When you haven't logged in LADS for a day
LADS men when the reader gets trapped in real life and can’t log in
(Because I got grounded (yes I'm an adult), got my phone locked up and I miss my hubbies😭)
The boys in LADS are self-aware, they know they're part of a game. They know you log in from some another world. What goes down when you don't log in one day?
⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡
It’s 00:03 a.m., and you’re still not in the Destiny Café.
Xavier is not panicking. He's just...monitoring. Like a responsible teammate. Who has refreshed your status log seven times in twenty minutes. Eight. No, nine now..
You didn’t show up for core hunts. Didn’t send your usual "u better carry >:(" message before a bounty mission. Didn’t complain about drop rates or fake-die in his arms for dramatic effect.
His entire internal clock feels scrambled.
To recalibrate, he’s cleaned every weapon in his arsenal, alphabetized his item inventory by function and emotional relevance (yours are all starred), and even checked if the café’s background music changed in your absence. It didn’t. Rude.
The café’s AI bot pauses near him, asking if he’d like the “Lonely Night” playlist activated.
He glares. It backs away.
“She’s probably just... busy” he mutters, with the enthusiasm of a soggy rice cracker.
He adjusts your chair back into its exact usual position- a 63-degree angle facing the window, because you said "the lighting is aesthetically pleasing.” Then he sits perfectly still for 47 minutes.
When Rafayel strolls by and dares to say “Guess she’s ghosting us, huh?”, Xavier loads his sniper rifle very slowly.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇ִֶָ
He was already sitting in the Destiny Café, adorned in his usual crisp black shirt and shades (yes, indoors at night) flipping through medical research papers like a man whose idea of fun is dissecting heart valve anomalies.
It was part of the routine. Wind-down time after back-to-back surgeries, late rounds, and dodging hospital gossip.
Usually, you'd show up right on cue, plopping down across from him with that look , the one that said “put the anatomy journal down and be normal for five seconds.”
You’d tease him about his funeral-core fashion sense. Steal the macarons from his saucer. Ramble about your day until he finally gave in and said something sarcastic and low-key sweet.
Tonight, though, your seat stays empty.
The silence stretches long. Even the espresso machine sounds like it's hesitating to interrupt him.
He checks the clock. Then the login log. Then the clock again.
It’s unlike you to vanish without a word.
He tells himself you're probably just caught up with something. That he’s definitely not refreshing the system’s friend list every fifteen minutes like a very calm, very rational adult.
That the tightness in his chest is probably just caffeine withdrawal. Or a heart attack. (Unlikely, he’d know lmao.)
The medical paper in his hand blurs. He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair and making it messier than he’ll ever admit.
“You better be okay,” he mutters, voice low and frayed at the edges. “Because this place feels off without you.”
He picks up his untouched drink, takes a slow sip, then grimaces.
“...And they messed up my order again. See? This is what happens when you’re not here. But why is it so bitter...”
He swears he’s not worried.
But he does save your seat.
And he doesn’t leave until closing.
⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺
Rafayel’s studio feels emptier than usual. The sunlight doesn’t land quite the same on his canvases, the city outside feels duller, and the silence is downright insulting. You haven’t shown up today.
No sarcastic comments about his brushstroke “mood swings.”
No eye-rolls when he dramatically flings paint like he’s summoning a storm.
No unsolicited critiques that somehow still inspire him and make him question his entire aesthetic.
He stares at the half-finished portrait of you on the easel , your smile frozen in oils, untouched since this morning. Normally, he’d have sent you a progress photo with a caption like “Your nose betrayed me again 🥲” and waited smugly for your response.
He flops across the studio couch like a Victorian widow, one arm over his forehead, paint on his cheek and possibly in his hair (he’s not checking).
“Zero head pats today. None. Not even a ‘nice colour palette, Raf.’ Emotional malnourishment is a thing, you know.”
The smart speaker, clearly done with his melodrama, offers a meditation playlist. He hisses at it. Then he opens your chat and types:
"Miss Bodyguard, I fear I am perishing without your attention."
Then... pauses. Deletes the sparkle. Then proceeds to re-add it.
He doesn’t hit send. Then he does and immediately regrets it but doesn't delete it. Instead, he turns dramatically toward the window.
“If she’s run away with that brooding killjoy Sylus, I swear I will start painting exclusively in beige.”
The easel wobbles dangerously behind him. But he doesn’t clean up the mess. He doesn’t put the paints away. Because maybe, just maybe, you’ll log in tomorrow.
⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆
You missed a resonance session.
The world did not end. The sky did not fall. But for some reason, Sylus has been staring at the blank screen as if you are suddenly gonna spawn in front of him. He won’t say anything. Of course not.
He’s just... sitting there. Arms crossed. Waiting. Quietly waiting. Menacingly waiting. The resonance pod remains empty.
“Maybe she overslept,” he mutters.
He checks the logs again. That’s the fourth time.
“Or broke her phone. Again.”
“...Or she’s ignoring me.”
At this point, even the AI system makes a polite ping as if to say Sir, please stop hovering.
Down the hall, Luke peeks through the half-open door, whisper-yelling to Keiran like a gossiping grandma.
“Bro. Bossman’s still in there.”
Keiran leans over. “You think we should tell him she probably just lost Wi-Fi?”
Luke stares at Sylus, still stone-faced and still checking for your signal like he’s tracking an enemy agent.
“...Nope. I like living.”
Back in the chamber, Sylus hasn’t blinked in 23 seconds.
“She’d better not be out there listening to glubglub boy talk about colour theory and fish metaphors again,” he mutters under his breath.
Another minute passes. No login. No voice.
He finally sighs, leans back, and mutters to himself:
“This is stupid. I’m not waiting around like some idiot.”
Waits around like some idiot.
Meanwhile, in the hallway:
Luke: “If she doesn’t log in by tomorrow, do we... hold a memorial?”
Keiran: “You mean for her, or for bossman’s sanity?”
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮
Which means no combat drills. No smug quips from your end. No dumplings stolen off his plate while pretending you’re “just checking the spice balance.”
And most criminally... no workout session, where you usually tease him like it’s your job… right up until the point his focus slips, he grunts a little too loud, and you go completely silent.
Not because you're unimpressed, oh no. Because you're a blushing mess.
(You logged off halfway once. He has not let that go.)
At first, he pretends it’s fine. You’re probably busy. He works out solo. Grumbles about form. Mopes a little. By evening, he’s cooked dinner for two and scowled through most of it.
He finally storms into Destiny Café, marching straight past Zayne, who’s silently glaring into his coffee like it's automatically gonna sweeten itself. Caleb doesn’t even glance his way. He’s on a mission.
Straight to the invisible barrier between your world and his.
“PIPSQUEAK. I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME.”
“I’m not saying I miss you, but the AI assistant tried to sass me and it wasn’t the same.”
He drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard. His eyes flick with that particular shine, restless, intense, too focused to be healthy.
“You better not be ignoring me. I’ve tracked fleets through asteroid belts with less determination than I’m using to wait for you.”
He glances back at the untouched plate he set down earlier.
“I cooked your favourite. Even put those dumb little smiling dumplings on the plate. You gonna let them go cold?”
Then softer, voice low and sharp as a blade’s edge:
“…Who’s got your attention today, huh?”
He doesn’t get an answer.
He sits down, arms folded, pouting but trying to look like he’s not. He glances at the plate.
Just in case you show up tomorrow.
Probably to tease him again and maybe blush halfway through and vanish mid-sentence.
°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Meanwhile, in your world, the phone lies imprisoned on your dad’s desk, holding five pixelated men on the brink of collapse. You lie on your bed, face-down, screaming internally.
⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡
Lmao I never thought two days without my phone would push me to finally write something. Guess it IS the damn phone's fault XD
Do let me know how I did~ comments and reblogs are appreciated <3
