a-hermit-pining

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men with Older Siblings

AN: Life has been shitty lately. So this one is for all the older siblings out there. Because it is a difficult job to be a decent one.

Genre: Fluff and sibling core

Pairing: LaDS boys x m/fem/gn reader (Platonic ish with different readers)

Ingredients: 60% family feels, 40% comfort

My Fav: hmm Sylus and Xavier (I want to be Xavier's wicked older brother so bad 🫦)

Xavier:

He never let it show. Always hid the twinge in his heart behind that unbothered facade, even as you made a fool of yourself. Laughing too loud, berating the court, burning in unending envy.

People whispered. Of course they did.

You, the eldest prince, discarded. Xavier, the younger brother, named crown prince in your place.

Your fate was no better than exile. Maybe that’s why, despite everything, Xavier could never bring himself to hate you.

Because even now, his heart clung to the long-gone days of childhood: When you carried him on your back through the palace halls, When you stood between him and Father's fury, When you whispered that you would protect him, always.

But that promise had not remained.

Father’s favoritism. The politics of succession. Whispers from the inner court. It had all come between you. It had made enemies of brothers.

Yes, he had other siblings. Father was never without company. There were dozens of children born of harem and hunger, dozens more who bowed to him, fawned over him.

And Xavier had been hurt. Deeply. By how quickly you’d turned away.

How easily you let go. How completely you left him.

But you were the one he had loved. His brother.

And when he lost you, he was lost too. Until he became someone else entirely. A rebellious prince, your reflection. Leaving Philos in search of his queen. To undo inevitable fate.

And then, across time, across memory, you found him.

Scarred. Yet proud. A sword at your hip. But even then, when he looked at you, he saw not the rival. Not the threat.

He saw the brother who once carried him down endless palace corridors, laughing.

And he knew: someone had finally come to find him.

Rafayel:

Who can ever smother a petulant Sea God with affection, you ask?

No Tome of the Sea God can answer that. Not even the salt-priests of old dared try.

To answer that, one would have to live through the 2nd Age of Lemuria. To witness a god in the making. A god destined to doom his people before he ever learned how to love them.

From the moment he came into being, Rafayel never knew a world without you. In every age, every lifetime, you were there. His sister. His constant.

Adopted, they said. An orphan, taken in by his father out of pity. A ward of chance. But to Rafayel, your love ran deeper than the blood of kings. Truer than any royal heir could ever claim.

To him, you were the one who hung the moon in the sky. His tiny fists once wrapped around your fingers when he first learned to walk, as a room full of servants applauded, but it was you he toddled toward.

So when he bumps into you on a crowded Tokyo street, his breath leaves him.

You're just a girl in a hoodie, headphones blaring, music leaking into the chaos of the city. You lurch forward to steady him instinctively. “Are you alright?” you ask, wide-eyed. Familiar. Achingly alien.

Rafayel, once worshipped, once feared, once the God of Tides, can do nothing but clutch your coat and weep.

His words are muffled. His breath uneven. His body trembling as he clings to you like a child who’s just found the ocean after lifetimes of drought.

And you...you, the miracle that you are, kneel right there on the pavement to pat the back of a stranger sobbing in your arms.

You don’t know why your heart aches the way it does. But even in this new world, even with no memory of Lemuria or Gods of Sea, your soul remembers. And your heart breaks at the sight of his tears.

Zayne:

"You don't know a thing about him!" you shouted, stepping in front of Zayne like a wall. Your heart thundered in your chest. Your fists were clenched, ready to punch, scratch, rip apart anyone who dared utter another word.

The boys in front of you flinched. They hadn’t expected this. They hadn’t expected someone to show up.

You couldn’t even bear to look back. Not yet.

Not at your little brother—Zayne, with his squishy, soft cheeks streaked with tears. His favorite long-sleeved shirt torn. Healing scars exposed to the air.

So you stepped forward. Chest puffed, anger boiling in your blood like fire. “I will beat you all if you ever bully my brother again,” you shouted, voice sharp and shaking all at once. You refused to cry, and so you persevered in rage.

They ran. Of course they did. They were cowards.

And then you turned back, and your heart shattered. At the ripe, too-young age of eight, it shattered.

Zayne was curled into himself, small and trembling. His lips wobbled as he tried to stop crying, but he couldn't. He never could, when he was this hurt.

You dropped to your knees and wrapped your arms around him tight. He clung while fighting his evol that sparked at slightest emotional provocation.

Your darling brother. Who held such a fragile, precious heart. Who spoke in whispers, played by himself in crowded playgrounds, never caused trouble, never asked for much.

You rubbed his back. You patted his head. You whispered into his hair,

“Don’t worry. They won’t scare you anymore. I won’t let them.”

And still, they hurt him. Still, they made him cry.

It wasn’t fair.

So you held him tighter. As if you could take it all away. As if, maybe, if you squeezed hard enough, he wouldn’t have to carry the pain at all.

You would carry it. For him.

Always.

Sylus:

Sylus hated this. He despised every so-called “family gathering,” as you insisted on calling them with unearned cheer.

You—an ancient mountain spirit who once wrestled a god for property rights.

It was the weirdest lunch party to ever curse a mountain:

Sylus—former dragon, current Onichynus leader with tomes of criminal charges under his name.

Your problematic Kitsune wife, Bora—who thrived on flirting with any living and breathing being.

And your adopted changeling son, who regularly turned into a teapot when anxious.

To be fair, Sylus adored his nephew. The kid was weird, but he was your kind of weird. Still, there was only so much he could take before the drama boiled over. Especially when your wife started flirting with him again. Which she did. Without fail. Every. Single. Sunday.

Yet, he came. Every week. Without a miss.

He steps into your snow-dusted villa, unbuttoning his coat with the weariness of a man walking into battle. The air smells of broth, pine, and another one of your son's brews.

Bora is already there.

She greets him with a kiss far too close to his lips. He doesn’t flinch, but his jaw tightens. You appear instantly, grabbing her by the waist and yanking her back with an exasperated look.

“The fact that we look alike doesn’t help,” you mutter.

“I object,” Sylus replies flatly, just before ducking to avoid the rock you hurl his way. “I look better,” he adds with infuriating calm, only to take a direct hit from a second one.

The changeling boy cackles from the corner, halfway into his frog form.

You glare. Sylus smirks. It’s tradition. Routine for this household, carved like a cup to hold chaos.

And honestly, it shouldn’t work. But somehow, between the ancient trauma, near-death experiences, and mutual god-slaying, you and Sylus had remained siblings with somewhat tolerable coexistence.

You’d both survived vicious kin, betrayed bloodlines, evil mortals, and several attempts at permanent death.

So no, there was no way in the seven worlds of Yggdrasil that Sylus would ever skip these ridiculous lunches.

He hated them. He lived for them.

Caleb:

"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND, YOU LUNATIC?!" You screeched, dragging Caleb by the hair, which was difficult, given how short he’d cut it this summer in a fit of so-called reinvention.

"YOU CREEP!" You stomped after him through the apartment, swatting at his back like he was a misbehaving raccoon and not your full-grown brother with a highly questionable moral compass.

Toring chip or not, you were a storm in motion, capable of making Caleb feel all fifty-six known human emotions in under sixty seconds.

"That’s it. I’m sending you to jail. You don’t just kidnap people. Girls you like?! Or boys! Or gender-fluid folk! I AM ASHAMED. I HAVE FAILED. What will they say?! ‘Oh, she raised a creepy brother. A panty-sniffing freak.’ Caleb, I will take you out if I have to."

You didn’t even pause for breath. You were on a roll. A Shakespearean soliloquy in Act II.

"You will apologize to that girl. I don’t care what you think. I don’t care if you cry. I don’t care if your soul withers. Apologize."

Caleb spun around, chest heaving like a Victorian heroine. "I KNOW I messed up!" he shouted. "I KNOW I’ll never have her! You don’t have to tell me!"

His voice cracked. His eyes were glassy. His bottom lip quivered the way it always did when he was trying to guilt trip you and half-succeeding.

"I didn’t mean to... not to scare anyone. Not to make you ashamed of me. I just... I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to feel like this. Maybe it’d be better if you just... took me out."

You blinked. "Don’t you dare pull the puppy card on me."

He pulled out a gun. From where? No one knew.

Then—bonk. Right on the head. Not hard enough to injure. Just enough to communicate: you absolute dumbass.

"Ow!" he yelped, clutching his forehead.

"Good," you muttered, lowering the gun. "That’s your new coping mechanism. Shame and scalp pain."

He sniffled, wide-eyed. "...Can you help me fix this?"

You sighed, rubbed your temples, and glared at him through it all.

"Of fucking course."

[a-hermit-pining]

HERMIT DID YOU SEE MERMAID RAFAYEL? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I JUST DID!!! WOKE UP TO IT. OMG IM GOING TO DIE.

He looks so delicious 😋 writer's block? What is that?

Long haired characters are my Shayla. I NEED HIM. I CANT BE NORMAL ABOUT THIS.

Looking so distressed and hot, he's pulling an Alucard on us, maybe 🧎‍♀️

Thank you so much for making this the first task of my morning.

[a-hermit-pining]

Happy Birthday Old Man

AN: Happy Birthday Caleb!!

Pairing: Caleb x Fem Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: You had wanted this day to be his. Just his. A day unmarred, uninterrupted. He was turning 30. A milestone. A moment. Something his. But your child, ever the impatient thing, had other plans.

"Haaappyyy Birthdayyyy to yoewwwww..." You lean against the table, half-singing, half-groaning. Your words slur into something between defiance and desperation.

Too close. They were too close now.

Yet somehow, you manage a glare at Caleb. One hand cradling your belly, the other clutching his as he slices into the cake under your stern, contraction-tightened gaze. He’s trying to act like everything is fine, like this birthday is normal.

The kitchen smells faintly of frosting and takeout. A half-lit “3” candle flickers in the draft. There’s a banner on the wall, Happy 30th! Crooked, slightly peeling at the edges. The wrapped presents you stayed up late arranging are untouched. You wanted this to be special.

But then...

A deep, shuddering contraction doubles you over. And with it, a sudden rush. Warm. Unforgiving.

Your water breaks.

Caleb barely hesitates. The moment you sway, he’s there, catching you. The cake is forgotten, mid-slice, the knife clattering against the table. His promise, to let you have this moment, to let him have his day, dies instantly in the room with the first splash of labor.

“We have to go. We can’t wait any longer,” he says urgently, guiding you to the couch. His hands are gentle but firm, anchoring. “I couldn’t be happier, trust me. Sharing my birthday with them? That’s better than any gift.”

He rushes for the hospital bag, grabbing it with the frantic precision of someone who’s rehearsed this a hundred times. You trained him. Coached him. Yet now his hands shake, betraying everything he's trying to hold together.

“No... not yet,” you pant, your forehead slick with sweat. “You didn’t eat... the presents... It’s your 30th birthday,” you whisper, just before another contraction crashes into you, your voice cracking beneath the weight of it.

A few more hours. That’s all you’d wanted. Surely the baby could wait. Just a little. Just enough to let Caleb have this.

“Please.” Caleb kneels in front of you, clutching your hands like they’re the only things anchoring him to the earth. His eyes are glassy, lips tight with panic. “I can’t watch you in pain. Please. You both...you're in danger.”

You had wanted this day to be his. Just his. A day unmarred, uninterrupted. He was turning 30. A milestone. A moment. Something his.

But your child, ever the impatient thing, had other plans.

Caleb, who had always shared. Who had handed over pieces of himself so others could stay whole. Even now, he wouldn’t get a birthday untouched by obligation.

But there was no stopping it.

The ride is a blur of traffic lights and groaned curses. You cry out once. Caleb nearly crashes the car trying to glance at you and the road at the same time. You’ve already screamed his head off earlier for trying to get you onto a jet instead of into his car.

The world becomes white walls and antiseptic air. Voices bark orders. Hands reach for you. You’re in a wheelchair, then in a gown, then on a bed. Machines beep. Nurses move fast.

Your doctor bursts in wearing a wrinkled nightshirt under her coat. “Couldn’t wait, huh?” she mumbles, scrubbing her hands.

You barely register her voice. The pain is everywhere. You cry out again, and Caleb grips your hand. He’s pale now. Sweating. His eyes flick from your face to your belly to the blood on the sheets. He swallows hard.

Someone shouts: “She’s fully dilated. She has to push. Now.”

You scream, and that’s when Caleb’s hand slips from yours. You barely catch it. His sway, the way his knees give out. He crumples.

“Get him!” a nurse shouts. Another grabs him just in time, lowers him to a couch in the corner.

“He’s out,” someone mutters. “Shock. Blood pressure. Let him rest.”

And that’s it. Caleb, unconscious on his 30th birthday, slumped on a faded hospital couch while you are torn open bringing your daughter into the world.

You can’t even look at him. The pain won’t allow it. The guilt won’t allow it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not like this. Not his birthday. You ruined it. A week early. No party. No gifts. You made him cry, on his birthday. You spiral. Thoughts a mess of pain both physical and emotional.

Until...A cry. High and sharp.

You hear the nurses laugh. One calls out something about strong lungs. Towels shuffle. Voices soften.

You can’t even lift your head.

Where was Caleb? Did anyone check on him?

And then... she’s in your arms. And you shatter.

You sob with a violence that rocks your already broken body. Not from pain. Not anymore. From love. From awe. From guilt. From the terrifying realization that you almost tried to wait to meet her.

She is perfect.

You whisper apologies. To her. To your daughter. For making her wait. For trying to hold off the moment she was always meant to arrive.

She has his eyes. That deep violet. His wild black hair. His ridiculous, lopsided smile.

She is him. And somehow entirely her own.

Caleb’s 30th birthday ends with presents unopened. The cake sits in a box by the sink. Candles unused. No song. No quiet toast. No speech you spent three weeks rewriting.

Just sterile light. Blood. Pain. A passed-out father and a weeping mother.

It’s long past midnight when he stirs. Groggy. Confused. His back aches.

He sits up on the couch, squinting through sleep. “Did I—?” he murmurs to no one, wiping his face. Then he sees you.

On the bed. Propped against pillows. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy. Holding something small, swaddled in white.

He stands too fast. Wobbles. Takes two slow steps toward you like he’s approaching a sacred artifact, like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he moves too loudly.

You don’t speak. You just smile, tired and tear-wet, and tilt your arms so he can see her fully.

Caleb drops to his knees. Just drops. Not out of drama, but because his legs genuinely give out.

“Oh,” he breathes. One hand covers his mouth. The other reaches forward, pauses, then hovers, unsure where to touch first.

Her fingers. He chooses her fingers.

They’re curled into a soft fist near her cheek, impossibly small, impossibly her. He strokes one with the edge of his thumb and chokes on a sob so fragile it doesn’t even make a sound.

“She’s so small,” he whispers. “Gods, she’s so small.”

His hand trembles as he finally takes her from you. You guide her into his arms gently, and he holds her like she's spun from glass and starlight. Like if he breathes wrong, she’ll shatter.

“Hi,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Hi, bug. Hi, peanut. Oh no, I’m going to call you so many dumb things, sorry in advance, look at you.” She yawns. He gasps like he just watched the sun rise.

“She looks like me,” he says, stunned. “But better. Like...if the universe edited me.”

You laugh, too exhausted to say anything else, and Caleb just keeps staring at her like he’s memorizing every crease in her forehead.

He cries. Not loudly. Not like the crash of grief. Just slow, quiet, endless tears that fall without warning. Tears he doesn’t try to hide.

“I missed it,” he says suddenly, looking at you, devastated. “I fainted. On your worst contractions. I just...left. I didn’t even get to tell you how brave you were.”

“You’re here now,” you whisper.

“I’m never not going to be,” he says. “I’m going to hold her every day until she graduates university and tells me I’m embarrassing.”

“She’s going to tell you that a lot,” you smile, already picturing the scene. “You’re going to cry when she loses her first tooth.”

“I’m crying now, and she hasn’t even opened her eyes.”

And it’s true. He’s a mess. A puddle. Your soft-hearted, soft-voiced, soft-everything girl dad mess.

Caleb kisses her forehead. Then again. Then once more for luck. He whispers promises you can barely hear, but the way his body curves protectively around her. Like instinct, like home, tells you all you need to know.

This wasn’t the birthday he imagined.

But as he looks at her, then at you, his whole world in one room, breathing, whole, he wouldn’t change a single thing.

“Happy birthday to us,” he says again, softer this time, tucking his cheek against her tiny head.

He will gladly be robbed of his birthday for the rest of his life.

[a-hermit-pining]

A World Unmade

AN: This is my writing experiment because I yearn for LOTR feels. Also please do let me know if having 2 different reader and LI timelines in one story is confusing and not doing it.

Pairing: Zayne x fem reader, Caleb x gn reader (more in future chapters)

Genre: fantasy

Ingredients: oh boy, this can't be broken down but there is happy ending because Tolkien 🤝

Summary: Worlds come undone at the slightest shift. A breath held too long. A promise broken in silence. A name whispered when it should have been forgotten. Some are driven to madness by grief. Others are shackled by oaths, long forsaken, made to gods who no longer speak… but still remember.

And yet, there is beauty where once there reigned only tears. In ruin, something begins to bloom. In sorrow, the faint pulse of hope endures. Even broken things remember how to shine.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |

(I do not own any of these characters)

Second Age, Year of 735

I have not uttered your name in a century. Not even in the sweet dreams that turn to nightmares upon waking have I allowed myself to call upon you.

I am afraid, terrified, of unleashing whatever your absence left inside me.

I fear just the taste of your name on my lips might undo the very seams of my being. That breaking might drive our son into a grief he has only just begun to escape.

Raul deserves one parent, at the very least. You would have wanted me to stay with him. To watch him grow. To be someone who could tell him, truthfully, that he was loved by you, more than life itself.

I have softened my edges. I laugh to please him. I smile so our son sees only joy. He has carried enough sorrow for a lifetime.

The tower flourishes. Strangers from distant lands arrive bearing news. Apprentices come with every passing decade, and all this pleases Raul.

He is of your like. Bright, wild, blooming in the lively halls of our home. Yet, his heart lies where yours once did: out there, in the wide world, chasing adventure.

I hold onto him in paranoia. Your absence has taken all my courage from me. It has left me vulnerable, and too raw to face the world alone.

How do I let go of him? How do I endure another day without a pair of eyes, so painfully like yours, staring back at me from across the dining table?

They say, you await me, in timeless halls, that our souls, bound by our vows will find each other. I hope they are correct.

Do not condemn me, for not saying your name out loud, do not forget me and leave before I come to you.

Yours forever,

Zayne

Second Age, Year of 958

He is gone. Raul is gone. He is GONE.

No note. No goodbye. No time to stop him...no breath to beg.

The tower is quiet. Too quiet. Walls echo with his absence. His chair is still pulled out from breakfast. He didn’t finish his tea. He left his coat. He left me.

He left me.

He left me.

He left, for what?

For what? A quest? A vision? A delusion whispered by a mortal too far gone to name? A fool’s errand sewn together by madness and hope and old, rotted legends?

No victory waits for him. No truth. Just dust. Just death.

And I—I—I did this. I wrapped him in caution like chains. I caged him with love laced in fear. I buried your memory so deep, he had to dig through my silence to find your name.

He thinks I do not feel. He thinks I have no fire left. But I burn...I burn, gods, I burn—

I should have told him everything. Should have told him what your death did to me. What I became in your shadow. What I lost, who I lost, how I—

I see you. In every room now. I hear your footsteps in the corridor. I speak to you like you are here, and sometimes I believe you are. Maybe I’ve gone mad. Maybe I was always meant to.

If you walk in the halls beyond time. If your soul still remembers me, bring him home.

I have no spells left. No prayers. Only my hands, shaking. Only my mouth, screaming your name as the last of my repentance.

Come back, Raul.

Please. Please. Please—

Age of Dawn, Year of 26

Caleb stares down at the now-silent valley.

Corpses litter the field, cooling beneath the open sky. His sword is buried in one of them, slick with drying blood.

His breath comes ragged. Someone had managed to slash his side. It isn't deep, but it lingers. Enough to keep him tethered to his body. Enough to make him feel, every fragment of pain he tries to shut out.

“Slaughter,” he had been commanded. And he bowed to the voice.

His wielder.

What was he, if not a weapon? It was his fate, to be bathed in blood, to answer only to the hand that held him.

Such was the way of his kind: blades forged from clipped souls, bound to serve, not to think.

So the cries of the valley, the stillness of death, the fluttering of a child’s shawl caught on a broken spear, none of it moved his heart.

His gut did not turn. His wrath did not tremble. He was made for this.

And soon, as always, he expected his wielder to return him to the scabbard. To end his thoughts. To take away this awareness, this awful clarity that clung like blood under fingernails.

But the call does not come.

Days pass. He stands, alone, in the blood-soaked field. Waiting.

The sun rises and sets and rises again. The flies come. The rot. The weight of his own body. He waits for the voice, any voice, to summon him.

It never does.

Not until he collapses. Not until his knees buckle and the world vanishes beneath him.

And then—

Warmth. A bed. Clean cloth against his cheek.

And a voice that is not his master’s.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” your face leans over him. Curious, awed and, impossibly human.

Caleb blinks, too weak to move, too dazed to speak.

But the first thing he thinks isn’t Where am I?

It’s: Why didn’t he call me back?

[a-hermit-pining]

Thinking of writing an Aragorn coded reader. Should I do an entire lotr coded reader series?

Elrond

Thranduil

Galadriel

Arwen

Sauron

Legolas

Feanorian (I'm definitely doing this)

Now the question of the hour

[a-hermit-pining]

Writer's block is here. Suddenly, no idea is good enough, and everything in drafts is abominable. Pray for me, people.

[a-hermit-pining]

Omg Zayne (I love all the chibis)

✨❤️‍🔥💕Feeling Bonita💕❤️‍🔥✨

[a-hermit-pining]

Irrevocably Fond

"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more." (Emma, Jane Austen)

AN: keeping my word from the Spring banner

Pairing: Zayne x gn reader

Genre: Omegaverse

Ingredients: 95% fluff, 5% comfort

Summary: The first time you proposed to Zayne, you were both 6. At your father's tea party. While your mother bragged about her newest presents to her mate, you did the very mature job of gifting her emerald ring to your father, to Zayne, who professed a preference for sapphires.

(I do not own any of these characters)

"What will you be when you grow up Zayne?" Your mother asked the boy sitting next to you, happily munching on honeycomb snack (you offered him your share, because of how much he liked it).

"I want to be a doctor," Zayne replied without looking up. "A doctor of heart, so I can treat you," he looks your way, as if already planning your treatment.

You mother chuckles at that, "Oh darling, wouldn't that be a wonder," she wipes his face. "But a good omega must choose worthy profession."

You frown, just in time to protest, at how Zayne could be anything he wished, when your mother looked at you, "And what about you, what do you wish to be, my child?"

"Zayne's mate," you reply without missing a beat, grinning to reveal a mouth missing multiple teeth.

The adults in the room shake this heads fondly. Laughing off your childhood fancies.

Of his, to be a doctor, and yours to be his.

How foolish they were.

"For someone expected to lead the household, you sure are careless," Zayne frowns at the report, while your bask in his presence.

He is lovely. So very lovely.

You clutch your hands, resisting the urge to run your fingers through his hair. It wouldn't be proper, not until he accepted you.

And then agreed to a proposal. Which would take months, or years even if things were left at this pace.

The first time you proposed to Zayne, you were both 6. At your father's tea party. While your mother bragged about her newest presents to her mate, you did the very mature job of gifting her emerald ring to your father, to Zayne, who professed a preference for sapphires.

He denied every present, every proposal ever since. Never accepting it, yet not rejecting it either.

You had been waiting for 18 years, and you only loved him more. With ever passing day.

You could not understand how he could not be taken, how the world did not fall to its knees for him?

How could they not see the pure delight in his eyes at the sight of sweets, or how both animals and plants flourished around him, how incredibly stubborn he was to fight every label and become the first omega surgeon?

But you weren't complaining. You were okay without competition to fight. As long as, you got to be near him, for your proposals to be considered. You could wait.

You give him your honeycomb snack.

He doesn’t ask. You just do it. Press it into his hand like it’s sacred.

Zayne’s never had one before. It's sweet and strange and clings to his teeth.

“I want to be a doctor,” he mumbles around it. Your mother chuckles.

“A doctor of hearts,” he clarifies, glancing at you. “So I can treat yours.”

You grin, toothless and delighted. “Then I’ll be your mate.”

The adults laugh. Zayne doesn’t.

You shove a ring into his hand at a tea party.

Your mother’s emerald one. He blinks at it. Then at you. “I prefer sapphires,” he says.

You pout, but don’t take it back. He hides it in his pocket.

He never tells anyone.

You’re twelve when you beat up a boy for calling Zayne “useless.”

Zayne doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t scold you, either.

He just sits beside you in the infirmary, quietly dabbing your bruised knuckles with ointment.

“I don’t need you to fight for me,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you say holding back furious tears. “But I will anyway.”

He doesn’t smile. But his hand stays on yours a little too long.

He’s sixteen and top of his class. You fail organic chemistry.

He tutors you. Ruthlessly. You grumble. He ignores you.

But he makes you tea every time. Always sweet, always the kind you like.

He pretends not to notice when you rest your head on his shoulder during breaks. He never moves away.

You’re twenty. Your parents are getting impatient. You’re expected to propose to someone else.

Zayne says nothing.

But that week, he texts you for the first time at 2 a.m. “Don’t do it.”

No name. No explanation.

You don't ask for one.

You never propose to anyone else.

He becomes the first omega cardiologist in the region. The press calls him radical. Dangerous. Revolutionary. You call him brilliant.

You bring him honeycomb snacks that night.

He doesn’t eat them right away. But later, you find the empty wrappers in the trash. Every single one.

You stop proposing after eighteen years.

He notices.

He pretends not to.

But every time you’re in the room, his shoulders soften. His voice lowers. He listens closer.

He never stops reaching for you when you’re near. Your sleeve, your elbow, your wrist, his fingers barely brushing yours in some unuttered need to be close.

You're sitting on a bench, half-asleep from a long day, post work, you insist on coming to him. He sits next to you.

“I still have that ring,” he says quietly, not looking at you.

You blink. “The emerald one?”

He nods. “It’s not a sapphire. But I’ve kept it.”

You stare at him. He finally meets your eyes.

“…Was that a yes?” you ask.

Zayne pauses. Then gently, carefully, takes your hand.

“I think,” he says, “it’s always been yes. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs with a Reader in LaDs Dominated Fields

AN: Idk I write random things at times.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Genre: something au??

Ingredients: 95% fluff, 2.5% hurt, 2.5% comfort

My Fav: Caleb and Xavier, and Zayne

(I do not own any of these characters)

Xavier: (Enemy heirs...or are they?)

“Snob.”

“Sloth.”

“Prick,” you both whisper in sync. The classroom falls silent. Of course it does.

Heirs to opposing kingdoms, bred to loathe each other by generations of Vedantic hostility, now tragically, humiliatingly united under one unfortunate assignment:

Chemistry lab partners.

“Can you get the sample right for once?” You frown over Xavier’s shoulder, watching him measure like the fate of the world depends on this one damn drop.

“Not everyone half-asses like you,” Xavier replies without looking up. “We Philosians have standards.”

You resist the urge to choke him with your lanyard and instead slam your lab report beside him.

Clink. “—Ow.”

The entire lab freezes as Xavier flinches, and you drop your pen rushing to his side.

“Oh my god...what happened?” You’re already grabbing his hand, dragging him toward the sink like he’s suffered a chemical burn instead of lightly tapping a beaker.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt? Do you need to sit down? Should I call the nurse?” Your brow is furrowed. Your panic is palpable. You’re seconds away from applying CPR to his palm.

Xavier blinks, clearly trying not to smile. “It… barely grazed me.” But his hand stays in yours. And now he’s giving you full puppy dog eyes of one who has suffered unfairly.

You immediately blow on the "wound." He hums like he's being healed by Apollo himself.

And then, of course, makes no move to let go. If anything, he leans closer, casually resting his head on your shoulder. You kiss his hand, muttering something about “wound management,” because you’re too far gone now.

You don't notice how the rest of the lab has stopped pretending to work. Across the room, every single student thinks the same thing:

Idiots. You’re fooling no one.

Rafayel: (Marine activist x God of Tides)

Rafayel never thought anyone could love the sea the way he did. He never imagined someone else would grieve it, would fight for it, not out of duty, but love.

He walks behind you as you strip off your wetsuit, bags of trash hitting the deck. Hours of work from the ocean floor.

Abandoned nets. Plastic. Broken toys.

The fish whisper behind your back, grilling their God of Tides about his “bald surface mate.” They don’t get wetsuits. Rafayel’s tried explaining. Repeatedly.

You love the ocean. Maybe the whole Earth. You’re never seen without a trash bag in one hand, sorting street litter methodically.

You cry over whale documentaries. You rage at carbon footprint graphs. You lose sleep over forests you’ll never walk through.

To Rafayel, the sunken ruins of his world were a grave. But to you? They were unfinished business.

So when sorrow clawed its way into his ribs, when homesickness twisted in his gut, You dove. You scrubbed coral with your bare hands, surrounded by his subjects. You cleaned what centuries destroyed, like you could undo history itself.

And Rafayel, joined you.

The God of Tides, shoulder to shoulder with his human, cleaning the ruins of a lost kingdom, daring to believe in a new one.

Zayne: (Neurosurgeon x Cardiologist)

“I’m so fucked,” you groan, arms wrapped around Zayne’s torso in his office. “Whyyyy meeeee?”

“Nine. Hour. Surgery,” you wail dramatically, cupping your husband’s face. “I shall perish. My brain will be mush. Barely better than the patient’s.”

You stomp your foot for extra flair.

You want to cry so bad. But doctors don’t cry. Especially not neurologists who thought they were above burnout. (You were wrong.)

Zayne just pulls you close, rocking you gently. “I’ll whisk you home the second you’re out,” he promises. “Then the whole weekend is ours.”

Lies.

You never get the weekend. There’s always some last-minute emergency, or a mysteriously missing resident, or paperwork that reproduces like bacteria.

Still, you melt into him. Because even the most competent, composed doctors deserve a little tantrum now and then.

Especially the ones who trust someone enough to throw it in their arms.

Sylus: (Police x Criminal)

You slam the file onto his desk. “Trying to die, are we?”

Then you flop beside him. “Your stupid crow forgot to erase the camera footage,” you hiss at Mephisto, who caws back with zero regret.

Sylus flips through the screenshots like he's browsing memes. “You did great, sweetie.” He pats your head, satisfied with a blurry screenshot of his face.

You consider biting his hand off. But you'd have to reattach it, and sewing flesh is so annoying.

“Do you have any idea how hard it was to steal this from the department?” you snap, unstrapping your holster, tossing your badge onto the desk like a dead weight. “I could get fired. Hanged, even.”

You’re fuming. He’s smirking.

You kick your boots up on the couch you accidentally shot a hole through last month and glare harder. “You’re going to get me killed, Sylus.”

What you don’t say, what your heart screams instead, is: I’d let you. If it meant you’d make it out.

You ignore the way your chest aches just thinking about it. About what it’d mean to lose him. Sylus doesn’t ask for help. He just does, and gets himself in trouble, and you...

You can’t not be there. Even if it means bending laws and breaking vows.

Let Linkon PD chase lesser monsters. You’ll cover his trail until your fingers bleed. Because he’s yours.

And you are very, very bad at letting go.

Caleb: (Marines x Air Force)

You were away more than him.

Every inter-branch rivalry joke, Air Force vs. Marines, suddenly felt a little too real.

Caleb, Colonel found himself living the life of a sailor's wife. Waiting for a firestorm to walk through the door in combat boots.

While you vanished into warzones and ghost missions, he became the one left behind.

He spends his evenings testing out new recipes, things he wants to make for you when you come back. Not because he’s soft. But because you forget to eat when you're on edge, and Caleb refuses to let you survive on field rations and caffeine shakes alone.

He maps out cafes for future dates. Places with soft chairs and quiet corners. Nothing too loud. You need gentle when you return.

Does he like not knowing your coordinates? Hell no. It’s the worst part.

But he leans into the drama of it anyway, arms crossed on the runway, squinting into the distance like he’s in a wartime romance novel. He jokes about stitching your name into a handkerchief.

When you finally do return—jaw tight, spine too straight, your body still halfway in the fight, Caleb doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his arms. And if your knees go weak, he pretends not to notice.

You’re the one with the battle scars. But he’s the one who waits.

He still goes on missions. He’s a Colonel, not a ghost. But they’re shorter now. Tighter timelines. Because you don’t wait well.

And Caleb, calculated, collected, command-given Caleb—can’t handle the way your voice shakes when you say goodbye.

So he takes the smaller deployments. He makes himself the one who waits. Because when the war’s over, the mission changes.

And Caleb’s only mission now…Is you.

[a-hermit-pining]

TONIGHT. THIS TONIGHT. TIME TO FULFILL MY WORDS.

(Words of courage appreciated 🫡)

I mean look at him!!! 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

[a-hermit-pining]

Thanks, OP (you have a claim to my firstborn 🫡)

ANOTHER CODE ALERT!!!

(pls don't mind the low quality photo, I'm just using an app that lets me play lads)

[a-hermit-pining]

hi hiiiiii!!

if possible could u write about the lads LI’s with a horse girl? maybe she tries to keep it lowkey at first cos most ppl think horsey girls r either weird or bitchy but gradually opens up about the obsession

hope this is okkkkkk <3

Sorry, Anon, but the requests are closed currently! You can request once they open 🙃

Although as a tid bit, here are short reactions (not exactly what you asked but something I wrote at work):

Xavier: grew up as a prince, so he loves horses.

Rafayel: has beef with them for being huge and easily spooked.

Zayne: he knows what it is like to be judged for outward temperament, so he makes it a point to get to know people close to him better.

Sylus: suddenly, horses are the rarest possessions ever because he'll buy you a whole farm with the fanciest breeds.

Caleb: he grew up watching your love for horses. It would be healing for him to be surrounded by animals. He has more faith in them than humans.

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men React to Your Different Hobbies

Request: Hi hermit! I noticed your requests are open and wanted to ask if you could write about a reader who is a complete nerd for something specific. It could be anything from anime, to reptiles, to astronomy, to novels, to literature, anything really. Maybe they start off more reserved and quiet but once they get comfortable they let the floodgates open and now the guys get to witness the pure, unfiltered joy when they talk about something they love. Bonus if they don’t necessarily seem like the type to be interested in that sort of thing. I just need something cute and fluffy where angst isn’t destroying my heart. It can be as silly and/or serious as you want it to be. You handle writing different scenarios so well I feel like you are the best when it comes to these kinds of scenarios. I hope this isn’t too big of an ask. Thank you for reading this! I hope you take care of yourself and that you have a good day/night! 🫶🫶🫶💞💞💞🍀🍀🍀

AN: I love this request so much!! I've been daydreaming of this so much. So here is my attempt at this. I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for reading my works :))))

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Genre: people in love

Ingredients: 100% fluff

My Fav: Sylus and Caleb. My heart 🥺

(I do not own any of these characters)

Xavier:

He’s your reader boyfriend. You’re the gamer. He’s just here for the vibes.

He’ll nuzzle next to you while you curse ten generations of a 14-year-old with suspicious aim.

Just peacefully flipping through a romance novel as you become the ultimate baddie of Vice City.

You can convert him to join you on the Switch. He loves Pokémon Go, Mario Kart, even those ridiculous farming simulators.

He’s that one PewDiePie cooking simulator video come to life.

Xavier is most likely to doze off with his legs crossed over yours, your moans of despair functioning as peaceful white noise.

You build him a castle in Minecraft, but he’s honestly more content just watching you game, cheering softly from the sidelines.

Rafayel:

You were born to repurpose.

A ratty old ladder? Planter. Scrap cloth? Braided technicolor rugs. Crumbling grandma furniture from eBay? It’s now a “boho-chic” nightstand that Rafayel lovingly uses to pile all seventeen of his earrings.

You steal his paints constantly. The good ones. The ones labeled in French. Does he mind? Not even a little. He calls it “collaboration.” (It’s theft, but okay.)

He watches you work like it’s the Louvre. Which is wild, because you’re in overalls, sanding down what used to be someone’s broken cabinet-slash-pet coffin.

You’ve got sawdust in your hair and paint on your ear, and Rafayel is just standing there, in awe, like you’re building the Sistine Chapel out of literal garbage.

You’re also slowly “Rafayel-proofing” the penthouse, one corner at a time. No more stubbed toes. No more nightly opera of him cursing the furniture like it personally betrayed him.

You call it DIY. He calls it love.

Perhaps it is.

Zayne:

You don’t have a green thumb. You have a green vendetta.

Zayne swears the plants grow out of fear. And honestly? He might be right.

The sunflowers outside your house are seven feet tall and actively reaching for the second-floor window like they want in. The neighbors have started calling it a local attraction.

He’s the one lathering you in sunscreen as you stand armed and ready to wage war on a new army of weeds.

He works from the patio more these days, just to sneak glances of you in the garden, sweat on your brow, yelling at a tomato plant like it is a new recruit to your battalion.

You plant a vegetable patch. A blessing, really. Because Zayne is an absolute wizard in the kitchen with fresh produce.

He’s obsessed with homegrown ingredients. You’re obsessed with terrorizing invasive species.

It works.

Sylus:

"You're pretty," you murmur, tilting his chin up with your fingers. "Now be good and sit still for me, dragon." You grin as Sylus shakes his head, pretending that didn’t just work on him.

You pick up your sketchpad, charcoal already smudging your fingertips, and begin tracing the outline of his eyes. Fierce, yet soft when they rest on you.

"Did I ever tell you your eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever sketched?" you murmur, shading the lashes with a flick of your wrist.

"You say that about everything, kitten," Sylus replies smoothly, though there’s a hitch in his breath.

You love this. Overwhelming him with affection. Praise. Backing him into a corner where all he can do is take it. He never wins.

"And your cheekbones..." you say, smudging a shadow across the apple of his cheek. "So dramatic. So sketchable." You press a kiss there, just to prove your point.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer. You don’t resist.

Your eyes drift to his lips. "These," you whisper, eyes locked on his mouth, "I dare not draw. They’d inspire passions in anyone who might stumble upon this page."

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, cheeks flushed. "You’ll be the end of me," Sylus groans softly. His voice all gravel and silk.

And you? You smile, smug and starry-eyed.

Because you’re Basil to his Dorian.

Caleb:

He’s lost you. Again.

Caleb wanders through the mind-boggling bookstore for the tenth time, the aisles blurring together. There’s no rhyme or reason why the classics are right next to cookbooks.

Achilles’ Fig Pastries and Twenty Cakes for Jane Austen Girlies (he bought that one for you).

So it’s no surprise when he finds you in the far-off corner of historical fiction. A pile of used books already half your height sits beside you. Books are your world. Rooms full of them. Brimming nightstands, stacked floors. Stories, so many of them.

Caleb grew up watching you devour them. Any and every book you could get your hands on. "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope... I have loved none but you," you quote from Wentworth’s letter, just in time to meet Caleb’s eyes.

He pauses, heart in his throat. Words written by another shouldn’t hit this hard. But they’re true. Truer than anything.

Books have held your pining. They’ve understood your heart. And they’ve delivered it to him, in folded pages, tearstained stanzas, and scribbled notes of passion.

[a-hermit-pining]

Does he like me or are we just two nerds in close proximity 🫣

(Why am I weak in the knees for this guy)

[a-hermit-pining]

You know what? Ya'll are correct. This is Zanye coded. Now I want this.

"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever." (Persuasion, Austen)

Captain Wentworth, you are so tender 👏

This but Caleb. Unable to feel but bound to yearn. Ughhh but also a case could be made for Rafayel. Always hoping, even in pain.

This deserves a poll-

[a-hermit-pining]

A disappointed dentist is my biggest fear. Second to dying in a car crash.

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men in Book Tropes

AN: for fun because I love AUs

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Genre: fluff and crack

Ingredients: 100% fluff

My Fav: hmmm all ig (but Rafayel and Zayne were fun to imagine.

Xavier (mafia boss x student):

You look threatening.

Elegant. Composed. A dagger in one hand, the other resting lightly against your hip. But your slacks are tailored within an inch of their life, and your thighs?

Xavier refuses to blink. Partly out of defiance. Partly because pins and needles are currently climbing up his leg from where he’s been zip-tied to a steel chair for the last hour.

And that’s when your left-hand man mutters something low.

You still. Your gaze narrows. “What do you mean he’s not the right student?” you snap.

Xavier turns his head slowly. Trying very hard not to wince at the sudden cramp behind his knee.

“Tell me,” you say, your voice like a blade slipping under skin, “you did not just kidnap a random man off the street?” The silence answers for him.

Xavier blinks once. Deadpan. “I was literally eating ramen.”

Your henchman tries to defend himself. “He ran, boss. He ran when I asked for his name—”

“Yeah,” Xavier cuts in, shrugging as much as his bindings allow. “Because a man with a neck tattoo and three guns asked if I owed money.”

You sigh. Fold your arms. Lean against the table. “Joke’s on us, then.”

It gets worse.

Because not only is Xavier not the debt-ridden student you were trying to scare straight. He’s a detective. A bored, off-duty, highly observant one. And your organization just gifted him a front row seat to all your illegal operations.

He doesn’t look worried. At all. In fact, he smirks. “So,” he says, tilting his head at you, dark eyes gleaming, “this where you tell me I’m your fiancé now?”

You arch a brow. “Do you want it to be?”

Rafayel (Office Romance):

You’re the creative director. His boss.

And he’s your trusted, anxiety-inducing, dangerously talented graphic designer.

Every time he disappears from Slack for more than five minutes, you feel the phantom grays sprouting at your temples.

So when Rafayel lands in this world, his heart’s a mess.

Because why the hell are you in a three-piece suit on a Thursday? Why are you speaking in PowerPoint? (He doesn’t realize there’s a conference.)

He goes through the full rom-com shbang...blushing at close proximity, nearly yeeting his stylus when you lean down to adjust his brush settings. He would be outraged by your bossy interference... if this version of you didn’t look so competent doing it.

You bet he becomes the undisputed champion of in-office work. Remote who? He's commuting through a hurricane if it means lunch breaks with you.

He silently laments not being your assistant. The daily chaos? The tension? The dramatics? That’s the kind of messy office romance he lives for.

Zayne (Jock x Nerd):

Zayne has approximately 25 breakdowns the second he realizes he’s been transmigrated into a high school AU.

Why him? Why now? What ancient evil has he offended? This is worse than open surgery without gloves.

And then he sees you, leaning casually against his locker in a lacrosse jersey, with a dopey grin and the faint scent of Axe trailing after you like bad decisions. You’re radiating school spirit and main character energy. The golden retriever jock.

He looks down at himself: books clutched like a shield, glasses sliding down his nose, striped polo tucked into khakis.

Oh no. He’s the nerd.

He goes completely still when you reach out and push his glasses up with two fingers, like you've done it multiple times. He hasn't hit the growth spurt yet so you lean down while doing it. Dammit.

“Tutoring in period five?” you grin.

He blinks. Swallows. Soul exits body.

This is it. This is his villain origin story. Or worse, his slow-burn romance arc.

Sylus (match maker):

“You are my worst client,” you snap, slamming your planner shut so hard your pen jumps. “You’re going to die alone, General Sylus. Your sword might be your only lifelong companion.”

You’re trying so hard not to throw your teacup at him. But unfortunately, treason is still illegal.

Match #23. Another perfectly elegant, emotionally stable, high-ranking woman. Gone. Sent running by him.

You’re down to your last lead, your last shred of credibility, and you swear if one more noble family calls to "check in on your progress with the charming general,” you’re going to fake your own death.

This was supposed to be easy. He was supposed to be easy.

A war hero. Stoic. Loyal. Families should have lined up to offer their finest daughters and strongest family swords.

But no. Sylus defies every known law of socialization.

“Making her dig for a brooch?” you bark. “In the rain, Sylus?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just raises his teacup, and smirks. That slow, infuriating, battlefield-smirk that somehow makes you want to both kiss him and knock him out.

“If she can’t find a brooch,” he shrugs, “how will she find a way to my heart?”

You scream internally. Outwardly, you smile. Professionally. Barely.

One more match. And then you’re done. Or in prison. Possibly both.

Caleb (Idol x Bodyguard):

This is his dreamland.

You. All the time. Every damn second.

He’s not even ashamed of it.

Because this you. the idol version of you. is free. Untouched by the mess of the other lifetime. And Caleb? Caleb is thriving.

Your bodyguard. Your shadow. Your guard dog. The reincarnation of Cerberus himself.

He stands next to you on red carpets. He scans every crowd before you hit the stage. He has a black folder of “threatening letters” and a second one for “bad fanfiction.” He has read all of it. He will not talk about it.

And backstage? Oh. The jealousy he inspires.

He gets to see it all, barefaced you in pajamas, you blowing raspberries at the vocal coach, you dancing with one sock and a protein bar.

The fandom eats it up. They ship you both. Hard. They make memes. Fan cams. Slow motion edits of him holding an umbrella over your head.

Is he labeled a fandom traitor? Absolutely. Is he proud of it? Yes.

He zips up your jacket when you forget. Keeps track of your vitamins. Carries four backup chargers, three types of gum, and a taser.

And when you fall asleep on the van ride home, head resting on his shoulder, he doesn’t move. He barely breathes.