And then you rose.

The tent was silent behind you. The space he once filled now colder than any winter wind. But inside your chest, the quiet cracked. Splintered by something sharper than grief.

You had mourned. You had begged. You had wept until your body ached. Now there was only fire.

The next day, a half-empty urn sat in your chamber, waiting.

You dressed in your armor. Not as a soldier, not as a commander, but as the executioner of prophecy.

There would be no mercy. No hesitation. The wrath of gods would pale beside what you would bring.

It was time.

You would avenge Caleb.

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men with an Artistic Reader

AN: I've been daydreaming about this all day. Now I am ready to be sleep deprived tmr at work. Out and proud, night owl.

Ingredients: Weird pining? Hurt and comfort

My Fav: Caleb and Rafayel

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Xavier:

Xavier stared at himself.

So many versions. A dozen lifetimes carved in stone. Smiles he didn’t remember, frowns he never meant to show. A trailing tear, frozen in marble.

His likeness, again and again. Unyielding yet, unflinchingly perfect in its retention.

He reached out, trailing trembling fingers over your work. Over the months you had been alone.

Months he had spent chasing shadows, hunting traitors to his cause. To return to you, a safer world.

But now a studio full of unsaid longing greeted him. Of love that had nowhere else to go.

And there you were.

Curled in the corner. Asleep in your apron, arms around your chisel like it could hold you together. Dust clung to your lashes. Your cheeks were stained with clay.

You hadn’t just missed him. You had suffered.

Xavier come back to a room that carried all your yearning. A room bursting at its seams with uncontained love.

He cleaned. The rotting food. The broken brushes. The untouched bed. He ordered groceries. Real meals. Soft bread. Fresh fruit. Things you used to like.

And only when your space felt livable again, when the panic in his limbs had calmed, did he kneel beside you. Gently, like a man afraid to wake a dream. His arms shook as he wrapped them around you.

You stirred, barely. The tiniest sound escaped your lips. Somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

“I’m here,” he whispered, tucking his face against your shoulder. His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. “I made it back to you.”

And then, as gently as he could, Xavier lifted you from the floor.

Carried you to bed like something rare. Like something breakable. Like someone who had been brave for far too long.

Zayne:

There were so many. Too many.

Zayne stood still in the gallery, breath low, arms at his sides. A room full of him.

Photos lined the walls, him in the hospital corridors, crouched beside a child in the oncology ward, helping an elderly patient with walker, leaving the OR with blood on his gloves.

Those, he remembered.

But then, there were the others.

A photo of him stealing ice cream under kitchen light. Another of him sleeping, mouth slightly parted, brow furrowed. One through a window, his figure blurred in snowfall. A silhouette swallowed by trees.

And beneath every frame: your name. Burned into the edges like fire.

You hadn’t just captured him. You had claimed him. A muse carved with hunger both feral and focused.

You’d caught what he never meant to show. What he thought he’d hidden.

He stepped back, heart stumbling in his chest. It was too much...Zayne could flee, escape something so intense.

Something so alike him. A mirror to his own heart.

Yet, he could not bring himself to. Steeling his heart he stepped deeper into your maze.

One photo at a time.

Until his steps finally led to you. And then he would summon all his courage to confront what awaited him in your gaze. One bare of any lens.

Rafayel:

The worlds you wrote became his dreams the first time he read your work. Distant heroes, dynamic worlds much like the real one, yet so different. The meandering curves and twists of a plot.

Rafayel practically breathed it all in.

He drew all of it when the dreams ended. The hero of your tales, the villain of your created world, the fleeting characters you held such softness for.

And with every passing day, he ached to know more. To be one with you, in mind and soul. To blend your art and make the world of creation come alive.

The bond craved it.

Yet it had taken him years before he first spotted it.

The first sign of himself in your work. It had been there all along.

The wise lighthouse keeper. The reflection you both in the loving elderly couple who fed the starving company of heroes. The gratitude for ocean's warm currents that revived the main character in another book.

He was the kindness of the world itself in your works. The unseen force of everyday good. He was the fleeting character. At peace, in love, and kind.

It was always a good end. Despite the hardships of the world, of the narrative, your words were always kind to him. Kinder than fates had been.

You wrote him a life of bliss: a warm hearth, a hearty meal, a caring pat on the back.

Rafayel had been in your work all along. He was the beauty of your world. The sweetness that made the world worth fighting for.

And for once, he treasured the knowledge you had so carefully kept from your readers.

Sylus:

"Sweetheart, no one hides smuggled goods in a warehouse," Sylus said, casually tossing the script aside. "Precious belongings are best kept close." He pulled you into his arms with infuriating ease, resting his chin on your shoulder like he wasn’t the problem.

You wriggled, half-hearted. "Sylus, I didn’t write the damn script, and I sure as hell won’t change it just because you think you're smarter than the screenwriter."

“I am smarter than the screenwriter.”

You snorted. "You think you’re smarter than everyone."

“Well,” he drawled, “statistically speaking...”

You smacked him in the chest with the script. "Focus! I have a callback tomorrow and if you keep rewriting the entire plot mid-scene, I’ll forget my actual lines and improvise a murder."

He blinked. “Very in character. Maybe you should play Darren.”

You gave him a glare that you barely held onto, in front of your husband.

With a long-suffering groan, Sylus picked up the script for the 50th time. "You shouldn’t have come here," he recited in a low, deliberate voice. "You walked right into my trap." His delivery was annoyingly good.

You turned to him, doing your best not to crack. "You can’t fool me," you said, slipping into character. Your voice softened.

"This isn’t you. Return to me, Darren. Let us go home." You whispered the line just like your director asked. Low, vulnerable, and aching.

But Sylus just stood there. Smirking. Not Darren. Never Darren.

"A terrible Darren," you muttered under your breath.

He leaned in, brushing a knuckle beneath your chin. "Maybe," he murmured, "but I always come home."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. "Ugh. You’re impossible."

"And yet, here I am," he said, grinning. "Scene partner, life partner, skin care partner even."

You groaned. "Just say the next line, Darren."

"Only if I get a kiss after."

"You're not getting a kiss."

"You wrote that line in the margins, didn’t you?"

You sighed, grabbed the script again, and hit him with it.

Lovingly.

Caleb:

Everyone knew the song. The song of the summer. No name attached. Just a scratchy upload. A broken voice, hoarse, raw, recorded from a blurry video from a bar.

Threadbare guitar. Matted hair. Eyebags so dark they looked bruised. The very image of a soul unraveling.

Each note aching, each lyric carved from pain. It touched the hearts of lovers across borders.

You shouldn’t have gone viral. But you did. And it reached him. Caleb.

The song of your mourning. The music of your grief. The desperate, echoing want, to be with him again.

The first time he heard it, it was barely a whisper, leaking from a cadet’s forgotten phone in the corner of a conference room.

He’d frozen. Then buckled. His heart hammering. Your voice. After so long...too long. After all the lengths he had gone to deny himself of you.

Like a madman, he grabbed the phone and flipped it over, hoping, knowing, he’d see you.

The footage was grainy, but unmistakable. Your face streaked with tears. Your body curled in on itself, like it had shrunk, folded into itself under an unknown, unseen burden.

And in that room, Caleb finally understood what his death, or what the world had called his death, had done to you.

Caleb sat on the cold floor of the empty room, heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum.

He had gone dark to protect you. He had vanished to keep you safe. But now he saw what that silence had done.

Even in Skyhaven. Even past firewalls and military scramblers, and the dead silence of a man they claimed was gone. It found him. Your voice got to him.

And it undid him.

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men When You Lose Memories of Them

AN: Thanks @queenondeezmatas for this amazing idea 🫦

Ingredients: 100% angst (hurt no comfort)

My Fav: hmmm Caleb and Rafayel

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Xavier:

It started small.

A missed appointment. Misplaced keys. The way your gaze sometimes slid right past him like he was just another face in the crowd.

He should’ve noticed. The puzzled look in your eyes one morning when he kissed your forehead.

He should’ve known when you called him by a name that wasn’t his. Smiled like it was a joke. Laughed it off. But he let it go.

It wasn’t until the battle that he stopped pretending.

Your weapon clattered to the ground. And you walked...Right off the battlefield. Into the treeline. Unarmed. Like pulled by a siren's call.

Xavier shouted. He took down the last of the Wanderers with practiced precision, feet already moving toward you. He reached for your wrist. Just as you stumbled.

He caught you. He always did.

You collapsed in his arms. Limp. Breathing, but barely. Not from the fall. From the rot that came before it.

Too much radiation exposure. A hunter’s disease. It ate people differently. Sometimes lungs, sometimes eyes. And sometimes… memory.

Now he sits beside your bed. The walls of this ward are white and too clean. The kind of sterile that strips soul of color.

You look at him like he’s a stranger.

No name rises to your lips. No warmth in your eyes. Only confusion and a look of aching loneliness.

You don’t remember him. Not the late-night missions. Not the whispered confessions. Not the lifetimes he spent waiting, yearning. Only to have you for a moment. Only to lose you just as gently.

Xavier says nothing. He simply stays. He brings photos from the field. Diaries written in your hand. Memories you no longer remember having.

He reads them to you. Softly. Without demand. Reminding you of who you were, even as your gaze slips past him again.

He does not cry. He does not beg. Even when you forget, he remembers for you.

Rafayel:

You were in his arms. Your head on his chest, his arms curled around you like he could keep the night from ending. The room was steeped in violet, the hush before dawn. Your back to the open window, skin tingling with goosebumps, aching for sunlight to chase the cold away.

Rafayel slept lightly. Half-murmuring, half-dreaming. His fingers twitched softly against your waist, like he was reaching for something he’d never quite grasp.

A frown creased his brow. He whispered something...distant, slurred.

You smiled and touched his forehead, smoothing the line. You hummed, a tune older than this world.

You would bake for him this morning, you thought. You’d fill the kitchen with butter and warmth.

Your hand brushed his cheek.

Warm. Wet. You stilled. Tears? You rose on your elbow, heart tight.

His face was turned to the light. His breathing was shallow. His lips parted, caught on a soundless word. Then his eyes snapped open.

The light changed. No longer soft violet, now blossoming pink of spring. Bloody. Familiar.

Sunrise.

That sunrise. You were in his arms again...But not here. Not now.

The memory slammed into him like a breaking wave.

You....cold in his arms. The dagger still lodged in your chest. The sacrifice. The price. The godhood returned, but not before the love was lost.

And your skin now, prickled from the cold, felt the same. His lungs seized.

The scream never left his mouth but it tore through his bones. Water roared in his ears. Screeching gulls. The crash of waves. You were gone again. Gone.

“Rafayel—!” You held his face. Tried to shake him loose from whatever illusion gripped him. “Rafayel, look at me....please....” You begged.

But he collapsed. His body convulsed in your arms. Muscles twisted in pain. His spine arched. His lips trembled. You pressed your hand to his chest, like it could hold his soul together. Like it could anchor him here.

Silence. Stillness. The sea stopped screaming. The memory faded like breath from glass.

Rafayel lay still beneath you. His eyes opened. And they did not know you. Not the way they used to. There was no recognition.

Only the quiet. Only the peace of forgetting. Eight hundred years of love and grief...gone in a breath. The body beside you was still warm, still strong. But the god you’d known had vanished.

Fled in an illusion of his sorrow.

He had shed his divinity. Laid it down like a crown too heavy to bear. And with it, all memory of you.

Zayne:

He crumbles as you cackle.

A victorious slime on your lips. His lips freezing under the careful swipe of your thumb.

Scheming eyes, of his deity stare back at him. Zayne stands frozen infront of his lord. Astra, summoned by just the whisper of his name by your lips.

He had been too lax. When the memories returned, he should have stopped them. He should have known, why seal of past and future ought to be untouched.

Now, you had unknowingly bared your soul to the keeper of time.

The cruel master of fates, lounging in your body, had come to seek Zayne.

And your eyes...they were changed.

“Finally, I have found you, Foreseer,” your voice is hoarse, hollow like it’s echoing from the end of time. “And in this body, it seems you will not find your master quite so repulsive.”

Zayne stumbles back, wrenching free from your touch. His shoulder hits the wall, breath caught in his throat.

And then...you return. Your stance shifts. Your voice breaks. “Why do you run… Dr. Zayne?”

It’s you. Your voice. Your eyes. Wide, hurt. Searching. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, Zayne,” you whisper, trembling now. “I’m still here. Please… stay with me.”

Tears trail down your cheeks. And they look real. So real.

Zayne’s resolve collapses beneath the weight of memory. Your laugh in the rain. Your fingers on his wrist. The way you kissed him after every confession.

He pulls you into his arms. Tight. As if holding you could keep the nightmare at bay. As if the warmth of your body would silence the god inside.

But nestled in the crook of his neck, unseen, your eyes glint. Ancient and pleased.

The Keeper of Time watches from behind your tears.

And smiles. Arms wrapped around the disciple now returned to the fate itself.

Sylus:

There’s so much blood.

Sylus holds you close, huddled in a dark corner of a forgotten warehouse. His arms wrap around you like a shield, as if holding you tightly enough might keep the life inside you.

He rocks you gently, so careful. So painfully gentle. His back pressed to the wall, body coiled in defense. He guards the corner like it matters. Like it could make a difference now.

“It’s going to be alright…” He whispers it over and over, lips brushing your temple. His shirt is wrapped around your forehead, soaked through. The bleeding won’t stop.

Why won’t it stop?

He wants to scream. Rage at the world. Break something. Break everything.

But he can’t. Not with you like this. Not when you’re this vulnerable. This quiet.

So he talks. Keeps your eyes open. Keeps your name in the air like an anchor.

But your words are slurred now. Slipping. Your breath comes shallow.

His phone buzzes weakly beside him...he called everyone. Anyone. Luke. Yes, Luke answered. He’s coming. He promised.

And then you’ll get better. You have to.

“Don’t go,” Sylus pleads, tears streaking his cheeks now, no longer held back. “Don’t go... I’m not strong enough for it. Don’t do this to me.” He trembles as he says it. Because it’s true. This would be the thing that breaks him.

“Please,” he begs— Not just to you. To the room. The sky. The universe. To anyone listening.

“I’ll do anything.” He means it. If it costs him your laughter, so be it. If it costs him your memory of him, he accepts. If he is never held by you again, he’ll survive it. Barely. If you never say his name again, he’ll learn to breathe around the silence.

“Please...don't let this be another end,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Take everything else. Just… this once...don't hurt.. not again.”

And somewhere, deep in the quiet, something listens and grants his desperate bargain.

Caleb:

You forget him. It is a choice. A clean signature on a legal document. Just one line, one name, one memory torn loose from the spine of your life.

They told you it would be peaceful. And they were right. After the blast, after the fire that curled itself into your bones and refused to let go, peace sounded like mercy.

You sat beside Zayne when you signed it. The room smelled like antiseptic and ink. You didn’t cry.

You're not sorry. Not exactly. You're just a coward. Caleb would’ve known that. He would’ve called you selfish. And he’d be right.

But you couldn’t keep remembering the sound of his voice in the smoke. The way nothing of him remained. Nothing but one necklace that still smelled of him.

So you let go.

And before the procedure, you wrote him one last letter. Just in case words could still travel across planes. Living or dead.

Caleb, If words can travel beyond the living… let them carry this. It hurts. It hurts so much I can’t breathe. I think of you every moment. I remember you. I beg your forgiveness. But you don’t answer. No one does. Why you? Why not me? And in forgetting you, I’ll finally be free. It’s the only way I know to be close to you again. To feel the warmth of the sun on my skin without tears. To look at the sky and admire it. To live. Even if I can’t remember why. Forgive me, Caleb. Your absence has made a coward of me. In another lifetime, I will love you better.

He finds it.

Folded at the back of your medical file, tucked just beneath the final consent form.

The memory of you lives in ink. But it no longer lives in you.

And when he finally sees you again, you’re not screaming.

You’re not grieving. You’re quiet. Staring out the window of a white cell with wide, empty eyes.

The fire is gone. So is the guilt. But so is everything else.

[a-hermit-pining]

I want to write angst so bad. Any ideas chat?

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men with their Foils

AN: gotta love foils ;) I would a 100% die of emotional constipation if an entire kingdom fell because of me.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Ingredients: 55% angst, 45% conflict

My Fav: Zanye and Sylus.

Context: Foils, in literature, are opposing characters to protagonist. In this case, reader represents an opposing ideology to that of respective li. Foils are used to highlight the characteristics of the protagonist.

Xavier:

He looks at your hands, hiding the flowers behind your back. Your eyes linger on the far wall. Anywhere but him.

You won’t give them to him anymore.

Not after Jeremiah let it slip. That Xavier doesn’t like strong fragrances. That the smell of roses and gardenias is too much. That lavender makes him feel boxed in.

For years, you’ve decorated your shared apartment with flowers. You planted them with him in spring. Cut them for the kitchen. Pressed petals into letters. You’ve never known a version of home that didn’t bloom.

But now, you know.

And you didn’t hear it from him.

Xavier doesn’t speak as you pass him by. Doesn’t reach for your wrist, or offer some soft contradiction. He just watches, frozen in the quiet realization that you won’t fight him on this. Not this time.

You place the bouquet down in the sink. Turn away without a word.

And that is the last time you bring flowers home.

You don’t complain. You don’t name the ache. But you also don’t try to fill the space with something else. You stop lingering near the flower stalls on your way home. You stop humming when you pass lavender fields.

Instead, you bring him other things. Books. Dishes he likes. An old album you found from a market stall.

You still tell him your stories. Still share the corners of your mind, your memories, your moods. But something’s changed.

Your voice is quieter. Lighter in some ways, heavier in others. You don’t wait for him to respond the way you used to. You still offer him your presence, but no longer your everything.

You have started keeping small pieces of yourself. To save him the burden of returning the favor of vulnerability.

And for that, Xavier is grateful. And afraid. Because he knows what he is.

A closed door. A still room. A man so careful not to be a burden that he became a stranger in his own home. He has pushed you away before any cruel fate ever could.

He knows all of you. Your favorite scents, your fears, the way your voice shifts when you're tired. But you only know the version of him that stays quiet. That nods. That lets you give everything without ever asking for anything in return.

He has kept you apart.

And you have noticed. But still, you are kind. You do not leave. You only stop looking for a gesture of reciprocation.

And somehow, that hurts worse.

Rafayel:

You never accept his love.

Not the paintings he leaves at your door. Not the carved offerings of their names...the ones he couldn’t save. Not the trembling hands, not the apologies he no longer knows how to shape into words.

You, who once burned bright with laughter and life, now wear silence like armor.

At every turn, you choose your duty. Your penance. A deathless life among the dead.

You became the Reaper. Not out of vengeance. Not out of power. But to pay the price he should have paid.

You chose to carry the weight of his sin, because he chose you over his people. Because he loved you more than the lives that depended on him. And now you make him pay for it every day.

Not with anger. With absence.

With eyes that refuse to meet his. With the soft death of distance.

He knows you cannot forgive him. Not after what was lost. Not after the smoke and blood.

But gods, he wishes you would at least look at him.

He knows what you think of yourself. That you are no longer worthy. That you are shadow, not soul.

But he still sees it...the heartache beneath your grief. The person he gave up a kingdom for.

You, in your robes of black. You, with your hands stained from centuries of guiding souls beyond. You, who never once looked back.

He cannot stop loving you. Even now. Even when he knows he is a monument to your guilt.

Even when he kneels beneath your judgment, not as a penitent, but as a man who still believes in what you were.

In denying him, you have denied yourself.

He knows it.

You know it.

And maybe that is why you cannot bear to see him. Because if you did, you would see not the god who fell…but the reflection of everything you once were.

Zayne:

You stood in the pouring rain, just beneath his window, as the cops dragged you from the hospital grounds.

Your guitar was still clutched in your hands, your fingers white-knuckled around the neck as you struggled against the grip of security.

No one sang at hospitals. No one brought an electric guitar to places where the fragile and dying tried to rest.

But you did.

Because you were reckless. Irrevocably impulsive. Like wildfire roaring through a forest that had never known flame.

Zayne had evaded you, slipped through your fingers like steam. So you sought him. Loudly. Rawly. With music and desperation and the weight of things unsaid.

He hears it halfway down the stairs. Your voice rising above the storm, hoarse and cracking, dragging its way up the hospital’s stone walls.

His heart lurches. How hard had he pushed you for it to come to this?

He knows your pain. Everyone does. You never hid it. You didn’t cage it in polite silence or whisper it behind closed doors. You bled it into your lyrics, into your voice, until even strangers ached when you sang.

Wildfires seldom whispered. They devoured.

He shouldn’t have left you in silence. Gods, he shouldn’t have let it get this far.

There would be cameras, wouldn’t there? Phones aimed through fogged-up windshields, recording the singer sobbing in the rain. Another scandal waiting to be spun. Headlines eager to tarnish your name, twist your grief into something performative.

He stumbles on the last step, heart hammering as his shoes hit the pavement.

You’re still there, soaked to the skin, tears mixing with rain, strumming your pain into the air like a siren song no one could ignore.

And all Zayne can think is that he needed to get to you. He needed to pull you away. Needed to take the pain out of your voice...needed to take the heartbreak out of your songs.

Sylus:

You’re passed out again on another workbook. Cheek pressed to the mangled mess of number 8 practice. Clearly, the student had stuck to the elite technique of combining two circles and hoping for the best.

Sylus stands in the doorway a moment longer than usual. Then he walks over and picks you up.

You’re heavier than you look when asleep. Warm, soft, your arms limp around the pencil still in your grasp. You murmur something as your head slumps against his chest.

“No... Brandon, put your giraffe in the cubby,” you breathe.

A preschool teacher. That hadn’t been what Sylus expected.

A hunter, maybe. A soldier. Someone like him. Isn’t that what the broken ones do? Build sharpness out of the pieces. Get strong. Get distant. Never be hurt again.

But you hadn’t.

You didn’t hide behind force. Didn’t chase strength like a weapon. You stood in the sun with both feet planted in a world that had tried to burn you down, and taught children how to hold crayons and be kind to each other.

It had surprised him. And then it had made something in him ache.

Because he remembers what it was like to want things that soft. To believe in them. He doesn’t, not really. Not anymore.

But you do. And gods, that does something to him.

You curl slightly as he lays you down, pulling the blanket around your shoulders like instinct. Sylus stays kneeling there a second longer than he means to.

Your face still carries exhaustion, but not bitterness. The lines are soft. You smile in your sleep. Smile, even now.

You’ve seen what he’s seen. You’ve walked through fire. And still, somehow, you came out of it gentle.

It makes his chest tighten. Like guilt. Like grief. Like a strange kind of awe. And somewhere under it all, a dangerous urge, to shield you from everything, even the things you’ve already survived.

To build you a world where you can keep being this kind. Even if he doesn’t believe in it for himself.

He brushes a piece of paper from your pillow. One of the kids had drawn you. Stick arms. Your name spelled wrong. Sylus folds it, quietly. Slips it into the cover of the workbook. Then he turns out the light.

Tonight he finds himself immeasurably weary.

Caleb:

You hear him before you see him. Boots crunching over broken gravel.

You don’t look up.

“I thought I told you not to leave the inner perimeter,” Caleb says, low and sharp.

You keep your gaze fixed on the sky, where smoke still curls toward the clouds. “And I thought you’d stopped ordering civilians around.”

“You’re not just a civilian. You’re...” He cuts himself off.

You’re still wearing your flak vest. It’s torn at the hem, ash-smudged. The word PRESS across your chest is faded from too many washes.

“You were five clicks past the safety zone.”

“I know where I was.” You don’t raise your voice. Don’t need to. You’ve filed dispatches in blast zones worse than this. You’ve sat with mothers cradling children who didn’t make it. You’ve written down their words because no one else would.

“I made the call,” you say, not unkindly. “It was mine to make.”

Caleb steps forward. His shadow stretches over your legs. His helmet’s still under his arm, dirt smudged across his temple.

“You could’ve died.”

“So could you.”

He exhales, frustrated. “That’s different.”

You finally look at him. “How?” you ask.

“I’m trained for this,” he says. “You’re not. I’m—”

“Expendable?” you finish for him. “That what they call colonels now?”

“If I go down, the mission continues.” He tries reasoning.

“And if I go down, the truth doesn’t.” That stops him. You sit up straighter. Not challenging, just clear. “No one else here’s going to ask the soldier on stretcher five what it felt like when the medevac didn’t come,” you say.

He says nothing.

“And I can’t do that from a bunker,” you add. “Just like you can’t lead from a command tent.” You let your recorder rest, light still blinking. “I know you’d die for me,” you say. “That’s never been the problem.” Your voice is quiet now. Careful. War makes people weary of loud.

“I just don’t want a love I have to grieve.”

He looks away like it hurts. Like it physically hurts.

You keep going. “If being with me makes you want to throw yourself into every explosion first, then maybe you don’t want me. Maybe you want a cause. Something worth protecting. Something worth dying for.”

He turns sharply. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you say. “But it’s true.” You pick up your notebook. Wipe soot off the edge. “I won’t ask you to stop being a soldier, Caleb. But I won’t be your reason to die.”

He watches you stand.

“I want to be your reason to come back.”

And then you leave. Leave him standing alone. You refused to be a martyr's cause.

[a-hermit-pining]

Wake up babe, new Xavier myth trailer just dropped

I'm dead. Long hair. Prince/king au.

I'm going to write so much consort au out of this bad boi

[a-hermit-pining]

My day be so fine and then I read "I didn't say that to punish you" and I'm crying. How dare you.

As a master people pleaser, I am crying with you 🤝

Thank you for reading ^^

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men React to Accidently Triggering Your Insecurities

Request: anon - i’m dying with a hurt/comfort for the lads men, may i request a scenario when they (unintentionally) made fun of the reader's insecurity (they didn't know) and they realized they are the only one laughing at their own joke, and the reader walked away with them, hiding their tears, tysm !! 🤗

AN: This isn't exactly the request but I am too fragile to write hurt no comfort as of now. Thank you for requesting :D

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Ingredients: 60% spiraling, 40% comfort

My Fav: reader because I put too much of myself into this.

Xavier:

"It's like I am with a block of ice," Xavier murmured, leaning his head on your shoulder. "An unmoving mountain." He yawned, stretching his legs before burrowing his face into your chest.

He was half-asleep, one-third of the way into the movie he had insisted you both watch together. Your eyes were glued to the soft curve of his cheek. You wanted to reach for it. To run your fingers across the slope of his jaw.

But you didn’t. You never did.

It bothered him. You knew it did. You’d seen the way he craved affection, how he had learned to voice his needs, ask for closeness, reach for you without shame.

But you… you were still too far away. Trapped in some inner void that swallowed your voice whole. To bare your heart wasn’t possible. It was too shattered. Too fragile. And if he knew, if he truly knew how deep the ache went...he would stay.

He would sacrifice himself. Give up everything. His world, his future, Philos, promises made to another you.

So you repressed it.

Even now. You stayed still. Perfectly still. And you wilted, silently, every time his eyes dimmed at your restrained affection. And he came to realize that you were just... an unnamed past.

But then, he shifted. And lifted his head. His eyes, soft with sleep seconds ago, now searched your face with startling clarity. He studied you with a focus that made your chest tighten.

“You’re not watching the movie,” he said, low.

You offered a practiced smile. “Neither are you.”

He didn’t smile back. Instead, he kept looking at you. Really looking. And then, “I didn’t mean it,” he said quietly. “What I said. About you being a block of ice.”

Your breath caught. “It’s fine. It’s—true.”

“No,” he said again, voice firmer. “You’re not cold. You’re just scared. You’ve been bracing for the goodbye since the moment we met.”

You couldn’t answer.

“Do you really think I haven’t noticed?” he whispered. “The way you flinch when I say forever. The way you love me like it’s a crime you haven’t been caught for yet.”

Xavier reached for your hand. And, for once, you let him.

Zayne:

By all accounts, Akso’s annual winter celebration was the highlight of the year. A glittering event that brought together the brightest in medicine, innovation, and research. A night where your boyfriend, Zayne, the renowned cardiothoracic surgeon, had received another award.

He looked perfect. Of course he did. Sharp suit. Sharp mind. Sharp tongue that made even the most intimidating specialists laugh. He hadn't left your side once.

So why did your smile feel like a mask slowly cracking under pressure?

You were trying, really trying, to match the pace of the room. The elegant conversations about genomics and machine learning in diagnostics. Laughing when others laughed. Nodding as if you understood the terminology flying past your ears like wind. You sipped your champagne and held yourself upright with practiced grace.

But inside? Inside, you were curling smaller by the second.

You didn’t belong here. Not in this room full of brilliant minds with five degrees and flawless speech patterns. You weren’t unintelligent, but this was another language. And it wasn’t just the words.

It was the weight of being the other one. The not-like-them.

A few more hours, you told yourself. Then you could go home, back to the space you wouldn't feel quite so small.

Zayne hadn’t noticed. Not really. He was speaking with a team from Oslo now...some collaboration on cryo-cardiac surgery. You caught snippets: “Myocardial interface integrity…” “post-freeze cellular latency…” He sounded magnificent. So in his element.

And you? You were the decorative plus-one who hadn't said anything in fifteen minutes.

The thought came sharp and uninvited: He’s ashamed. Maybe he didn’t mean to be. But maybe he kept you out of the conversation because he knew you couldn’t keep up. That you’d say something foolish. That you weren’t… enough. Not here.

Your hand tightened around your glass. Stop. Not now. Smile. Just smile—

“Are you blinking like that because you got something in your eye,” a voice murmured beside you, “or because you’re about to cry?”

You startled. Zayne had returned. You hadn’t even noticed. He looked down at you, glass in hand, brow slightly furrowed.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Shook your head lightly. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” His gaze flicked to your glass. “Third sip in two minutes. You don’t even like champagne. You’ve been faking enjoyment since the shrimp course.”

You swallowed. “You were busy.”

His head tilted, a slow realization dawning. “You thought I forgot you.”

You looked away. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “You're in discomfort, you've isolated yourself emotionally, and you’re spiraling in a room full of polished egos. That’s not nothing.” He is annoyingly perceptive at times.

Your eyes flicked back to him, startled. “I just didn’t want to ruin your night.”

“You didn’t,” he said plainly. “But if you had, I would still choose you over every cardiologist in this room.” The corners of your mouth twitched. “Even the one from Switzerland with the velvet blazer and the Nobel?”

He leaned in slightly, dry amusement in his eyes. “Especially him. He double-dipped a canape. Unforgivable.”

You laughed. A real one, this time. Your shoulders loosened just enough.

Zayne offered his hand. “Come.”

“Where?”

“Out. Somewhere less intellectually exhausting. Preferably with dessert.”

Rafayel:

"It's like you have to impress everyone with how perfect you are," Rafayel says, slamming the plate down with a lingering rattle of delicate China.

"Are you so afraid of being disliked," he continues, "that you can't say no to anyone?"

The words lodge in your chest like a stone. Something slow and sick begins unraveling in your stomach. You open your mouth, but your voice is gone. Your throat has already closed up.

Of course you said yes to Simone again. Of course you gave up another weekend, pushed back your plans, told yourself it was fine. It’s always fine, right? That’s the version of you people like.

Your hands are shaking. You try to nod. Try to smile. Make it small, make it quiet. You just need to say something to make it better, anything...

But he's still talking. Still pacing. Still disappointed.

And all you can think is: He sees it now. He sees the cracks. The mess. The way you need everyone to be okay with you because if they aren’t, if they don’t want you...then what are you?

You aren’t angry. You’re ashamed. Your ears start to ring. Your chest is too tight. The room is warping around the edges, soft and spinning. You’re nodding to whatever he’s saying now. You have to agree.

You have to make this okay again. If he leaves...if he leaves...“I’ll fix it,” you blurt. “I’ll cancel. I’ll make it work. I didn’t mean...I just thought if I...”

Rafayel stops mid-step. His face shifts, just a flicker at first. Like something sharp in his chest just landed. “…Wait,” he says, more to himself than you. “Wait, no—” He blinks hard, like he’s waking up in real time.

Your hands are still trembling. You’re still trying to patch over the damage.

And that’s when it hits him. Your voice. Your face. The way you fold in on yourself like an apology. He sees it. Finally sees it.

“Stop.” His voice is quieter now, but firm. It cuts through your spiraling like the snap of a whip.

You don’t realize you’re shaking until he crosses the room and places both hands gently on your cheeks, tilting your face up. His fingers are warm. Solid. Real.

“Look at me,” he says. You try. He takes a breath. The anger is gone now, melted into something softer. Something remorseful. “I didn’t say that to punish you.”

Your eyes sting.

“I’m not upset that you helped her,” he murmurs. “I’m upset that you keep abandoning yourself. That you let everyone pull at you until there’s nothing left, just this scared little version of you, trying to be what everyone needs.”

Your lip trembles.

“I don’t want a perfect partner. I want you. You’re allowed to disappoint people. You’re allowed to say no. You’re allowed to be loved even when you’re not useful.”

Your knees give just slightly, but he’s there. Holding you.

And you start to cry. Quietly, shamefully, like always. Like you don’t deserve to cry too loud.

But he doesn't flinch. He holds you closer. “You’re not a burden,” Rafayel whispers. “You’re not too much. And you don’t have to earn love by burning yourself out.”

And you finally, finally let go. Just a little.

Sylus:

"Kitten, that restaurant is not good enough. I could get us a reservation somewhere better."

Sylus is already on his phone, scrolling. His tone isn't cruel. Just matter-of-fact, like he’s solving a problem. Improving a plan. Upgrading an experience.

He isn't wrong.

The place you’d picked is small, dim, and weathered. The awning is faded, the sign cracked. Inside, the tables are mismatched, the menu handwritten. You order at the counter. No reservations. No pretense.

It’s nothing like what he’s used to.

But it’s yours.

This was the place you went during finals when you couldn’t afford anything else. The place where your grandmother would take you, slipping extra napkins into her purse, pretending not to notice when you’d eaten only half so you could save the rest for later.

It’s shabby. Broken. But it holds pieces of you no one else has ever really wanted.

And now, you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. To tell Sylus why this place matters. Why you hesitated in front of the door. Why you’re still standing here, hoping he’ll just… see it.

But he won’t, will he?

He’ll see it the way others have. The way your friends used to look at you when you skipped field trips or brought your lunch in reused containers. Like something in you didn’t quite measure up.

You feel small. Like the kid who always tried to hide wear on their patched uniform. The one who never asked for anything, just hoped not to be noticed.

Your arms wrap around yourself without thinking. And then, you realize he’s gone quiet.

He’s not scrolling anymore. He’s looking at you. Not the restaurant. You.

Something in your face must have cracked. Maybe it was the way your gaze lingered on the crooked sign, or the way you folded into yourself like you were apologizing for bringing him here.

You don’t say anything.

But he puts his phone away. Slowly. Takes a breath. Steps closer. “I didn’t know this place meant something to you,” he says softly.

You shrug, a twitch of your shoulder, but your eyes burn.

He lifts your chin with one finger, gently. “I’m sorry, kitten,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like it wasn’t enough. If it’s yours…it’s already better than perfect.”

You blink, trying to process the shift in his voice, the tenderness. He brushes his thumb across your cheek, like he’s smoothing away years of flinching.

“Will you take me inside?” he asks. And it sounds like: Will you show me this piece of you? Will you let me in?

And when the food comes, piled high, a little greasy, a little uneven, he digs in like it’s a five-star meal. Like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Grease on his fingers. Sauce on his cheek. One bite, then another. No hesitation. No comment. Just joy. You watch him scarf down a third helping of the pasta you used to share with your granny, and something inside you settles.

Caleb:

"I almost died protecting you once," Caleb growls. His gaze is cold. Yet it sears your heart. "Would you have me dead?!" He’s kneeling at your feet, wrapping another bandage around the gash you pretended wasn’t serious.

"By a heart attack, nonetheless." He mutters it like a joke, but there’s no humor in his voice. Not really. “I swear to the gods, I’ll chain you to this bed if I have to,” he says, knotting the bandage a little too tightly. “If that’s what it takes to keep you alive.”

Your eyes are locked on his hands. Beautiful hands. Scarred, steady, trembling just slightly now that he thinks you’re not looking.

Gods, you’re crying. Again.

Exactly what he didn’t need, right? You disappear for two days, end up bloodied and half-conscious, and he comes riding from Skyhaven like a storm. And now this. Now the tears.

You’re going to make him feel guilty. Again. You try to think of something else. Anything else.

But the past is loud tonight. The blast. The smoke. The silence. Granny’s voice telling you to visit more. The guilt settling over your shoulders like ash.

You live to pay for their lives, the voice hissed back then. And it’s never really shut up.

You found Caleb again. Months after the explosion, after the funeral, after the sleepless nights. You knew he was alive. You’ve known for years now. But still, every time he’s late to return, every time you wake and don’t hear him nearby, the panic takes your lungs and squeezes.

You didn’t just lose her. You almost lost him. And the idea of that still grips you harder than any wound.

"You're going to be the death of me," Caleb mutters, inspecting your arm now. His voice is quieter. Frayed.

You grab his sleeve.

He goes still.

“Never.” Your voice is sharp. Desperate. Frantic. “Never. You’re forbidden from it. You can’t leave me alone again.” You say it louder than you meant to. Almost a shout. Like it slipped straight out of the past.

Caleb doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. And for a moment, he looks… haunted. Like you ripped something open in him.

He doesn’t meet your eyes right away. Just stares at the half-wrapped bandage in his hands, like he forgot what he was doing.

Then, quietly, like a man forcing every word through fog, he says: “You think I don’t know what it feels like? To wake up and think the person you love is gone?”

You don’t breathe.

“I was under rubble for twelve hours,” he goes on, voice low. “Broken leg. Crushed lungs. All I could think about was that you were dead. That I didn’t get you far enough. That it was my fault.”

You blink through the blur. He’s never told you this.

“I clawed my way out of that wreckage thinking there was nothing left worth walking toward.” He looks up now. “And then I found you again. Breathing. Alive.

And ever since then, every time you run toward danger like you’ve got nothing left to lose, I...I can’t...” His voice cracks. “I can’t go through it again.”

You stare at him, stunned. This is Caleb. Not angry. Not commanding. Afraid.

You reach for him. You curl your fingers around his, and he lets you. Lets himself lean forward until his forehead rests against yours.

“I don’t want to die,” you whisper. “I just don’t know how to be the one who lived.”

His hand tightens. “We both lived,” he says, voice rasping. “Now we figure out how to do something with that.”

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men with Selkie Reader

AN: Obsessed with Selkies rn.

Pairing: LaDS boys (Rafayel, Zayne. Sylus) x Selkie reader

Genre: Hurt and comfort

Ingredients: 70% pinning , 7% comfort, 33% comfort

My Fav: SELKIE

Rafayel:

Rafayel entered his room to find it unchanged.

The bed. The vanity. The closet. The art. And, of course—your pelt. Carefully folded and left over his chaise, glimmering like spilled starlight.

For the fifteenth time this month.

He didn’t touch it. Instead, he sat beside it in silence, the weight of something wordless pressing against his chest.

It would have been improper, absurd, even, for a god to accept such a thing. To accept you. But he could not find it in himself to be cruel. Not to you.

Not when, for years, you had cared for his quarters with reverence. Every surface polished. Every misplaced relic carefully returned to its pedestal. You remembered what even he forgot. Magically created space for his ever-growing pile of trinkets.

Then the proposals began.

Your pelt, left behind in offering. Folded like a prayer. Waiting.

He never touched it. Only left a note in return:

“Retrieve what you’ve misplaced.”

But his peers noticed. Gods and nobles alike. They made it a game.

Lady Virelle, all lacquered nails and glittering fangs, had once swept into his chambers uninvited, trailing silks and scandal. “Oh Rafayel, darling,” she’d purred, peering at the pelt like a cat before a bowl of cream. “May I touch it? Just once? They say it hums when a selkie is near.”

He had said no. Flatly. Sharply. She’d only laughed.

And then there was Ilyon, the Shark Prince of the Shattered Bay. He hadn’t asked. He'd simply reached for it with a smile that split too wide.

Rafayel had broken his wrist.

The court whispered after that. Joked. Teased. But none reached for it again.

Because somehow, the idea of your pelt, your offering, reduced to a curiosity, a jest, made him ill.

What they didn’t understand was this: It wasn’t just fur or sea-skin or shimmering magic. It was you. Your trust. Your vow. Your foolish, tender belief that a god like him, might be worthy of something so sacred.

He looked at the pelt now.

The warmth of it. The way it shimmered gently in the light. Waiting for him, as it always did.

And he wanted...gods, he wanted, to wrap himself in it. To clutch it to his chest and whisper apologies for every time he hadn't dared to accept.

To call you into his arms and say it plainly: I love you.

Not because you were beautiful. Not because you served him. But because when every other creature of the deep had looked at him with reverence or fear, you had offered love.

You had offered yourself. And that terrified him more than anything. So instead, he sat beside your pelt. And said nothing. Writing another note for the upcoming morning.

Zayne:

He had been asleep for days. Not dreaming. Not resting. Just hiding.

When the world became too loud, too cracked and trembling under the weight of prophecy and memory, Zayne let the cold take him. It was easier that way. Easier to feel nothing than risk feeling everything.

Until now.

There was warmth on his skin. Something stirred...not within the world, but within him. Fingers twitching. Breath hitching. As though something was calling him back.

He shifted, slowly, and a soft weight slid off his shoulders. The scent of salt. Soft warmth surrounded him. He opened his eyes.

A pelt. Your pelt.

Gleaming like starlight. Folded once, then twice. Tucked over him, blocking all the cold.

Zayne sat up, dread blooming fast and breathless. He stared at the pelt like it might vanish, or worse, like it might mean exactly what he feared.

You.

His eyes found you in the snow beside him, curled up like a sea-pup, arms tucked tight, your lips cracked, breathing slow but present.

Too slow.

“Why—” His voice cracked as he rushed to your side, pulling the pelt around you with shaking hands. “You reckless—absolutely, irreversibly reckless—thing.”

You made a faint, sleepy sound. “M’not a thing. M’a selkie.”

Zayne dragged you into his arms, cradling your chilled form close. “Don’t you dare correct me right now.”

You blinked up at him slowly, eyes watery and full of tired mischief. “You looked cold.”

“I’m always cold.”

“You looked... extra cold,” you mumbled, nestling into his chest. “Didn’t want you turning to ice again. I don’t like it when you stop blinking.”

He closed his eyes tightly, burying his face in your damp hair. “You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t.” Your voice was muffled by his robes. “I just... forgot humans can’t sleep on snow. Or wait...are you still human? Or are you... what do you call it… broody?”

Zayne exhaled hard, a sound part laugh, part broken gasp. “You gave me your pelt. Again.”

“You needed it more.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” you insisted, stubborn even half-frozen. “Your heart was going all silent again. Like a cave during low tide.”

He pulled back to look at you. “You are the most infuriating creature I have ever met.”

Your lip quirked. “But warm.”

“Barely,” he muttered, wrapping the pelt tighter around you both. “And foolish.”

“Foolishly in love,” you hummed, eyes already slipping shut again. “And you didn’t even say thank you.”

Zayne pressed a long, trembling kiss to your forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You impossible, reckless, sea-brained—”

You cut him off with a slow, sleepy smile. “Does this mean I get cuddles now?”

He groaned. “You nearly freeze to death and that’s what you care about?”

“Cuddles and soup,” you added dreamily. “Also I want to return to warmer waters as soon as possible. And maybe make you a hat from sea moss. You’d look dashing.”

Zayne pulled the pelt over your heads like a tent and tucked your face under his chin. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know,” you whispered against his neck, voice content, selkie-magic warm and glowing. “You’re the only land creature worth it.”

He didn’t say anything more. Just held you closer as the cold wind howled around the mountaintop.

Sylus:

“For you, boss.” Leon held it out with both hands. A soot-stained, singed quilt, edges frayed, something oily and wrong clinging to it like smoke.

Sylus didn’t move.

His eyes weren’t on Leon. They were on you.

You stumbled into the room, dragged by your captors, skin blistered, breath shallow, eyes locked, not on him, but on what Leon held.

Not a quilt. It wasn't a quilt at all...it was your pelt.

And suddenly, Sylus understood everything.

You didn’t look at the blood on the floor. Not the gun in his holster. Not the man begging before him.

Only the thing that had been torn from you. The thing they had burned while it was still a part of you.

His hand moved before his mind caught up.

One shot. Leon dropped like a stone. Sylus stepped over the body.

You flinched when he moved. A twitch of terror, not cowardice. An instinct ripped from too much pain, too many commands. He could see it all, laid bare in your expression: the knowing. The fear. That he might take it next.

That he might own you.

He knelt instead. The room was still. Everyone silent.

Slowly, carefully, Sylus picked up the pelt. Holding it not like a prize, but like something sacred. Something he wasn’t sure he had the right to touch. But he had to. Because it belonged to you, and you couldn’t reach it.

He approached. Your knees buckled before he even reached you. Not from weakness. From something else. Something older.

Recognition.

He didn’t speak. Just held it out.

You stared at it. At him.

At the man who had, without asking, given it back.

Your hands trembled as you reached for it, eyes shining like the sea under moonlight. You clutched it to your chest the moment your fingers brushed it, sobbing once, not from pain, but release.

Then you dropped to your knees. Right in front of him.

Sylus blinked, frozen. “...What are you—?”

You leaned forward. Pressed your forehead to the ground, one hand still wrapped around the pelt, the other reaching blindly, like a child seeking shelter, until it found the edge of his coat.

You touched him like a vow. “Bound,” you whispered. “We are... bound.”

Sylus swallowed.

He looked at you, raw, trembling, radiant with some ancient truth he didn’t yet understand, and suddenly the room felt too quiet. Too small.

“What do you mean?” he asked softly.

Your eyes lifted to his, brimming. “You returned it. Without demand. Without price.”

His heart kicked once in his chest.

“My kind... we gamble our souls. We leave them behind, praying for someone worthy. If it’s returned willingly... it seals the bond.”

Sylus went still.

You blinked slowly, taking him in, still clutching your pelt. “You are my chosen.”

The words hit harder than the gunshot. He looked at you, a stranger moments ago...and now something ethereal. Something irrevocably his.

He reached out, carefully brushing ash from your cheek. His voice, when it came, was low. Steady. “Then you’re mine too.”

You closed your eyes, smiling for the first time.

And for a moment, amidst the bodies, the ruin, the smoke, Sylus felt the chaos still.

Fate, he thought, had a strange sense of timing. But maybe it had finally brought him something worth protecting.

[a-hermit-pining]

I have not met a single man I respect.

And I’ve tried. Gods, I’ve tried. I’ve given chances like offerings. Opened doors. Bared soft truths.

It never does.

Every time I thought, this one will be different, I was met with the same thing cruelty masked as honesty.

I am tired.

They call us the fairer sex like it’s a compliment. It’s not. It’s a warning.

I have not met a man I respect. Not a single one who deserved that mantel.

And that is how I find myself incapable of writing LaDs men.

How can I dream of love when the men in my life have been nothing but condescending pricks? How can I romanticize softness, when all I’ve known is the dull sting of being talked down to?

I try to write devotion, but the words feel foreign. I try to imagine longing, and all I see is silence.

And sometimes, I wonder, If these fictional men were to come alive, would they disappoint me too? Would they just become another heartbreak waiting to happen?

I am weak, wounded, and aching.

Being a woman is the quiet art of folding parts of myself away. All to make space for the comfort of men who find my existence inconvenient.

And I’m tired.

Of shrinking. Of softening. Of surviving a world that demands I be small to be safe.

(pls ignore me, I have awful father figures in my life and I am so hurt)

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men When They Betray You

AN: Ik I have written this before but I've been reading Red Rising and this was well deserved. Thanks Pierce Brown for breaking my heart.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Genre: Hurt and no comfort

Ingredients: 90% angst , 7832% betrayal

My Fav: XAVIER (I NEED THIS ARC)

Another version of this - LADS Men When They Betray You

Xavier:

You kneel before his blade. Not because you submit. But because they forced you here.

He stands above you like a pillar carved from judgment itself. Prince. Executioner and enforcer of Philos.

The court watches from their ivory thrones, gilded and glinting, as your fate is signed in silence.

“It’s rare to see one so calm.” “Perhaps it’s sedated.” “No... the prince chose this one well. Look how steady it breathes. How quiet it breaks.”

They speak of you like an object. An instrument. Xavier doesn’t correct them. He has no intention of doing so.

You lift your eyes to him. Once, that gaze would’ve made him falter. Now, he meets it like it means nothing.

“How could you?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Because he does not see a betrayal. Only a ritual.

“I bled beside you,” you say. “I stood with you against the Space itself. I believed in you.”

Still nothing.

“It remembers. That’s unusual.” “They cling to self, even in the end.” “The prince will unmake it. He always does.”

You rise slowly, rage tremoring through your limbs. “You said I wasn’t a weapon.”

Xavier’s face remains composed. Serene. And then, finally, he speaks. “You were never a weapon,” he says. “You were the blade.”

Your heart stutters.

“The difference,” he continues, tone like marble cracking, “is that a weapon is meant to be kept. A blade is meant to be used.”

You flinch. “You said you loved me,” you whisper.

“I said what was required,” he replies. There’s no cruelty in his tone. Worse, there’s no emotion at all. Only the duty of a prince raised in an eternal gilded palace. “The Court required a vessel with both passion and obedience. You gave them both.”

“You used me.”

“I honored you,” he corrects. “You will preserve Philos for another century. Is that not glory enough?”

You step closer. “If you share your blood, if you enter the rite beside me, I live.”

“I know.” And he does nothing.

You look at him and realize: There will be no salvation. Not from him. Because he does not see you as someone worth saving. Only something worth sacrificing.

“Begin the extraction,” a noble calls.

But Xavier doesn’t move. He just stands. Unshaken.

And when you ignite, when your power lashes through the chamber, glass shattering, nobles shrieking, Xavier doesn’t flinch.

He watches. Because this was always part of the ritual. You burn. Philos survives. And Xavier? Xavier remains the blade that Philos wields. Even if it costs him everything soft he once had.

Zayne:

You found him in the atrium beneath the blooming jasmine.

He looked almost human there; shoulders relaxed, hands clasped behind his back, face tilted toward the frost-dimmed sky.

His scepter rests against the altar. He knew you would come. And for a moment, you wish you hadn’t.

You step into the chamber. Your boots echo across marble veined with ice. “You told me we were in this together.”

Zayne doesn’t turn. “I meant it.”

Your chest tightens. “Then why send the execution order?”

Now he turns, slowly His eyes are the same as ever. Clear, unreadable, beautifully resigned.

“Because this world is too fragile to carry both of us forward,” he says. “One of us must fall so the other can rise.”

You stare at him. “You think that’s justice. It’s monstrous.”

Zayne steps down from the dais. His voice never rises. “You are chaos, and chaos births change. But change too fast... destroys.”

“So you chose control?” you whisper. “You chose the old gods. The Tower. Astra?”

“I chose balance,” he says. “And you...” He pauses, as if tasting the word. “You were never meant to stay.”

Tears burn at your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. “Don’t pretend this is noble,” you say. “You loved me.”

“I did,” he replies. “I still do.”

Your breath hitches. His calm is worse than rage. Worse than cruelty. He moves closer, until you're almost touching.

“I dreamed of a world where I could have you and peace. But that world doesn’t exist.” His hand lifts, hovering near your cheek but never touching. “You were my flaw, my beautiful flaw. And I would rather kill that flaw than let it consume the garden.”

“You think I would ruin the world?”

“I know you would,” he says, softly. “Because you were meant to.”

You take a step back. “I trusted you.”

“I was never worthy of it.” And then, his blade sings from its sheath. Like a promise kept.

He’s faster in this form, you stumble, unused this version of him. This divine statue of the man, you do not recognize. You collapse to your knees before you realize he’s moved. The pain blooms slowly. Just below your ribs. A perfect cut.

Zayne kneels beside you. His face is heartbreak, perfectly masked. “I can’t kill you,” he says. “But I can stop you. At least in this lifetime, I can.”

You stare at him, trembling. “You’re worse than a monster,” you whisper. “You’re a martyr.”

He smiles faintly. “Yes. But I die knowing the garden still grows.” He kisses your forehead.

And leaves you there, bleeding among the jasmine.

Rafayel:

You find him in his studio. Barefoot, paint-stained, humming an old Lemurian lullaby.

The sea crashes outside the open windows, the smell of salt and pigment mixing in the air. A half-finished canvas towers above him, streaked in strokes of fire and foam.

He doesn’t turn when you enter.

“Rafayel,” you say.

He doesn’t answer, but you hear his brush still. He knows why you’re here.

You take another step. Your boots crunch over crushed coral and broken glass. “You knew what they were doing in N109. You knew they were experimenting on Lemurian blood.”

His brush lifts.

"You told me you didn’t care about the humans. That you hated them.”

"I do," he says softly.

"And yet, you sold them the pigment, didn’t you?” you say, heart hammering. “The compound that binds to Lemurian DNA. You gave them the key to your own people."

He finally turns. And he's smiling. Not cruel. Just… sad. "You weren’t supposed to find that out," he says.

You step back like he struck you. "You used me."

He sets the brush down with unnatural delicacy. “No. I loved you.”

Your throat tightens. “Then why?”

He shrugs. “Because they were going to destroy Lemuria anyway. I just painted the final scene before they could scribble it out.”

You shake your head. “You could’ve stopped them.”

“I did,” he says. “I stopped them from doing it wrong.”

You want to scream. You want to cry. He walks toward you, barefoot, beautiful even in his defiance.

"You helped them harvest Lemurian relics. Genetic signatures. You even let them study your own blood."

“I made it beautiful,” he says. “That’s what they’ll remember. Not the violence. Not the surgery rooms. The color.”

“You betrayed your entire race.” You try reasoning.

“No,” he says, voice suddenly sharp. “I gave us immortality. In art. In legend. In pigment and ruin. And I spared you from drowning in the guilt of it.”

Your fists shake. “You spared me?”

“You would’ve tried to save them.” He reaches out, cupping your cheek with a hand that trembles, scaled faintly now, shimmering like a broken mirror. “I couldn’t let you die for a city that was already gone.”

“You didn’t give me the chance.”

He smiles again, bitter. "You don’t give a match a choice when you're lighting the funeral pyre."

You slap him. He takes it. And then leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“Let me be the villain, love,” he whispers. “I’m good at it.”

You step away, tears burning your eyes. "You're not a villain, Rafayel," you whisper. "You're a coward. A god undeserving of worship."

His smile fades. For once, he doesn't have a quip.

The canvas behind him is almost finished now, an image of Lemuria beneath the waves. Drowning within it's currents.

Sylus:

The world comes crashing. Not with screaming. Not with sirens. Just silence. And smoke.

They're dead. All of them. Jenna. Tara. Simone. Xavier. The Hunter’s Association. Reduced to ash and blood and memory.

You stand in the ruin of your office, walls split open by blast marks, flames curling along the ceiling like hungry hands. The air smells of burnt paper, scorched metal, and betrayal.

“It was bound to fall,” a voice says from behind you, soft. Familiar. Too familiar. You don’t have to turn. You already know. Sylus.

He steps forward slowly, hands in his pockets, a smile tugging at his lips. “You always did keep too many files,” he says, glancing at the smoke-stained shelves. “So fragile. So... flammable.” Your body goes cold.

“You did this,” you whisper.

His smile widens, but there’s no joy in it. “Technically, Onichynus did. I just pointed them in the right direction.”

Your fists shake. “We trusted you. I trusted you.”

He shrugs. “That was your mistake. Letting them believe I was one of you.”

You turn to face him fully now. His expression is calm...annoyingly calm. No remorse. No regret. “You used me.”

He tilts his head. “Yes. Obviously.”

You stare at him, heart slamming against your ribs. “Why?”

Sylus walks toward the shattered glass desk. Runs a finger through the ash like he’s admiring a painting. His voice is light. “Because I could. Because you loved me. And people who love, oh, they make such beautiful blind spots.”

“You could’ve warned me. You could’ve—”

“What? Left?” His tone darkens just slightly. “I was going to leave. But then you touched me with such care, with such mistaken affection. And I realized, why leave a world I could own?”

He turns back to you. And the mask slips. Just a little. “You begged me to stay, remember? You wanted me beside you. Said I made you feel safe.” He chuckles. “So I stayed. Long enough to find the cracks. Long enough to break what you loved from the inside.”

Your throat tightens. “I trusted you.”

“And that trust was a loaded gun you handed me,” he says. “You just didn’t realize I’d pull the trigger.”

The fire pops behind you. A beam collapses above the doorway.

“I don’t hate you,” he adds after a pause. “I actually liked the version of you I got to ruin.” He steps closer, voice dropping to a whisper as he leans in. “You made it so easy.”

You lunge. Rage breaking loose, but he’s already stepping back, calm as ever. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You wouldn’t want to end up like the rest.”

You stare at him. And something in you breaks. Not the part that loved him. That part is already dead. It’s the part that once believed in second chances.

“You should run,” you whisper.

His smile returns, slow and smug. “Oh, I won’t need to.” And with that, he vanishes into the smoke, leaving you alone in the rubble he made of your world.

But not forever. Because you’re going to rebuild. And next time? You’ll burn him back.

Caleb

He meets you at the edge of Farspace, where the black of the void meets the gold-lined walls of the observation deck.

Below, Earth spins slowly, so far away it doesn’t feel real anymore.

You don’t look at him. Not when he enters. Not when he speaks your name. Like he has any right to it anymore. As if he is the same Caleb you once knew. The one who held your hand during storms and whispered stupid space facts into your ear.

“Why?” you ask, still staring at the stars. “Why did you give them my location?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Because there is no version of this where he doesn’t become the one who betrayed you.

You turn to face him, eyes hard. “They nearly spaced me out the airlock. If Zayne hadn’t intervened, I’d be—”

“I know,” Caleb cuts in, voice tight. “I read the report. I read it a hundred times.”

“Then why the hell did you do it?”

He takes a breath. Deep. Still. Measured. Like he’s about to testify in front of the Fleet. “I did it to keep you alive.”

Your voice breaks. “Alive?! I’m being hunted across three systems!”

“I know,” he says again, quieter. “But at least you’re not dead.”

You laugh bitterly. “So that’s your bar now? ‘Not dead’?”

He doesn’t react. Not visibly. But you know Caleb. You always did. And the way his fingers twitch at his side, that’s the tell. The guilt. The control cracking just a little.

"You told them I defected," you whisper.

"I told them you were unstable."

You flinch.

"But it bought you time,” he adds quickly, desperately. “They wanted to kill you on sight. I gave them doubt. Doubt slows down death."

You shake your head. “You could’ve come with me.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?” you ask. “Why couldn’t you come with me?”

His voice drops. “Because I owe them everything. Because they rebuilt me. Because without the Fleet, I would’ve died in that explosion. You would’ve buried me with Gran. They gave me a purpose. And I couldn’t... I couldn’t abandon that.”

“You abandoned me.”

He steps closer. That soft, broken look in his eyes. “I loved you too much to let you become their symbol,” he says. “You would’ve led a revolution. You would've burned everything. And I....” He swallows. “I wanted to stop that before it started.”

“By giving me to them?”

“No,” he says. “By surviving you. By being the one who could take the fall.”

You look at him, stunned. “You always wanted to protect me,” you say. “But this isn’t protection. This is possession.”

He doesn't deny it. Because deep down, maybe he knows you’re right.

You take one step forward. You’re close now. Close enough to see the way his right arm gleams faintly beneath the sleeve. The artificial one. The arm that can’t feel anything anymore. Maybe it’s fitting.

Because neither does he.

“I used to think your love would save me,” you say. “Now I know it’ll be the thing that kills me.”

He closes his eyes. “I never wanted you to hate me,” he whispers.

Later, alone in his quarters, Caleb replays the security footage. His fingers twitch over the comms panel. He could call you. He could say something. But instead, he opens the mission file again. The one that made him choose between you and the Fleet.

And rewrites it. This time, marking himself as the target.

A final act of love. A final betrayal

[a-hermit-pining]

There is no in-between