SYNOPSIS: The school ships you with Caleb, but you both were already sailing
PAIRING: teacher!Caleb x teacher!reader
TAGS: fluff, bantering, fun teachers rivalry,
NOTES: 1.3k words. wowie im not so satisfied with this but please enjoy this short caleb fic before i brainstorm a better fic for apple hubby.
Caleb stole your markers again.
You know this because the red one now smells like his overpriced cologne and the green one is missing entirely, probably buried under a pile of gym mats or wedged into a trebuchet he built for Year 11 physics. He’s across the hall, explaining projectile motion with your blue marker like he’s narrating a sports documentary.
You consider filing a formal complaint. Or a restraining order. Or a hit.
A student passing by glances between you and Caleb, then mutters to their friend, “They’re either about to kiss or kill each other.”
Caleb catches your eye and winks. You mouth ‘I will end you.’
He smiles like you just proposed.
Later, you find your green marker taped to a dumbbell in the PE office with a note:
‘Found it during warm-ups. It misses you. — C.X.’
You consider switching schools. Or switching husbands.
Not that anyone knows you already have one.
It’s not just Caleb. It’s the entire school. They’ve turned your professional rivalry into a spectator sport.
The whole school ships you.
Not loudly. Not with banners or fan edits (thank God). But it’s there—in the way students smirk when you argue in the hallway, or how they exchange glances every time Caleb calls you “Miss Xia” with that infuriating little smile. He calls you “Miss Xia” in front of students like it’s a joke.
You haven’t legally changed your name. You haven’t even told anyone you’re married.
But he says it with that smug little smile, and you let him—because correcting him would mean admitting the truth.
And you’re not ready for that. Not yet.
You’ve overheard whispers. A few ‘just kiss already’ comments. One student asked if you were dating during a quiz review, like it was relevant to Newton’s third law.
You denied it, obviously. Professionally. Firmly.
Caleb coughed. Loudly.
You glared.
He smiled.
Someone snorted.
You gave up after that.
Let them speculate. Let them write their little theories and ship you like it’s a group project.
They don’t know you already share a Netflix account. Or a laundry basket. Or a last name.
Heh. Fools.
You’ve become the school’s favorite subplot.
Forget curriculum reform or budget meetings—your hallway interactions are the real drama. Students time their bathroom breaks to catch glimpses of your “fights.” Staff members place bets on who’ll snap first.
You once found a sticky note on your desk that read “Enemies to lovers? Or lovers pretending to be enemies?” No signature. Just chaos.
You suspect Year 11.
Caleb, of course, encourages it. He thrives on attention and absurdity. He’ll lean against your doorway mid-lesson, arms crossed, voice loud enough to echo down the corridor.
“Hey, Pipsqueak. You seen my protractor?”
You don’t look up. You’re mid-sentence, explaining centripetal force to a room full of teenagers who are now laser-focused on the drama unfolding in your doorway.
“Try checking under your ego,” you say.
Someone chokes on their water bottle.
Caleb grins, unbothered. “Already did. Found a thesaurus and half a granola bar.”
You sigh. Loudly. Deliberately.
He takes it as an invitation.
Strolls in like he owns the place, plucks a spare protractor off your desk, and holds it up like a trophy. “Victory,” he announces.
You snatch it back. “That’s mine.”
“Sharing is caring.”
“Then care less.”
The class is silent, hanging on every word. One student mouths married. Another writes Caleb + Pipsqueak = OTP in the corner of their notebook.
You pretend not to see.
Caleb winks as he leaves, and you swear he does it in slow motion.
You resume the lesson, but the damage is done.
No one remembers centripetal force.
They remember the way you said care less like it was a love confession.
It gets to the point where the students tried to play matchmaker.
One time you and Caleb both got locked in the supply room. Another time it was the gym closet.
One leaves a folded note on your desk: If you were a molecule, you’d be polar—because you’ve got chemistry.
Another starts a rumor that you and Caleb were spotted at the same coffee shop. You were. Along with half the faculty. But that part gets edited out.
Then there’s the anonymous suggestion box. You open it one morning and find:
• Field trip idea: Escape room. Lock them in together.
• Extra credit: Write a love letter using Newton’s laws.
• Petition to make Caleb a guest lecturer on flirting through physics.
You start assigning more homework. They start turning it in with doodles of you and Caleb arguing in speech bubbles that end in hearts.
Caleb sees one. He doesn’t comment. Just grins like he’s been waiting for this subplot to kick in.
During a class party, students hand out personalized juice boxes. Yours says your last name. Caleb’s says Mr. Heartthrob. Inside each is a folded note: You two are the reason we believe in tension. Caleb raises his juice box in a toast. You drink yours in one long, pointed sip.
It’s after school. The halls are quiet, save for the distant hum of a vacuum and the occasional locker slam. You’re in your classroom, reorganizing lab reports and pretending you don’t hear Caleb’s footsteps approaching like he’s auditioning for a rom-com entrance.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smug as ever.
“You know,” he says, “I think the Year 10s are planning a fake wedding. There was a glue stick labeled ‘ring’ in my drawer.”
You don’t look up. “Tell them I’m already married.”
He grins. “To who?”
You glance at him. “To my job.”
“Oof. Cold.” He strolls in, picks up your red marker—now permanently scented with his overpriced cologne—and twirls it like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on emotional repression. “So. How long do you think we’ve got?”
You blink. “Until what?”
“Until someone figures it out.” He gestures vaguely, like your entire relationship is a subplot he’s tired of keeping secret. “The marriage. The laundry basket. The shared Netflix account with my cursed algorithm.”
You sigh. “I told you to stop watching documentaries about competitive cheese rolling.”
“They’re inspiring.”
You set down the papers. “I give it a month. Maybe less. Someone’s going to catch us slipping.”
He tilts his head. “Slipping how?”
“Like when you called me ‘babe’ in the staff room.”
“I was quoting Shakespeare.”
“You were asking if I wanted Thai food.”
He shrugs. “Same energy.”
You cross your arms. “We could just tell them.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And ruin the mystery? The drama? The hallway tension that fuels their academic engagement?”
You stare. “You think our fake rivalry improves test scores?”
“I think it gives them hope.”
You snort. “In what? That love is just bullying with paperwork?”
He steps closer. “In the idea that two people can fight like hell and still choose each other. Every day.”
You hate him a little for that. Mostly because it’s true.
Then he’s in front of you—closer than he should be, marker forgotten, hands sliding around your waist like he’s done this a thousand times and still isn’t used to how you tense when he does. His mouth finds yours before you can think, before you can argue, before you can remind him that the blinds are half-open and your dignity is hanging by a thread.
It’s heated. Familiar. His hands are so not innocent—one trailing down your back, the other skimming the edge of your blouse like he’s trying to rewrite the dress code.
You break the kiss with a sharp inhale, palms pressed to his chest.
“Hands,” You slap it. Hard. “We are in school, Mr. Xia.”
He blinks, dazed. “Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”
You straighten your blouse, ignoring the way your heart is trying to escape through your ribs. “You always do.”
He grins, sheepish. “Can’t help it. You’re very... grade-ruining.”
You shove a stack of papers into his arms. “Then go ruin them. Quietly. In your own classroom.”
He salutes. “Yes, Miss Xia.”
You roll your eyes. “One month.”
He’s halfway out the door when he turns back. “You know I’m going to lose, right?”
You don’t answer. But you’re already planning how to announce it.
Holding your arms up to Sylus after a long day. He smiles as he lifts you up by your armpits like a stretching cat, drawing you up into him. You wrap your arms around his neck and press your cheek to his, hugging him close as your toes dangle down to the floor. He wraps his arms solidly around you, hugging you tight without hurry, just letting you soak up his warmth and comfort
Holding your arms up to Zayne after a long day. He kisses your forehead as he guides your arms around his neck. You hold on as he bends down and lifts you with his arm behind your knees, and the other behind your back. You hide your face against his neck, cheek on his shoulder, as he carries you to the bed or the couch, where you can be wrapped up in blankets and properly taken care of
Holding your arms up to Caleb after a long day. He teases you a little as he turns and crouches down, gesturing for you to climb on his back. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and settle your legs at his sides. He wraps his arms under them as he stands, supporting you up on him with ease. You rest your cheek on his head. His thumbs stroke your calves as he carries you wherever you want to be
Sylus, but squeezing into your silky kimono robe to answer the door for pizza after you two just wrapped up round 3. It’s obviously too small for him—he can’t even tie it properly around his waist, his cheeks peek from the hem, and he might rip the sleeves with his biceps. And his hair’s all tousled, and the living room smells like sex and the vanilla cashmere candle you lit earlier. And the poor delivery guy gets a face full of intimidation, pecs, and bite marks (courtesy of you) as he warily deposits the pizza box into Sylus’ hands.
You know how in Twilight the Cullens have an entire wall covered in high school diplomas? Sylus and mc do that but with marriage certificates.
Whenever they get bored Sylus forges a couple of new IDs and they fly off to a new country to get married again, under new names. Within a few years they have to convert a room into a walk in closet solely for MC's wedding dresses. Because yes, he gets a new custom wedding dress for her every. single. time.
Caleb gets his wisdom teeth removed and is loopy on meds:
"Ouch! Ow! Why?" (He won't stop touching his jaw and asking what happened over and over again)
"I love you... I'd die for you... I'd KILL for you..."
"No no no no!" (MC tried to leave his side to go to the bathroom)
"Would you still love me if I was a worm?"
"Do you hate me now?" (Breaks down into tears before MC can answer)
*starts listing every plane model alphabetically*
"Pips, you have to live forever." (MC explains that everyone dies one day... Caleb starts crying again)
*Won't leak Farspace info but talks for hours about his weird childhood secrets* "In high school, sometimes I'd take your lunch money out of your backpack and put it into my backpack, then make you think you forgot it at home so you'd have to talk to me if you wanted to eat. M' not sorry."
"You don't have a boyfriend, right? Right? Pipsqueak, do you have a-"
*Zones out staring at his reflection* "Which one of us is the real Caleb?"
"I'm fine, I'll fly back to Skyhaven tonight." (Passes out on MC's couch for 10 hours, does not fly back to Skyhaven that night.)
Summary: You and the guys discuss your decision to be childfree.
Warnings: mentions of childbirth/pregnancy complications. mild angst but mostly fluff and comfort
Word Count: ~1k per person
A/N: This one's just a super self-indulgent fic cuz I thought it would be a cool topic to explore. At first, I was going to do Zayne only, but then I was like, might as well do all of them. I hope you enjoy and would love to hear yalls thoughts <3
AO3
Caleb
You were seated across from Caleb in a dimly lit corner booth of your favourite restaurant, and it had been a lovely night so far. The two of you had spent the evening trading stories, poking fun at each other, and stealing bites from each other's plates in a painfully familiar way. The city glittered just outside the window, but your little booth felt cocooned from it all.
Then, from the booth adjacent to yours, a high-pitched wail rang out. A little boy, no older than three, had scraped his knee after slipping off the bench. His tiny face was scrunched up with distress, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. His mother quickly swept him into her arms, whispering apologies while she blew on the scratch and rocked him back and forth. Meanwhile, the father leaned over the table, performing dramatic animal impressions, trying to make him laugh.
Their efforts were both sincere and embarrassed, but they didn't stop until the wailing eventually turned into sniffles, then a hiccup, and then finally, a delighted babble.
You smiled at the young parents, waving off their repeated apologies for the disruption, but when you turned back to Caleb, you found him not watching you, but the family. His gaze was oddly wistful, and there was something raw in the way he was watching them, like he was tucking away each detail. The way the mother pressed her nose to her son's temple. The way the father ruffled his hair with practiced affection. The way the child reached out to both of them at once, utterly trusting.
He offered you his usual boyish grin when he noticed your concern, but said nothing on the matter. But the image stayed with you.
Back home, Caleb noticed your unusual behaviour the moment you walked through the door.
"Well," he announced, shrugging off his coat. "You're being suspiciously quiet. You didn't even insult my parallel parking. Should I be worried?"
You gave a noncommittal hum in response, and he frowned.
"Alright. No jokes, then." He stepped closer and touched your elbow. "What's wrong?"
You'd always promised each other to be transparent with your feelings, and you didn't want to do him the disservice of lying to him, so you lifted your chin and asked plainly, "Is that something you want?"
"Wait, what?"
"Kids," you clarified. "Is that something you want?"
Caleb raised a brow, a playful grin tugging his lips upward. "Were you thinking mischievous thoughts again, pipsqueak? Because I did say we'd save dessert for home."
You shook your head solemnly. "No, I mean... today, at the restaurant. You looked like you wanted them. And I know we're not at that stage yet, but I thought... I should be honest. Get it out in the open before it festers."
"What brought this on?"
You swallowed nervously. "I've been thinking about it for a while now, but I just didn't know how to bring it up. Then I saw you watching them, and I thought, what if I've been leading you on? What if you do want that someday, and you're wasting your time on me?"
Caleb looked heartbroken. "Oh, pips," he muttered, lifting your knuckles to his lips. "How long have you been carrying this? Suffering all alone with such a heavy thing?"
You looked away.
"I never want you to feel like you can't tell me anything," he stated firmly. "We've always shared everything, haven't we? Why should this be different? I want to be the one you can trust without restraint."
"I know."
He hesitated before asking, "Can I ask why?"
You tensed, bracing for judgment. "I don't want to bring children into a world that hurts them. In a world where wanderers exist. Where kids like us grew up with shadows trailing behind us. I know I wouldn't be able to protect them from everything, and that scares me."
"Oh..."
"And I still have so much grief. I don't think I've even fully recovered from losing you. Thinking that you were..."
Caleb pulled you into his arms immediately. "Words cannot describe how sorry I am to have put you through that, but I was trying to protect you. You know that, don't you?"
You untangled yourself from his almost desperate grip, meeting his gaze with your steady one. "I know. That's something we should probably discuss in more detail in the future, but it's not what I'm trying to talk to you about right now. The truth is, there are a lot of things I'm working through, and I don't think I'm mentally prepared to give a child the version of me they'd deserve. I want to heal my own inner child before I even think about raising one."
Caleb listened intently.
"Maybe things will get better, or maybe they won't, but I'm not going to gamble a child's life on a maybe. I know I'll probably never be in that place where I feel whole enough to try. So, please don't tell me you'll wait for me to change my mind. I've heard it enough from other people."
Without hesitation, he reached forward and flicked your forehead with a mock scowl. "Pips, I'm not other people."
"I know. I didn't mean—"
"I've known you forever," he continued without pause. "I know better than to say something idiotic like 'you'll change your mind' when you're already certain about something. I know you don't say things lightly, and neither do I."
He looked away, then back at you with a thoughtful expression. "A part of me... yeah. I won't lie. I used to think about it. How I'd try to do it right, if I ever had a family. How I'd be a better father than the one we never had. But maybe this life isn't about fixing the past by repeating it differently. Maybe this life is for us to heal. To rest. To be whole again, in ways we never got to be. We deserve that too, don't we?"
To say that you were surprised by his words would have been an understatement. The two of you had talked about many things, but this particular topic had never come up.
His voice cracked just slightly. "All I know is, whatever you decide, wherever your journey takes you, I will be by your side. No matter what future you choose, I will support you and love you endlessly. And if there's anything I can do to help you heal, I'll do it. No hesitation."
You allowed yourself a small smile, despite your initial trepidation. "We'll heal together then."
"Yes. We'll heal together." Caleb shifted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "And since you trusted me enough to share that with me, I'll share a part of me, too."
His thumb was tracing idle circles against your palm, but you could see the subtle tension in his shoulders. "That look you saw on my face back at the restaurant, the one you thought was longing for kids?" He chuckled sheepishly. "It wasn't that."
"Then what was it?"
"I wasn't envious of the parents for having a child," he admitted. "I was envious of the kid...Is that stupid?"
You didn't hesitate. "No, it's not stupid."
You didn't ask for anything more, because you already knew. You understood him in that unspoken, wordless way the two of you had always shared. It hit you then, with the weight of a thousand unspoken memories. While you had always been shielded by his strength and wrapped up in his protection, he had always borne the brunt of his pain alone. From scraped knees to heartbreaks to grief, he let you lean on him, but he never let himself lean on anyone.
Who pressed kisses to his scabbed knees? Who brushed cool cloths to his fevered brow, or sang lullabies through the ache? Who made little flying planes with spoons and wiped stray sauce from his cheek? Definitely not Grandma.
He had played the part of your protector so fiercely, and with such relentless tenderness, you sometimes forgot he'd been a child too. A child who had needed what he freely gave to you.
Your eyes burned, and you threaded your arms around his waist to pull him close. Pressing your forehead into his shoulder, you let your unspoken sorrow anchor the gesture.
"I know," you whispered. "I'm sorry."
You didn't have anything else to offer—no fixes or do-overs. Just your arms, and your heart, and the promise of being the person who would stay with him now, as he began to open up more. As he let the cracks in his armour show, and allowed you to kiss every wound he once believed he had to bear alone.
Caleb's arms wrapped around you in return, and he nuzzled your head affectionately. "You did nothing to be sorry for."
"I know. But I still am."
“And here I thought I’d have to share you with someone else someday. Guess I get to keep you all to myself, huh?”
"Caleb!" You smacked his chest, even as you were pressed up against it, and he winced.
"And you know..." he added in the half-teasing, half-serious tone he'd perfected over the years. "Even if we never have kids, that doesn't mean our lives will be empty. There are plenty of memories to make. Joy that's still waiting for us, just around the corner. I'll find new dreams with you, ones we choose together."
Zayne
The ride home from the Akso Hospital charity gala was quieter than expected. Zayne never liked such events, with their noise, flattery, and empty praise, but tonight, he'd smiled more than usual, and let himself indulge in the compliments, allowing his pride to shine as he introduced you again and again.
My wife.
Tonight had been his first opportunity to introduce you to his coworkers, and those two words left his lips like he was still getting used to their taste. You were effortlessly dazzling as usual, and he got to be smug about watching you charm his colleagues. But after the second hour, your smile began to fade. Your reactions started small as the nurses threw around teasing remarks.
"So when's the announcement? We all know how honeymoons go!"
"Better get your sleep in now while you can!"
"With genes like yours, it'd be a crime not to pass them on."
The last straw was when the Chief of Staff himself made a toast: "To the newlyweds, may your first child be smarter than Dr. Li and prettier than his wife."
It was meant to be a joke. Everyone laughed, and you had too, but your eyes had gone dim. Each comment felt like a hook beneath your skin, tugging your expression just a bit tighter, and Zayne noticed, although he was unable to do anything about it right then and there.
Now, at home, you were sitting at your vanity, slowly undoing the clasp of your necklace, but your reflection was distant. Zayne leaned in the doorway of your shared bedroom, tie undone and shirt cuff unbuttoned. He watched you through the mirror, despite your best attempts to avoid your gaze.
"You've been quiet," he remarked. "Too quiet."
You shrugged. "It's been a long night."
"Was it... what they said?"
Your fingers stilled, but you didn't meet his eyes. "You're going to think it's stupid."
"Nothing you say could ever be stupid." He crossed the room and crouched beside your chair. "Was it the jokes? I admit I found them a bit intrusive myself. It was like everyone was trying to be the first to predict something that isn't their business."
You finally met his gaze, startled at the irritation in his tone. Irritation on your behalf.
"They meant well," you finally murmured. "I know that. It's just... everyone assumes it's inevitable. Like marriage is step one and kids are step two, and if you don't follow that path, you're defective."
Zayne's voice was steady, the way it always was when he was being gentle with you. "Yes, we've had this discussion before. But we can have it again, as many times as you need, until you feel secure in this marriage. And every single time, I will tell you what I told you the first time."
"...Are you sure?"
Your husband didn't even blink. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. I understand that pregnancy and childbirth carry risks. Serious ones. I wouldn't wish that kind of pain on you if it's not something you want for yourself. I would never force you into something you're uncomfortable with. I am your husband, not your jailor, my love. My happiness is in your happiness."
You swallowed thickly. "I know people say it's possible to have a perfect pregnancy. Like, totally painless, no complications, in and out like clockwork. And I've heard of people who've done it, who came out fine, but the risks are still there. They don't go away just because you want them to. I've done the research. I've read the case studies and the medical journals. I don't want to gamble with something this serious, even if the chance is small."
"I know."
"I mean, it's not just the birth itself, it's everything. Preeclampsia, hemorrhage, gestational diabetes, postpartum depression, aneurysms, nerve damage, tearing, bone separation—" You faltered briefly, spiralling. "—and even if you survive all of that, your body may never go back to what it was. And people just act like that's fine, like that's the price of the beautiful miracle of having children in your life, but I can't do it. I don't want to—"
You stopped abruptly, your breathing slightly panicked, as it always was when the topic of pregnancy came up. You half-expected Zayne to tell you to calm down, that you were being dramatic, and it couldn't possibly be that bad, but he didn't. He didn't look at you like you were crazy. He looked like he understood. Like he heard you.
"I won't lie to you," he said after a moment. "I won't tell you those things don't happen. And I won't say that you'll be spared the worst of it, just to make you feel better or coerce you into a misinformed decision. The truth is, we can never fully predict such things. I won't tell you your fears are unfounded, because they're not."
You hadn't even realized how tense you'd been until his words reached in and soothed that part of you that had always been dismissed by others. For the first time in your life, someone was telling you that your feelings were valid.
You exhaled shakily. "It just seems like... too much of a strain. Is it so selfish to say I value my life and my body too much to put myself through that?"
Zayne reached up to cradle your face and pressed his lips to your temple, his voice warm against your skin. "No. You're not selfish at all. I, too, value your life. You are not selfish for making decisions about your own body. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."
"You're not mad at me? Or disappointed?"
Something resembling heartbreak flashed across your husband's face. "The only thing that disappoints me is that you think so little of me. That you think I would be mad at you for something like this. You're not obligated to become someone else just because you married me. I fell in love with you, not some hypothetical future we never agreed on."
"I thought maybe you'd expect it someday. The family. The holidays with kids. I don't know."
"My holidays will be perfectly enjoyable as long as you are there."
"And what about what your colleagues say? Or your family, or your friends?"
Your husband let out a patient sigh. "Forget about what anyone else says. They're not the ones living this life; we are. They don't get a vote, and honestly, neither do I. It is your body. You are the only one who gets to decide. If this is what you want, then it's what we want."
You were unable to say or do anything except stare at him, dumbfounded. You knew he loved you, of course, but to hear him declare it in such a manner, and choose you repeatedly without condition, made your heart swell with happiness and your eyes well with tears.
Zayne brushed the skin under your eyes tenderly and shook his head. "You're enough. Just as you are. You always have been."
Xavier
Your apartment smelled faintly of chamomile and linen when you entered, the way it always did when Xavier was around. The air was undisturbed, and it felt like slipping into a warm bath after a long, overstimulating day.
At the entrance, you toed off your shoes and padded into the living room. There, your fiance was sprawled on the couch and bathed in the mild afternoon light that filtered through the curtains. He looked cozy and soft, his hair mussed from sleep, one hand still loosely clutching the edge of the throw pillow like he’d fallen asleep mid-thought.
When you walked over to drape his fallen blanket more snugly over him, he yawned and his eyes blinked groggily.
“Hey,” he greeted, voice raspy from the nap. “You’re back from your friend's place. How was it?”
You flopped onto the floor beside the couch and leaned your head against him. “It was sticky. And loud. Full of tiny jam-covered goblins climbing furniture and threatening to end lives with a single grape jelly smear. They were absolute sweethearts, of course, but very chaotic.”
Xavier laughed, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Sounds fun.”
You laughed dryly, leaning into his touch. Then, as if the thought had been tiptoeing around in your head the entire drive home, you asked casually, “Would you rather have kids in your twenties so you can enjoy your forties… or have them later so you can enjoy your twenties?”
Your fiance gave you a once-over, as if trying to determine whether this was a trick question. “I thought you didn’t want kids. You told me that before I proposed.”
“I did.”
He tilted his head, voice still gentle but a little more alert now. “Are you having second thoughts? Because if you are, that’s okay. I wouldn’t mind, but only if it’s what you want."
“No,” you amended quickly. “No, I’m not changing my mind.”
“Then… why ask?”
You shrugged. “I thought that you might’ve changed your mind. I guess I just wanted to give you an out before the actual wedding.”
Xavier looked at you for a long moment. Then, he placed his hands on your shoulders and began working slow, familiar circles into your tense muscles, easing the knots that had been building since you'd stepped out hours ago.
“How did this come up?” He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You getting cold feet?” he teased. “Because you must know, there’s nothing that would make me change my mind about marrying you. Nothing at all.”
You let yourself relax under his touch, grounded in the sensation of him.
“Even if we never had kids?” you asked.
His hands never faltered. “Even if we never had kids.”
“That includes adoption and other methods.” You turned your head to glance at him. “It’s not just the idea of pregnancy or childbirth that scares me, though that does terrify me.”
“I know."
“It’s also because…they’re just too much.” It was difficult to put into words how the shrieking and clutter often associated with children made your nerves fray like splinters under skin.
“I like sleeping in,” you confessed. “I like coming home to a clean house, where everything is where I left it. I like quiet. I need quiet. If I had little humans yelling for my attention all the time, I think I’d unravel. I’d snap. And I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to snap at a kid just because I’m overstimulated or touched out or exhausted. I’d rather never have a child than risk resenting one for altering my life or acting like kids normally do.”
Xavier was silent for a long moment, still massaging your shoulders. Then he chuckled under his breath. “I think I can agree with you on the sleeping in part.”
"I figured you would."
His tone shifted, becoming more serious and firm. He slid off the couch to sit on the floor beside you. “You are valid in how you feel. All of it. Your comfort is what matters most to me. I want our house to be your sanctuary, not a trial. I want it to be the place you feel calmest. So if having no children is the way to make that possible, then I'm on board with that. You don’t ever have to feel guilty for making choices that protect your peace.”
You felt a sting behind your eyes, and Xavier's knuckles brushed your cheek.
“Whatever you need," he declared earnestly. "Whatever you want, just say the word.”
You leaned forward and kissed his forehead, and then his nose and chin, as he smiled against the touch.
“Thank you,” you murmured.
“For what?”
"For not making me out to be some puppy-kicking villain.”
“Puppy-kicking?” he repeated incredulously. “Now that’s dramatic.”
“I’m serious. Every time I’ve said anything that even hints at not liking the idea of raising children, I get these disapproving stares. Like I’ve just announced, I despise all kids and want them executed or something."
Xavier snickered, then composed himself, his expression warm with fondness. “People think you're some sort of executioner now?” He shook his head. “You’re one of the kindest people I know. And I'm not just saying that because I'm biased. I think it makes you a good person to know yourself well enough to recognize what you want and what you don’t. So many people jump into parenthood because they feel pressured or ashamed not to, and it leads to resentment.”
You nodded, slightly startled at how well he was able to put your feelings into words. "I don’t want to bring a child into the world just to be bitter about their presence. Just because they cry or touch my stuff or interrupt my schedule. That wouldn’t be fair to them.”
“Exactly. You choosing not to have children isn’t selfish, it’s thoughtful. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t care how a child might feel growing up around someone who was just tolerating them."
You leaned against Xavier, resting your head on his shoulder, comforted by his steady heartbeat and even steadier loyalty. His hand found yours and gave it a squeeze.
“I love you for being exactly who you are,” he insisted. “Not who anyone else expects you to be.”
Rafayel
You'd been acting distant for days now, maybe even weeks. It wasn't anything loud or accusatory, but it was there in the way your hand lingered just a second less every time Rafayel reached for you, and imperceptible shifts in your posture when he leaned into your space.
He noticed, of course. He wasn't oblivious, especially not when it came to you. He had always been attuned to your moods and rhythms. That was just how he loved, with devotion so full it bordered on clairvoyance.
At first, he thought maybe you were tired, or something was bothering you at work. He tried not to crowd you. He still kissed your forehead good morning when you spent the night at his place, and left you sweet voicemails when you didn't answer his calls, but he gave you space. But every day it chipped at him a little more, the fear that the warmth you used to look at him with was fading.
Finally, one night, when you were curled up on opposite ends of the couch, pretending to watch a movie you weren't even following, he finally broke his silence.
"Cutie, what's going on with you lately?"
You blinked at the screen, even though you weren't watching it, trying to swallow the lump that had been lodged in your throat all day. You knew this conversation was coming. You'd rehearsed your lines a hundred times in your head, but none of them felt like they would do it justice. Your heart ached even now, just looking at him. God, you loved him. That was the problem.
When you didn't answer, Rafayel scooted closer. "Did I do something? Are you mad at me?" His voice was uncharacteristically tentative. "Just talk to me, please. I miss you. You're right here, and I still miss you."
It broke your heart to hear him blame himself.
You turned to him slowly. "I know you've been planning something. You've been hiding your phone lately. You keep looking at me like you're waiting for the perfect moment. You've been dropping hints."
His eyes widened slightly, caught in the act.
"I know you're going to propose," you continued. "But before you do... I need to be honest with you. I don't want to accept without you knowing something important about me."
He stared at you, confused. "Okay..." he enunciated slowly. "What's going on?"
"I don't want children. Ever."
His expression didn't change—yet—but his body stilled, and you pressed on quickly, words tumbling out like a dam breaking.
"I don't want any of it. I don't want a baby that spits up and shrieks and throws tantrums. I don't want a toddler who breaks my favourite champagne glasses or draws on the walls. I don't want a teenager who thinks they know everything and resents me for putting rules in place for their safety. I don't want to spend my life tied to that role. I've thought about it again and again, and the answer hasn't changed. I don't want that life, and I don't want to have another human wholly dependent on me to make the right choices for them. There are so many things I want the freedom to try. Things that don't center around sacrifice, and don't come second to someone else's schedule, development, or future."
Your voice cracked, but you powered through. "And don't tell me that it'll be fine, that it doesn't have to take over your whole life. Because it does. No matter how supportive your partner is, no matter how much help you get, your life stops being yours in some way. I can't give that up. I won't."
You looked away, voice smaller now. "And I know everyone says you'd be an amazing father. You're kind and patient, and funny. I don't want to deprive you of that. So if this is a dealbreaker for you, if this is something you know you'll want one day, then I understand. I love you, so, so much, but I love myself too. And I can't sacrifice this part of me, even for you."
Rafayel blinked once. Then again. His mouth parted, and when he finally did speak, it was quiet. "What the hell are you talking about?"
You flinched. "I just told you."
"No, I heard you," he grumbled, looking at you like you'd grown another head. "But where did you get the idea that I want kids?"
"Don't you?"
"No." Rafayel exhaled hard through his nose, almost laughing. "I want you. I want whatever version of the future has you in it. If that includes hiking across Patagonia in our sixties or taking up underwater basket weaving, then that's what I want."
"But everyone says—"
"Everyone says a lot of things," he interrupted gently. "You think I waited eight hundred years to find you, just to walk away because you don't want to raise tiny versions of us?"
He scooted closer and took your hands. "I love your laugh. I love your stubbornness. I love how you take forever deciding what dessert to order and even how you hog the blankets at night. You are the only thing I've ever been sure of."
"But aren't you afraid you'll regret it one day?"
His expression softened, and he leaned forward to press his forehead to yours. "The only thing I'd regret is letting you go. If I have you, nothing is missing."
You swallowed the lump in your throat as he pressed an adoring kiss to your lips.
"I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. If you don't want children, then neither do I. If you want a life filled with adventure, spontaneous decisions, and maybe an absurd number of cats, then that's what I want too. I want to wake up every morning knowing I get to share my life with someone who knows what she wants and won't settle for less. If you think I'd throw all that away just because we won't be decorating a nursery someday, then you are gravely mistaken."
Tears filled your eyes again, but for a different reason now. Relief. Overwhelming, blinding relief.
"Sometimes I wonder if you say all this just to make me feel better."
Rafayel shrugged. "If it works, I'll say it every day. I'll say it in iambic pentameter with interpretive dance if that's what it takes for you to realize how much I adore you."
You rolled your eyes and let out a watery giggle, making him drag a hand through his hair dramatically like you had just delivered a death sentence.
"All this seriousness over nothing. Gods, cutie, I thought you were about to break up with me."
You blinked, momentarily thrown off by the theatrical waver in his voice. "I was addressing something serious," you snapped, swatting at his arm. "Did you not hear anything I just said?"
"I did hear it," he pouted, rubbing the spot you'd smacked. "But you're acting like it's some grand tragedy, when it's really not. You're just worrying for no reason."
"How can you say that? I'm telling you something that could affect your entire future."
"You are my future," he shot back without missing a beat, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. "I choose you. I've always chosen you. I'm not in love with some abstract dream of fatherhood, I'm in love with you. Just you."
"But what if one day you wake up and want something different?"
"Then I'll roll over, look at your face, and remember that I actually don't. You're the only thing I've ever been certain of. You think I've waited centuries for you just to let something like this tear us apart?"
"You're hopeless, you know that."
"Hopelessly in love with you, yes." Rafayel carded his fingers through your hair before adding, "Children aren't the only way to leave something beautiful behind. I have all the memories I'll make with you. That's more than enough for me."
You laughed through your tears, grateful that his love wasn't the kind that demanded compromise of your soul. All your life, you'd been told that eventually, you'd change my mind, because all women did. That when the right man came along, or when you "grew up" a little more, you'd see what you'd been missing. You'd been told that most men wanted children, so if you really loved your future partner, you had to be willing to give up pieces of yourself to earn their love back.
But the truth was, you didn't need to do any of those things. The right partner would never demand you to give up your values and would simply accept them as a part of the person they loved.
Sylus
The topic came up unexpectedly, in the middle of the afternoon. You and Sylus were lounging on the floor in the living room, both of you half-propped against the couch with mugs of warm tea in hand. A documentary had been playing in the background, something about population growth and changing family structures. You hadn't been paying much attention, too content with the silence and the feeling of Sylus's fingers tracing the shell of your ear absent-mindedly.
Then the narrator mentioned something about the "natural desire to raise a family," and you clicked the TV off immediately. Sylus glanced at you, eyebrows slightly lifted, but he did not press the matter until you opened up to him of your own volition.
You sipped your tea and looked straight ahead. “I don’t have that. Whatever that even means, the natural desire to raise a family.”
Sylus's face didn't change. "Family can look like a lot of different things."
"Yeah, I know. It's just...kids, you know. Like most people think a family has to include them, but I don't want that."
"Okay."
“Are you going to ask me why?”
He shook his head. “I know you'll tell me when you’re ready. If now is not the right time, that's fine by me. And because it's you, I'm prepared to wait.”
“I simply don’t want them,” you stated plainly. “I don’t hate children. I respect them. They’re deserving of care, and they should have parents who want them. I don’t. I never have.”
Sylus reached over and took your mug, setting it on the coffee table so he could hold your hands instead. “That’s more than fair. I would never want you to do something you don’t want, sweetie.” His voice was firm, like he meant what he said deeply. “You don’t have to defend or explain your decisions to anyone, least of all me. I want you to live the life that makes you feel whole. Unapologetically. Loudly or quietly, however you need. If I can be by your side as you do that, that’s all I ask for. Nothing else.”
A warm feeling bloomed in your chest, and your throat tightened. "That's...I didn't expect you to say that."
“You don’t need to give me a hundred reasons,” he added, as if he'd read your mind. “All you ever have to do is say ‘I don’t want this’ and that’s that. Case closed.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and it was shaky with relief. All your life, people had made you feel like you were selfish or broken for wanting something different. For not wanting to be a parent. Now, here was Sylus, looking at you like you were still whole and worthy of being cherished.
“I always get told I’ll regret it,” you told him. “That one day I’ll be old and alone. No one to take care of me.”
Sylus smiled. “Well, we’ll have each other. I will always take care of you, and to grow old with you is a privilege I hope to have the honour of experiencing."
"And you're sure you won't regret it?"
“I’d only regret it if I did it for the wrong reasons. Like doing it for appearances, or because someone else says it’s what we should want. Those are the worst reasons for doing anything.” His voice became teasing then. "And do you really think I don’t have retirement funds set aside for us already?”
You snorted, and he grinned wider.
“We are going to be just fine,” he declared confidently. “Besides, having children just so you can have caretakers in your old age? That’s the most absurd and financially unsound decision I’ve ever heard.”
That made you laugh. A real one this time, a bubbling exhale of everything you’d been holding in. In that moment, you knew you were understood—not simply tolerated or placated, but understood in the most elemental sense. There was nothing more to prove. With Sylus, the ground beneath you had never been steadier.
You leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
He returned the favour by kissing your forehead. “Always.”
Hope I didn't miss anyone. This is just the general LADS taglist (not the one for like non-mc reader fics or any particular guys), so feel free to lemme know if you want to be added or taken off. If you'd like to be added to the taglist for a particular guy or fic, also lemme know. lol i should probably make a separate post for that, but oh well.
I can’t rewatch ANYTHING after getting into LADS. Sunday night was supposed to be chill (after yet another horsefly attack this is my forth?!? fml) BUT! I am now obviously deep—deeeeep—in my LADS x Bridgerton AU era and I can’t get out. A spiraling need to write these boiiissss in waistcoats, saying unhinged things in ballrooms, and making me feel like I’m about to swoon straight into a fountain.
FIRST OF ALL: Marquess Sylus. WHY. He owns half the Crown’s cursed artifacts and shows up at secret auctions bidding on haunted objects like, “yes, I’ll take the demon mirror and also your virtue.” Catches you eavesdropping and goes “… careful, milady. Some secrets bite,” like he’s the secret, like he’s the bite. I need him banned from these auctions asap (or the name of his cologne). Sylus sips absinthe, reads scandal sheets, makes grown men cry at cards. Says he’ll read his journal for you if you beg. You ask what’s in it. He just raises a brow and says “milady… if you’re that curious… crawl into my lap and I’ll read it aloud.” Every word is filthier than the last. Every page ends with your name.
Admiral Caleb of her/his majesty’s royal navy CAN CHOKE (respectfully). FENCING AT A GARDEN PARTY. Looks hot obviously. You accidentally interrupt and he scolds you for “fencing proximity etiquette” or whatever regency nonsense. You argue. He smirks. Later he finds you, says “you always this mouthy, or just for me?” You tell him to get bent. He tells you to say it slower. You blackout. From rage. From lust. WHO’S TO SAY. Says he needs to show you a “tactical vantage point.” It’s an ivy-covered tower. You’re gone an hour. Come back flushed. Hair a mess. Reputation: obliterated. Caleb? Smirks. “Thorough demonstration.” WHERE. WAS. YOUR. CHAPERONE.
THEN THERE’S DUKE RAFAYEL. This man is at a ball sketching instead of mingling. In a corner. Muttering about someone’s nose being “criminally interesting.” You step too close. He looks up, grins and purrrrrs, “don’t move.” Then a filthy lil wink. “My lady.” Like it’s a joke. And next thing you know you’re immortalized on canvas and he’s titled it Epiphany and now society is whispering. You’re not whispering. You’re SCREAMING. He makes it up to you by complimenting your soul mid-orgasm. And yea. Forgot to say that: He’s said to have had an affair with the former queen while painting her portrait. Six months in her private solar. Came out every night looking wrecked. He won’t talk about it. Drrrrama
Prince Xavier doesn’t arrive. HE DESCENDS FROM HEAVEN IN TIGHT BREECHES. You lose control of your horse—ofc you do—and just before you eat gravel, he’s there. Steadies the reins. “My lady! Please—Easy. I’ve got you.” My lord or should I say YOUR HIGHNESS? I AM ALREADY IN PIECES. Helps you down, says “ride with me,” like it’s foreplay. You do. Later someone goes “you know that’s the Prince, right?” and you just melt into a hedge. LORD SAVE ME. I’M ALREADY GONE. BURY ME IN THE FOREST WHERE HE RIDES. Prince Xav will teach you how to fence and ride… (his d. what who said that)
Aaaaaaa lastly, my personal favorite: Viscount AND doctor Zayne. A DOCTOR. A VISCOUNT. HOW DID HE BECOME A DOCTOR?! No one knows WHY but its SCANDALOUS. This man BETRAYED the good society by getting a JOB. A job, darling. As in work. With his hands. On common people. Ewww. Anyway: You faint from corset oppression, your fourth dance and general societal bullshit, and this man catches you like it’s his calling. Growls “I don’t usually play nursemaid” while kneeling with ice and water and ABSOLUTE smolder. He mutters something about fashion being murder and diagnoses you with terminal yearning. Yes. Terminal. Zayne checks your breast “for science” under a lantern-lit bench. Hand warm. Eyes serious. Someone sees. Scandal explodes. Worth it. BUT AGAIN: WHERE WAS YOUR CHAPERONE?!?! (Oh right. You didn’t need one. Because Zayne was a trusted family friend. Deeply respected. Personally vouched for by your now-belated great-granduncle. Who clearly had no idea he was leaving you alone with six feet of repressed lust)
Uuurhhhhvhhh NEED TO WRITE A SLOW BURN THAT ENDS IN A GAZEBO KISS. AND THEN ANOTHER WHERE THEY ALL PINE IN THE RAIN. URRHHHH I don’t have the brain capacity for this whyyyyy am I like this):
synopsis: Sylus makes you a mechanical bird companion that ultimately becomes Mephisto’s mate
✧.* Sylus x Reader fluff , but it’s more like Mephisto x His Wife LOL ✧.*
————————————————————————
You lean your chin on your palms as you intently watch your husband, Sylus, make adjustments to the wings of his pet mechanical crow. Gazing at Mephisto causes you to reminisce about the very first times when you had encountered the little bird. Most of the time he was “keeping an eye on you” as Sylus likes to say, but often it just felt like stalking. Sylus would also send Mephisto to deliver gifts to you. It was cute, but the bird would always leave a pile of feathers at your door. The bird sure had a personality, but you grew to adore him, especially knowing that he’s kept Sylus company all this time.
You lean your head on Sylus’ shoulder, smiling softly at the fond memories. A warmth in your chest. “Mephisto’s a really reliable bird, huh…”
“Well, I did make him that way.” Sylus leans into you, his smile evident in his voice.
“I wonder what it would be like to have a mechanical bird.”
Sylus chuckles deeply. “What do you mean? We have one right here.”
“You know what I mean, like my own bird. I love Mephisto, but he doesn’t always like to listen to me. He only follows your orders. It’s clear I’m not his owner,” you giggle.
He chuckles once again, “Kitten, I purposely programmed him to give you a hard time, I think it’s cute when you struggle with him. But If you want, I’ll reprogram him.”
You tuck your hand under his arm, “No, no it’s okay. I like him this way,” You squeeze his arm gently.” It gives him personality. I was only just wondering what it would be like.”
“Mmm…I understand, kitten,” he hums, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead.
————————————————————————
It’s been a week since Sylus worked on Mephie’s wing. He’s now flying at incredible speeds which in turn has been causing the bird to much more energetic and playful. In fact, he’s discovered his new favorite toy. Your hair.
“Mephieee, I just washed it today. Where is your master at anyway? He told me he’d be right back.”
Sylus came back into the room with a small pink box in his hand. It was elegantly wrapped with a white ribbon.
“Mephisto,” Sylus says sternly as he approaches the couch you’re sitting on, “that’s enough.” Mephie caws, immediately stopping. “Hands out, I have something for you.”
You obey, leaving your palms facing upward, calmly wondering if you missed a special occasion. Sylus gently places the box in your hands. It feels dense, but fragile.
You carefully unravel the ribbon, and open the box. Inside is a beautifully crafted dove that appears to be sleeping. It’s exterior reminiscent of quartz as the light from the room reflects off of it.
Gently, you scoop your hands under the creature as Mephie perches on your shoulder. The white bird is so still, you wonder if it’s a carved sculpture. But as soon as you lift it up, it begins to rock out of its sleep, gracefully taking in its surroundings as it yawns and stretches. Mephisto cocks his head to one side, leaning in to get a better view.
The dove looks to you and cheerfully chirps. It nuzzles his head into your palm, then looks at you with adoration.
“Oh sweetie…this is for me…?” You look to Sylus who is entertained by the sight. To him, you look like a kid who just got their dream puppy.
“She’s all yours.”
“She’s perfect, Sylus.”
You spend some time getting to know your dove. She’s sweet, gentle and graceful, and she has the cutest chirp. She loves to sit on your shoulder, and nuzzle into your neck as you work, but her favorite spot is Sylus’ head. Somehow, his hair makes the perfect nest, though Sylus mentions that he did not program that.
She lovesss you though, and loves it when you give her little tasks, like fetching things and pecking Sylus’ arm every once in a while to bug him. If you don’t have a task for her, she’ll just sit close by and watch you until you have another task.
However, you’ve come to learn that she’s quite intimated by Mephisto. Ever since you’ve opened that box, Mephisto has been very curious of her, flying in closely any chance that he has, but every time he does, she’ll hide right behind you. Mephisto will tilt his head, confused as to why she’s hiding from him, but he eventually backs up, watching from a distance. It seems the two birds have not yet warmed up to each other.
————————————————————————
It was a short day, and you had finished work early. So, you figured you’d help Sylus out by cleaning his place up. You asked your little friend to grab a few supplies, like a wash cloth and a feather duster. But as you unlocked Sylus’ jewel display, Mephisto swept in, and grabbed a few of Sylus’ prized jewels.
“Mephisto! Give that back right now!” The crow took off flying quickly into the next room, and perching high on the ceiling fan. “Just wait til Sylus comes home!”
You decided to keep cleaning the display case. As you finish up, Sylus walks through the door. His frame almost as large as the door.
“Cleaning today, sweetie?”
“Yes, but this case is missing a few jewels. It would seem that Mephie wanted to hold them.” You say, nodding towards the thief.
“Interesting…He knows better than to touch them.” Sylus raises his arm, and signals a motion downward. “Mephisto. Come down here. Give me the jewels.”
But Mephsito doesn’t listen. He backs away and caws instead.
“Mephisto.” Sylus says warningly.
With the jewels in his claws, the crow sweeps downwards and lands on the table in front of the dove. She flinches, but remains still as he carefully scatters the jewels from a distance and nudges them towards her with his beak. He hops a few steps back, and caws softly.
The dove slowly approaches the jewels, tilting her head to inspect them. She gently taps them with her beak, and chirps in response. With a soft flutter of her wings, she lands before Mephisto, coming in close to nuzzle her beak against his. Mephie un-stiffens, and nuzzles back.
“Huh...” Sylus says with his arms crossed, and an amused eyebrow raised. “It seems we have two love birds.”
You giggle aloud, making sense of Mephie’s wild behavior. “I guess we aren’t the only ones.”
“Have you thought of a name for her yet?” Sylus says, and you feel an arm wrap around your waist.
“What about Missy, short for Miss Mephisto.”
“Miss…Mephisto…very…original,” he drags out, painfully slow.
“I couldn’t think of any good names, okay! She’s just a cute little missy. Plus, it’s clear they’re married now.”
He lets out a hearty laugh,” I guess you’re right. Missy and Mephisto.”
————————————————————————
Missy and Mephisto have been very lovey-dovey, no pun intended. The two are often cuddled up to each other, scratching the others’ head with their beaks. Many happy caws and chirps can be heard from the nest they built of spare nuts and boltz on Sylus’ shelf. But it soon became too quiet.
“Sylus! Missy has been lying alone in the nest for 3 days now. Is something wrong? Is one of her parts broken? I don’t understand. I’ve been taking good care of her.”
Sylus looks up from his work desk, “Love, relax. She’s probably just resting…or charging for a better word.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want her to malfunction or anything.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay,” you say, shuffling your way out the door. You feel bad for Missy and Mephisto, but you decide to be patient for a few more days.
————————————————————————
You stir awake to Mephie’s loud caws. You roll out of bed in search of your husband, and eventually find him near the kitchen island with a mug in his hand.”
“What’s the ruckus about…” you say lazily, rubbing your eyes open.
“Why don’t you check it out for yourself,” Sylus says with a smirk, handing you a mug that was set on the counter.
You stumble over to the nest. Missy is still sat over the nest, but Mephie is perched on the end, flapping his wings and cawing with declaration.
“What’s up, Mephie.” Mephie caws again, and nuzzles Missy, causing her to shift her weight slightly. It’s then that you notice something poking out from under her.
“What…” gently, you pick up Missy and set her next to Mephisto.
Three tiny mechanical hatchlings chirp, their mouths popping up and down as if waiting for food. One white with a few black feathers, one black with a few white feathers and one gray. The white and black ones are the same size, meanwhile the gray one is much smaller. The all have resembling features of Mephsito and Missy.
“Sylus…did you…do this…?”
“It’s a just little project I’ve been working on. I’m curious to see how learnt behavior differs from programmed behavior in mechanical birds.” He pauses for a few moments, then laughs,“I’m joking. I thought I’d make you happy.”
You feel him walk up behind, and wrap both arms around you, bringing you into an embrace. He kisses your temple, “Now, Missy and Mephisto have their own little family.”
You turn to him, eyes glossy, “Sylus,” you pout, “they’re so cute…Thank you for this.” Sylus hold you even tighter, your expression tugging at his heart strings. He can’t help, but fold for you. Every. Single. Time. That’s why he does these things. It doesn’t matter how big or small, he’d do anything for you.
He leans in closer, leaning his head against yours, comfort and sweetness in his voice, “Doesn’t it make you want to have a flock of your own…”
I desperately want to write a LADs University Professors AU.
I want a bright and bubbly main character who does some sort of specialisation like The World Wars, particularly something like The Third Reich. Something dark that doesn't fit with their sunshine smile.
🐟 Rafayel has to be an Art professor, duh. Although I think it'd be fun to see him in Linguistics or Literature too - gasp! OR THEATRE!!!! Art History would also be fun!!!
⭐ Xavier I can see teaching something like Planetary Exploration with Astronomy and Astrobiology - oh, or Classics! (If I were to write this and MC was teaching History, I'd have Xavier likely in Classics/Ancient History so that they're in the same department to keep it kinda loosely with the LADs story for funsies!)
❄️ I don't need to mention what Zayne would be teaching, let's be real. Although, if not Medicine, I think it'd be really cool to have him in Philosophy and/or Theology 👉🏻👈🏻
🍎 Caleb has gotta be Engineering of some description if we're trying to keep them all realistically at the same university. Aerospace Engineering or something like that (although Culinary Arts would be TOO CUTE - oh no, STAHP, I'm giving myself ideas!!!)
🐦⬛ The hardest for me is Sylus just because there's so much that I could see him doing - Engineering, Computer Sciences, Modern Languages, Literature (stop, can you imagine him specialising in something like Asian Literature and maybe a niche subject like Chinese Mythology?! 😭💖), Business Studies, Psychology, Criminology, Economics, Finance, Law, Social Sciences! A true renaissance man!!! If I had to pick though, I think I'd want him in Literature because I love the thought of MC being like, 'omg he's scary - wait, he's reciting poetry by Li Bai off by heart?!'
Something I feel would be a really interesting dynamic to explore is how MC/ the reader approaches Sylus in terms of their mental health if they are struggling.
Just FYI, this DOES talk about mental illness and or just mental struggling, and maybe a touch of emotional manipulation (I would say to some extent).... oh and someone gets shot. That too. So be warned!
Like, I think we all know by this point that Sylus has NOT led a happy life up until this point (as if the thrown away bandages and bloody bullet casings from Alternative Darkborne didn't give us any indication). This man is constantly shot at, people attempt to take his life so often he approaches it basically like having a meal, and not to mention how everyone is scared of him.
That obviously might leave the reader/MC feeling guilty about having their own share of mental illnesses, trauma, or just general feelings of unease, not wanting Sylus to see them like this. Why? Because firstly, you wouldn't want to trouble him. He has enough going on as it is, he doesn't need your drama on top of it. Second, and maybe more primarily, you didn't want him to dismiss or minimize how you felt. This man has been through hell and back, and so you felt like he wouldn't take it seriously or would get irritated that he might not care since worse things could happen.
But I feel like he would quickly prove to you why you might be wrong.
You didn’t hear him at first.
Or maybe you did, but ignored it--too wrapped up in your own storm, the waves of your anxiety, irritation, and pain filling your lungs like water as you feel that all too familiar burning of tears ripping from your eyes once again for the third time that night. You curled up on the cold tile of your bathroom floor, back against the tub, trying to breathe through something that refused to loosen its grip on your chest. You held a towel to your mouth, shoving the cotton fibers further and further in as you bite down on the fabric as your whole body tenses around it like a ball trying to keep everything from spilling out all at once.
You wanted it to go away, but the waves of panic keep crashing over you like a little life boat stuck on the high sea storm. You were trying to stay quiet, trying to pull yourself together. You didn't have time to try and make your eyes less puffy. It would take too long for the swelling to go down and your eyes to return from their blood-vessel burst red color to white if you didn't stop now. You tense up even further, trying to physically choke the tears form your eyes.
You don’t know how long you’ve been there. Long enough that the floor has numbed your legs, every effort to circulate blood lighting your toes up with needle prickling pain. Long enough that even the silence feels deafening. Long enough to hope he wouldn’t find you like this.
But of course he does.
You don’t hear the door open. Not really. There’s a faint creak--quiet enough that you almost convince yourself it’s just the building settling. You’re tucked into the corner of your bathroom, knees hugged to your chest, lights off, letting the tile floor leech the heat out of your skin.
You felt him long before you see him.
Not footsteps.
Just… the silent weight of his presence . That weighted kind of quiet that only comes when Sylus is trying not to intrude, trying to give you space even as he slowly approaches, like a handler dealing with an injured cornered animal.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Doesn’t flick on the light. You know he’s there by the way the air shifts. By the soft thunk of his back hitting the the tub next to you as he slides down to sit just inches away from you.
a minute passes in tense silence.
"If I had known you’d be taking up residence in your bathroom,” Sylus says, voice low and casual, “I would’ve brought you a throw pillow and a blanket Sweetie. Maybe even a scented candle. Really lean into the ambiance of the space"
You huff a small breath of air. Barely a noise comes out.
You’re tucked in tight against the tub, knees to your chest, trying to stop your brain from running laps around itself. The lights are off. You thought that might help. It hasn’t. And now the one thing you were trying to prevent was happening.
His hand gently rests on your knee, you can tell he's forcing his hand to hover over your skin, not fully letting the full weight of his touch lay on your body.
Like he’s trying not to scare you off but remind you he's there, "Are you sure the bathroom is the best place for this, kitten? I’m fairly certain your apartment has more comfortable corners for spiraling. I can even offer a far superior sulking couch back at my base.” He offers.
You don’t respond. Even though you could tell Sylus was trying to comfort you, every word felt like mockery. Like a heavy sledge hammer beating away at your already crumbling pride.
"If it’s a privacy concern, I can promise to turn the plushies around. No judgmental button eyes as an audience."
You glance up at him. Just long enough to glare. Your voice is hoarse when you finally manage, "Go away, Sylus."
He doesn't say anything, sitting there unmoving just letting the silence pool between you.
“You always point out when I’m hurting,” he says after a moment, “Yet, you never seem to notice when it’s you.”
“I’m fine.”
"Yes, the same kind of 'fine' a house cat exhibits when its hiding in its own litter box I gather" He responds.
You press your palms against your eyes and groan, "Sy just go, okay? Just don't. Please let me deal with this and I'll be out in a little bit. I don't need you to fix this."
“I’m not trying to fix anything,” he says, quieter now. “I’m just trying to be here. You don’t have to make a report or explain yourself sweetie. You just let me care.”
You shake your head.
“I don’t want you to deal with this. With me--like this.”
His brows furrow, faint but sharp. “What, hurt?”
“Weak.”
Sylus doesn’t answer right away. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you hear the faint creak of his clothes as he shifts closer. You feel the warmth of his body settle beside yours, close but careful. You don’t move.
“No offense, sweetie, but if I only stuck around for the strong and emotionally stable, I’d be down one kitten, two henchmen. and one mechanically built bird”
Your breath hitches-not a laugh, but close. Almost.
His arm brushes yours, just barely. Testing. Asking silently for permission, not demanding a reaction. Just… offering.
You lean. Not much. Just enough that your shoulder rests against his. Just enough to feel the solid reassurance of him. He exhales, the sound soft and relaxing like your acceptance like the green light of a bomb that had been successfully disarmed.
Neither of you speaks for a while.
Eventually, when the ache in your chest stops twisting and writhing quite so hard, you mutter, “I still don’t want to talk.”
“hmm, I didn’t ask you to.” He tilts his head lazily toward you. “I’ll just sit here quietly. Like a houseplant. Just with better bone structure.”
You snort softly, and his fingers brush yours, gentle, unassuming.
And for the first time, you let him.
For a long while, nothing moves. The silence isn’t awkward or heavy.
it’s still.
The silence isn't deafening, or itchy like it had been before. Just for a moment, everything was calm. your brain was quiet.
And then, slowly, you move.
You shift closer, your shoulder brushing his. Then your knee. And finally, you lean into him, the side of your face pressing softly against his chest.
His arm rises only after you’ve settled, wrapping around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No comment, not sarcasm, not words to be said. Just presence.
His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. Grounding. Alive. Your hands gently rub against his chest to the rhythm of its beat. Keeping your mind clear and focused. The streaks of salt on your cheeks dried in thin, tight lines, leaving your skin stiff and tender, like paper stretched too far.
His hand lifts, brushing gently through your hair. After a while, his voice comes, low and careful,“…Why didn’t you tell me Sweetie? Why... Why do you have to chew your own towel threadbare before you'll let me in?”
You stay quiet at first.
“Because you’ve lived through hell.”
The words escape like a breath you’ve been holding in for too long.
He stills.
You shift again, trying to turn your head deeper into his chest, hiding your gaze away from the eyes you can feel staring through the top of your head.
“You’ve survived things that should’ve crushed you. Things I can’t imagine. And you’re still here. Still you. Strong and terrifying and impossible to knock down.”
You shake your head.
“And then there’s me. Falling apart in the dark over things that feel stupid even to say out loud. I didn’t want you to see me like this Sy. Because what if one day… what if one day you do the math? What if you realize just how fucked up I am on the regular for what? Over nothing. Over myself. You realize that you’ve bled more, lost more, fought harder... and I’m still the one cracking open like glass.”
Your voice quiets as you falter.
“I don’t want you to look at me like I'm weak. Or worse… like I'm a burden you didn’t sign up for.”
“I didn’t want you to resent me for needing help when it probably feels like you've delt with worse.”
Sylus exhales through his nose, the hint of a tired laugh in it-- dry, perhaps a little tired, but not cruel.
“So because I’ve seen pain myself,” he says softly, “I’m not allowed to care when you’re hurting?”
You don’t answer right away.
His question hangs there, too sharp, too true, to dodge with a shrug or some soft-shelled half-truth. You lower your gaze, gripping the fabric of his shirt tighter.
“I didn’t say that,” you mutter. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
A beat of silence falls as Sylus tips your chin up to to meet his gaze, "Sweetie, do you remember that one mission you got shot? Right here through your shoulder right?" He asks
You blink, caught off-guard by the shift. What did that have to do with thig?
“I-of course I do.”
The memory rises as you start to feel the involuntary twitch of your shoulder. Although your try and suppress the memory, you couldn't forget the searing pain lancing through your arm, the hot, slick rush of blood, the panic thudding louder than your heartbeat. The weakness that followed. The cold. The way your breath kept catching like your lungs couldn’t quite remember how to work. You remember feeling a hot pit of acid building in your stomach like molten metal that forced itself up causing you to vomit. Even reflecting on it now left chills that ran down your spine.
Your voice shakes with fear and confusion as you manage, “What does that have to do with anything?”
Sylus doesn’t answer.
Instead he sets you down to the side as the black and crimson mist of his evol appear through the door in a mere second, carrying a handgun with a silencer on the barrel.
Before you can react, Sylus reaches for it, The metallic click of the slide snapping into place was the only warning you got as he chambered a round.
“ Sy what the hell are you-?”
Before you can finish the sentence, the muffled pop of the silencer breaks the stillness. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him shoot himself.
Clean through the shoulder.
Your heart doesn't just drop...it plummets. Slams into your ribs, bounces, and splinters like glass under pressure of being contained in your chest. The sound of the shot is still ringing in your ears as the smoke from the barrel starts to dissipate, but all you can hear now is the blood pounding behind your eyes.
You scramble toward him, hands flying uselessly over his shoulder like you can somehow undo what just happened. Your voice cracks before it even fully forms, stumbling out of your throat in a panicked, breathless rasp.
“Sylus?!! Sylus! W-What what the hell is WRONG WITH YOU?!!”
You press your hand against his shoulder, warm blood seeping between your fingers. It coats your palm too quickly, too thickly. You know he heals. You know he heals. You can see the traces of his blood dissipating into the plumes of red and black mist of his evol. But seeing it, feeling it: the heat, the wet, the rawness of all of it overrides reason.
Your breath hiccups in your chest, shallow and sharp. You can’t tell if you're shaking from adrenaline or fear, only that your hands won’t stay still as you feel that same hot pit in the bottom of your stomach.
That same fear you felt back then.
“Kitten,” Sylus drawls, voice thin with pain but laced with familiar, biting sarcasm. “I seem to recall a certain hunter once shooting me and watching me heal five seconds later without blinking.”
He lifts a hand, motioning lazily toward the wound. The skin around it is already knitting back together, though his breath still comes fast, the pain still etched in the line of his mouth. “This?” he scoffs lightly. “This is nothing. Not like when you got shot. You were down for weeks. Rehab, physical therapy, an entire tragic montage of the pain you endured on your way to recovery.”
Then, softer, almost too gentle to be sarcastic, he lifts a hand and tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.
“So tell me,” he murmurs, “if you've been through worse… why are you still this scared for me?”
You freeze, eyes wide.
And suddenly it’s not just the fear pounding in your chest, not just the anger bubbling under your ribs at how far he pushed this to make a point.
It’s the realization. The gut-deep understanding that he’s right.
This panic, this bone-deep ache in your chest, it’s the same one you felt when you were the one bleeding. The same helpless, terrified storm.
Sylus, moves his shirt to the side gently showing how the previously bleeding area was now completely gone, not even a scar to leave a mark to remember it by.
Your fingers tighten where they still hover near the wound, trembling with the leftover panic that hasn't quite bled out of your system. Your voice cracks before it finds volume.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, finally pulling back enough to look him in the eye. “You shot yourself?!? who does that?! Just to prove a damn point?!”
Sylus exhales a soft breath, something between a chuckle and a wince as he shifts slightly against the wall, the strain of healing still tugging at the edge of his composure.
“Oh?” he hums, tilting his head with mock surprise, “Isn’t it just maddening when your partner intentionally lets themselves hurt just to try and make a point?”
He raises his brows, voice smooth and a little too casual. “Weird how frustrating that must feel. Makes you worried. Makes you angry."
You blink at him.
“Strange,” he adds, “how I know exactly what that feels like.”
You stare at him, heart pounding. The worst of your fear has passed, but something raw still lingers in your chest, like you’ve run too far, too fast, and your lungs haven’t caught up yet.
You exhale, shaky and slow. “You’re a bastard,” you mutter. It doesn’t have venom. Just exhaustion.
Sylus lets his head tilt back against the wall. “Technically,” he says lightly, “I think the correct term is ‘emotionally manipulative war criminal.’” he chuckles a small laugh, a little quieter, “But I won't deny that either.”
Overcome with exhaustion, eventually, you sigh and lean into him again. this time not with panic or desperation, but something quieter. More deliberate. He welcomes you without a word, wrapping his arm gently around your shoulders as you settle against his side.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything, the only sounds coming from rushing water from the pipes being your bathroom wall with a low hum.
“I can’t believe you shot yourself,” you murmur finally, voice low and brittle.
Sylus hums, head tipped back against the wall. “Well, it seemed like the only language you were willing to hear.”
You don’t have the energy to glare at him. “That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” he states, “I was trying to make a point.”
You sit with that for a moment, the weight of everything between you heavier than his arm resting over your shoulder.
“You could’ve just… said something.”
“I did say something. You didn’t believe me.”
You feel a soft hand brush up and down your shoulder as he holds you close, but still trying to comfort you with soft circular movements, trying to relax your terribly tense shoulders.
“I’m not asking you to fall apart in my arms every time you have a bad day, Sweetie,” he says. “I’m not asking for reports, biometric read outs, or neat explanations.”
He looks down at you, his voice softening in a way that scrapes together a gently gaze and kisses your forehead
“I just want to be there. Not because your pain is convenient or justified or ranked high enough to matter. But because you are my partner and I decidingly don't enjoy seeing you in pain . That’s the only thing I care about.”
You blink, slowly. Your throat feels tight again, but for a different reason. Not because you were scared, or in pain. But... just that he would care.
He continues, a little quieter now, but with a hint of contempt laced into the almost casual words, “Oh, and if you’re going to make decisions about what I should or shouldn’t feel… maybe don’t do it without me. I tend to enjoy being apart of those conversations Sweetie."
You let your head fall gently against his shoulder again. You felt guilty knowing that, despite how he handled it (which was extreme) Sylus had a point. It wasn't right for your to presume his feelings.
“…Okay,” you mumble, so soft you barely hear it yourself. Sylus squeezes your arm gently, acknowledging that he heard you without speaking directly.
You’re quiet for a moment, your hand fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve.
“I'm...I’m sorry,” you murmur. “For assuming how you’d feel. For… deciding you wouldn’t care before even giving you the chance to.”
Sylus doesn’t say anything at first, just lets his thumb drag gently along the line of your arm.
“I was scared,” you admit. “ I still am, if I'm honest.”
His voice is warm, low. “I know Sweetie”
You nod, leaning a little further into him. But after a beat, you add, voice sharper than before, “But you still shot yourself. Like a complete idiot.”
That earns a soft chuckle from him. “Ah, yes. The world’s most effective argument strategy.”
You shift slightly to glare up at him. “I mean it, Sylus. You scared me.”
His expression softens, maybe a flicker of guilt? but more honestly a look of acknowledgment. “I know,” he says again, this time it carries the weight it should. “That wasn’t fair to you.”
You sigh, “No, it wasn’t.”
There’s a pause, but it’s no longer full of tension, just the awkward space of something too big to fix right away.
Eventually, Sylus nudges your arm with his. “I’ll add it to the 'fix-it list. Right under ‘stop weaponizing my immortality in emotionally fraught conversations.’ I'm sure if I can program Mephisto to periodically have the urge to see you, I can find some way to program morality into my heart”
You try not to laugh. You mostly fail.
“I’m still mad,” you tell him, but there’s no heat behind it.
“I’d be concerned if you weren’t, kitten. Emotional manipulation is no laughing matter”
You sit in the quiet again, and this time, it feels bearable. Manageable. Yours.
“Come on,” you murmur, finally pushing yourself up from the bathroom floor. “Let’s go do something normal. Lay down. Watch something. Pretend we’re not walking emotional disasters for like, five minutes.”
He rises with you easily, following close behind as you flick on a lamp in the living room and toss a blanket over the couch.
You settle in first, and Sylus slides in beside you, careful to give you space. He waits until you lean into him, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders like it’s second nature.
“…You’re still in trouble,” you murmur, half into his shirt.
“Duly noted Sweetie,” he says, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “But I’d shoot myself again in a heartbeat if it means you let me stay.”
You roll your eyes, but your fingers curl into his shirt anyway, anchoring yourself there.
For now, it’s enough.
Neither of you was perfect. In fact, you were both far from it. But for now, knowing that he cared, that he wanted to be there. That was more than enough to keep the voices at bay for now.
And when they popped up again? Well, you could figure that out later.
Together this time.
I honestly don't know where this idea came from TBH XD I feel like this is a genuine problem I could foresee in this kind of dynamic and would be curious how others might see it dealt with!
To whoever was dressed as Dragon Sylus at HyperJapan, you looked AMAZING!!! I saw you several times throughout the event and wanted to come up and compliment you, but I didn't want to interrupt you with your buddies 🥰
And to the MC I saw as I was leaving, if you suddenly heard me crow to my friends, "THAT'S MC!!!!" as we were walking back to the station, I'm so sorry for my incredibly loud and severely delayed excitement - I was too caught up in your little Raf pins on your bag to consciously take in your wonderful outfit when I first saw you 💀
