#'i wonder if people will still recognize me'

[aleskie]

YOU DON'T NEED TO LIFT A FINGER | Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: When a guy just cannot get the hint, Jack makes sure to put him in his place. He's got your back. Always.

Warnings: none!! pure fluff and jack gets protective!! Full discloure, this is for realsies Fem!Reader!! Author's Note: This was supposed to come out a dayyyyys ago but Tumblr was NOT letting me post my drafts 😭😭 my poor therapist spent an hour watching me crash out about it najsjsshjjk

You were beautiful.

Of course you were.

In Jack’s eyes, you were the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth.

Which is why he understands why you get hit on. He really does. Hell, once upon a time, he was hitting on you. And he still hits on you, even now, years into the relationship, because you’re worth it. Because you light up rooms without even trying. Because he’s always been a sucker for the way you roll your eyes and smile at his cheesy attempts to be smooth with you.

You’re beautiful and smart and funny, and you’re so effortlessly charming—of course people would want you for themselves. He gets it. He really does. And honestly, there’s a part of him that loves it. He loves that people notice those qualities about you, that they see in you what he sees every day. It feels like validation, like the universe itself is confirming that he’s the luckiest guy alive. He basks in the knowledge that no matter how many people give you those hungry looks and shitty pick-up lines, he’s the one you're coming home with, his hand resting possessively on your hip as he gives all those people a smirk, his claim laid without him even lifting a finger.

What he doesn’t love is when people don’t take the damn hint.

And you give a lot of hints.

Take this guy right here—Dave, or Doug, or whatever his name is—He’d somehow wiggled his way into the booth you guys shared with your friends for a night out and, while he seemed harmless at first, he was now solely focused on you. And your legs that were highlighted by the body shimmer Jack helped put on you earlier tonight (his fingers still slightly shimmering to prove it—a badge of honor, in his opinion).

You’d been giving him that polite, fake smile since he joined in—the one Jack knows so well and that always makes him chuckle, the one you use when you’re being patient but are clearly not enjoying yourself—and you’ve barely paid him any attention, save for a few fake laughs and an “Oh, that sounds cool” every so often as Darren, or Dino, continues to brag about himself, not even trying to ask about you (a grave mistake, Jack thinks, since you were the most interesting person he knew).

Jack wonders if this guy even realizes you’ve been leaning against Jack this entire time, your head on his shoulder and his hand resting on your upper thigh, or if he’s chosen to ignore that in favor of trying (and failing) to shoot his shot. Better yet, does he even recognize Jack is here, drink untouched and jaw tightening as he watches Danny (or was it Dylan) lean in just a little too close?

Jack glances at you. You’re still handling it with grace, of course you are. You always do. But he knows you. He sees the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way you lean further against him to put some distance between you and Dexter, the way your fingers tighten around your glass, and he knows you’d rather not have to deal with this.

He shifts slightly and stands, leaning forward to smile at the intruder, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey, Diego, right?” he says. His tone is casual, even pleasant, but there’s steel underneath it.

“It’s Dave, actua—”

Jack extends a hand, cutting through the guy’s attempt at small talk. “Right, yeah. Sorry to interrupt, but I think my girlfriend and I are gonna go dance now.”

He puts an emphasis on girlfriend, just to make sure this guy gets the point.

Jack gives you a soft look, the kind that makes your breath hitch just a little, and you immediately stand up, reaching for him. His arm wraps around you instinctively, his touch steady and familiar. You can already feel the tension in his body lessening now that he has you close, now that he’s leading you away from whatever-his-name-is and back into the safe, easy rhythm of you and him.

But before you can leave, the guy speaks again.

“Sorry, man, didn’t realize she was yours. You know how women are. With that dress and those legs, she was totally leading me on.”

Jack freezes.

For a second, the world seems to pause, almost like he couldn’t believe what was coming out of this guy’s mouth, like he didn’t want to believe anyone could be that stupid.

Slowly, he straightens, turning back toward the guy—Dave or Doug or whatever his name was—with a look so calm it’s almost serene. Too calm. And that’s how you know Jack is angry.

Not the playful kind of angry, where he pretends to pout when you steal the last fry or kiss him everywhere but his lips. Not the frustrated kind, like when he can’t find his keys for the third time that week or when he’s had a particularly bad game.

No, this is something deeper. Colder. Controlled.

His fingers graze your arm lightly, a small, grounding touch meant just for you. It’s subtle, but you know what it means. I’ve got this. You don’t need to lift a finger.

Jack tilts his head ever so slightly. “You wanna say that again?” His voice is so even it borders on soft, a quiet thing wrapped in steel.

Dave—or Dino or Darryl—seems to think Jack is inviting him to elaborate, which is perhaps the worst decision he’s made all night.

“I’m just saying, y’know,” Dave shrugs, his tone shifting to something almost conspiratorial, like he thinks Jack might actually agree with him if he just explains it better. “When women dress like that, you can’t blame a guy for—”

“Yeah, I’m gonna need you to shut up before I do something we both regret.”

Jack doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. The weight of his words alone is enough to send a ripple of silence through the space between them.

Dave blinks, the beginning stages of intimidation creeping onto his face. He glances at you, as if expecting backup, but you’re already leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised as you watch Jack dismantle him.

There’s a small smirk on your lips. Because this? This was a sight you didn’t get to see in public too often.

Many times, people assumed your lovely boyfriend—so easygoing, so effortlessly charming—would lack the sharpness to cut someone down when needed, would stick to uhmms and ahhhs and crassnes.

They mistook his laid-back nature for passivity, his warmth for softness. But you knew better. Your Jack could be quite a wonder with words when he wanted to be. He didn’t need to be loud to command attention. He didn’t need to throw a punch to land a hit.

So you hang back and let him handle this one, finding comfort in the thought of his arms around you later, his breath warm against your ear as you danced the rest of the night away.

“Listen, buddy,” Jack continues, stepping closer. His tone is light, almost conversational, but there’s no mistaking the edge beneath it. “You don’t talk to anyone like that. You definitely don’t get to talk to her like that. You hear me?”

“God, c’mon, man! No need to get all—”

“I already told you to shut up.” Jack’s scowl deepens. His words are slow, deliberate. “The fact that she was polite enough to give you the slightest bit of attention doesn’t mean she was hitting on you. Whatever you thought was going on tonight? Not an invitation.”

Dave—Dino? Derek?—opens his mouth, probably to dig himself into an even deeper hole, but stops when Jack leans in slightly, just enough to make his presence feel heavier. Like a storm cloud about to break.

“She’s kind,” Jack says, voice quieter now, deadlier. “So she tolerated you. But she doesn’t owe you a fucking thing.”

The last of Dave’s bravado starts to crumble. His shoulders inch inward, his gaze flickering around the booth, searching for an exit, for reinforcements—for anything that might save him from this moment.

Jack watches him for a second longer, then exhales sharply, like he’s already bored. “You think being desperate and cocky gets you the girl,” he says, shaking his head. “But I don’t need any of that to keep her by my side.” His fingers brush against yours, finding their place like they always do. “And we don’t need to waste any more time entertaining douchebags like you.”

Jack steps back, his hand sliding fully into yours as he finally tears his gaze from Daniel? Don?—who cares?—and looks at you instead. The shift is immediate, his features easing, the sharpness in his eyes softening into something familiar. Something yours.

“Let’s go, babe,” he says simply, his voice lighter now, more like himself.

And just like that, the moment is over.

As you stand, letting Jack guide you away from the booth, you hear Dave mutter something under his breath—something weak and defensive that doesn’t deserve acknowledgment. It’s the kind of parting shot people throw out when they know they’ve lost. Neither of you glance back.

The music swells around you, the bass thrumming beneath your feet, but Jack doesn’t lead you straight to the dance floor. Instead, he pulls you toward a quieter corner, away from the crowd, where the lights are dimmer, the world a little smaller.

He exhales, then wordlessly nestles his head in the crook of your shoulder.

You smile, running your fingers through his hair, your nails lightly grazing his scalp. He sighs at the touch, his arms slipping around your waist as he lets himself melt into you for just a moment. You press a soft kiss to his hair, breathing him in, grounding both of you in something steady, something real.

After a beat, he tilts his head up, a sheepish grin playing at his lips. “Did I go overboard?”

You roll your eyes fondly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You were absolutely perfect,” you murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.

His grin widens, boyish and bright, and just like that, the weight of the night lifts. He tugs you closer, his arm tightening around your waist as he starts to sway you to the music. You laugh as he spins you unexpectedly, sneaking in kisses between the DJ’s transitions, his lips catching your temple, your jaw, the curve of your shoulder.

The man who bothered you is forgotten. The tension, the sharp edges of the night—gone.

All that’s left is this. You and him and the music. The warmth of his hands on you, the sound of your laughter melting together, the rest of the world fading into nothing.

[endykelopaedia]

This does still ignore that we don't have to choose one avenue or another when it comes to the intersectionality of this topic.

This post is about misandry being a bad "avenue" for sociopolitical analysis, not about "choosing one." you'd know that if you read the post.

I recognize in my experience as a latino that latina women don't experience the demonization that i do simply because of my gender.

and thats your fucking problem. First Of All you aren't even black so why are you here on my post on anti-blackness like this (and i did notice how you replaced all discussion of black people and anti-blackness with "poc" to get your nasty foot in). And second of yall YES THEY FUCKING DO. You really think being a woman of colour saves you from the racism you experience for their race in any meaningful way? You obviously a misogynist but you might actually be stupid too. Idk how long u lived as a woman or man but maybe go ask your grandma or sumn if being a woman made being latine easier. My exact problem w this misandry shit is how easily it becomes for you people to simply not think abt the women in your community and how obviously misogynistic it is to think their experiences of discrimination and violence must be softer than yours bc shes not a man. choke. moving on.

The darker you are, the more pronounced the fear surrounding you becomes, but it is also amplified by how masculine or feminine your gender expression is. I don't quite agree that "projected hypermasculinity" is the only cause of this.

i think its awesome that this non-black dude thinks he's in the position to explain colourism to me now. Also, I didn't say it was. You'd know that if you Read The Post.

for many poc, they are often in the cross hairs of white-enforced gender binaries. Many people in positions of power [even other poc] will use gender as a violent means to police us, often seeking to turn our own expression of gender against us.

you ever notice how in turning our gender expressions against us, there might be a pattern of projecting violence and aggression (traditionally masculine traits often praised in non-black people), that isnt actually there? This is masculinisation. This is racism. You'd know that, if you read. the post.

This intersection is important to acknowledge and I think very overlooked when poc trans macs like myself have been begging people to listen to us.

Ok. I'm a black i mean poc transmasc. Listen To Me! you are actively talking over what im sayin and barely listening bc it challenges the validity of misandry, a word that has apparently done soooo much for you, and me too obviously, given the nature of this post that you definitely read.

Also the section on adultification is sound. But very strange claim that "black people aren't actually masculine!"

Didn't say this. In fact i also very explicitly said black i mean poc adults also experience adultification. Try reading the post again, and applying my logic that you say is so sound.

Like???????? What about those who are? I have black transmasc friends who have extremely different experiences than my black trans femme friends and I can tell you that it absolutely is about gender there.

thats crazy. you're gonna bring black i mean poc transfemmes into this when the murder statistics for black transfemmes look like this? i wonder what happened there... i thought femininity was supposed to protect femmes from racislised violence...

Everything intersects with race in these conversations of course but there are those of us who are trying to communicate more nuanced experiences.

so sick of yalls "but my unique experiences!!" whinging. fuckin grow up n read a book. you arent the main characters. there are socio-political forces above you shaping our oppression and i am talking about those! i'm not your mother!!! think abt society outside of your feelings for 5 seconds n then get back to me!!!

ALL men benefit from patriarchy just as ALL white people benefit from white supremacy just as ALL cis people benefit from cisnormativity just as ALL rich people benefit from poverty. you think you're being intersectional but you aren't! you're just absolving your ability to perpetuate or benefit from a certain system in your own mind because you too are marginalised. being a man does not create a unique intersection with your race because men, unilaterally, are not oppressed for being men, no, not even sometimes, no, not even when you're black i mean poc or gay or broke or trans. and you can still benefit from misogyny against the women who are just like you.

Masculinity does not equal power.

Yeah ok. neither does whiteness or cisness or money or nun. nothing equals power cuz anyone can be oppressed for any reason. get fucking real.

There is the similarity of not equating feminity with powerlessness.

erm actually... you're the real misogynist for noticing how women are systemically disempowered by men instead of uplifting femininity (by refusing to acknowledge that women are systemically empowered by men) I Am Very Smart.

And Finally, lets talk about these tags a mo.

"white" "american" and i am very explicitly neither white or american. easy to guess from the way i write this post. easier to confirm from looking at my god damn bio. and thats how i know you arent serious bc you really think only white americans utilise male privilege as a concept? yk the feminist you haphazardly snatched "intersectionality" from was a black woman explicitly naming the way that the misogyny she experienced from black i mean poc men and the racism she experienced from white women was rendered invisible by both groups failing to acknowledge the intersection she had of being both black and a woman? of course not. you're an idiot.

"black people are seen as hyper-masculine and face a lot of violence for it, so yes you can be oppressed for seeming or being masculine"

AHT!! lets talk! black people are not actually hyper-masculine. hyper-masculinity is a projection by people trying to justify anti-black fear and violence. it is not a true and then demonised observation about black existence. the hyperfocus on the masculinity of black people is itself racism!

when you call this issue of racism anti-masculinity or misandry or whatever, you are obfuscating the bigotry at play. ESPECIALLY given that it is overwhelmingly just white women's fear about black people's supposed hyper-masculinity that actually gets listened to & acted upon.

in addition, there are other addendums people tack onto their anti-blackness that completely cause this logic to fall apart when applied. Namely, adultification! black people, black children get adultified by white society.

We are assumed to be older & more independent, and thus less in need of the safety, care, sensitivity, accommodation one would give to a child, and this results in violence and neglect. it is directly observable in the way black children are more likely to get detention, suspended or expelled for the same behaviour as their white peers, s/a rates for black youth, and the arguments that 40 y/o cops give for brutalising & murdering black 20, 16, 12, 8 year olds who so much as breathe in their line of sight.

Given this then, following the misandry logic, we can say being recognised as older or as an adult is a form of oppression.

"black people are seen as older/more mature and face a lot of violence for it, so yes, you can be oppressed for seeming like or being an adult"

we can for the sake of this post name this oppression adultery.

i kid. but do you see the problem. being recognised as an adult is obviously, not itself a form of oppression, in fact quite the opposite, being recognised as adult can grant you a lot of privileges that children do not have.

and black kids are evidently, not adults or people who act like adults. they dont mature faster. black 18 y/os will also face the problem of adultification to justify violence against them. black maturity is not a true and then demonised observation about black existence. the form of oppression is racism, and adultification is the deployed means of enacting racism.

the means of combatting the adultification of black people would not come in creating adult positivity or "advocating" for adults or telling children not to fear adults. it comes in the form of learning about anti-blackness, unlearning anti-blackness, and actually directly combatting anti-blackness.

similarly the means of combatting the hyper-masculinisation of black people comes in the form of learning about anti-blackness, unlearning anti-blackness, and actually directly combatting anti-blackness.

Racism explains both of this phenomena far better than "misandry" ever could.

[esote-rika]

Could I request Spencer with a really socially awkward reader(gn) who has to meet the team for the first time and just sort ends up hiding behind Spencer?

Feel free to ignore this if you're not up for it :)

Anon, thank you so much for this! I’m sorry it took a little long, but I hope you still enjoy it <3 Cute little drabble of Spencer being the best bf ever.

Contents: Mentions of alcohol, but otherwise, it’s just fluff!!! gn!reader.

Your hands are clammy when he takes them, a clear sign of your discomfort. Immediately, Spencer’s face softens, his features dappled pink and blue from the colorful lights of the bar. Neither of you drink, but his team is celebrating a case they successfully closed, and he’d mentioned it would be a good time to introduce you. The atmosphere is relaxed, after all, inhibitions dulled by alcohol and the knowledge of a job well done. 

For them, at least. You are operating under something entirely different. Nerves. Lots of it.

“You made it.” Spencer says brightly, before he wraps an arm around you and ushers you to their table. His team is all bright, welcoming smiles, and teasing remarks when they see you. You recognize them from the pictures, this group of people he’s come to know as his family. The cheeriest woman, Penelope Garcia walks up and gives you a big hug. Not expecting it, you stand there awkwardly, too busy wondering if you should return the gesture, but by the time you make up your mind, she’s already pulling away. 

Oops. You bite back a wince at your social blunder and manage a smile. 

“Spencer has told me all about you.” You say over the loud, thumping music. 

A chorus of replies. He spends all his time talking about you too, and You two are so cute, and I can’t believe Spence didn’t introduce you to us sooner! Lovely platitudes that you nod at. What exactly do you say to them beyond a thank you? Desperately, you wrack your brain for responses. Be witty, you chide yourself, charming. Make them like you.

But your words fail you in this moment, as they so often do. Small talk seems hollow, perfunctory instead of sincere, so you smile and nod politely as the comments continue around you. The more they go on about how it is to meet you, the more you seem to shrink into Spencer, smiling politely in response. You hope, desperately, that it's enough.

Once the initial round of introductions dies down, Spencer pulls you to a quieter table. The back of your neck is warm from all the attention, and you're worried his team may think you're being too clingy or antisocial. Surprisingly, his team doesn’t comment on it, moving on to get drinks and join the dance floor. Other people may have found it rude to retreat like this, but truthfully, you’re glad for the reprieve. 

Spencer’s hand is warm and heavy on your hip, pulling you tightly to his side. “Are you okay?”

You hum, nodding against his shoulder. “Your team’s nice.” 

“They are,” you feel his lips on your forehead, “But they can be a lot.”

You peak over his shoulder to look at the dance floor. Derek is in the middle of it with a few ladies, while JJ, Emily, and Penelope have their own little dance cluster. “They’re nice.” you repeat, “They just seemed excited.”

He chuckles, “Mhm, that’s because they’ve been wanting to meet you for weeks now.” 

You feel him pull back, and you have to fight back the urge to cling to him. He meets your gaze, brown eyes warm and glittering in the dim light. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not too overwhelmed?”

“I’m fine. I’m glad to have met them.”

He smiles, pleased that his reminders for his team had worked. He’d told them of your tendency to be awkward around new people and had asked them to accommodate it when they meet you. He’s just as nervous and eager for your introduction to be nice, but your comfort is of utmost importance to him. 

For a brief moment, he worried it wouldn’t work, but his team is gracious enough (and so excited over the fact that he has a relationship) that they’ve put on their best behavior and backed off immediately once they caught signs of your discomfort. You’re easy enough to read, and they’re highly trained profilers. 

“They already adore you.” he says, nose buried in your hair. 

You laugh, “You sure? I don’t know if I’ve made the best impression.”

“I’m sure.” his lips ghost across your hairline, “You weren’t even that bad. They’re used to so much worse.”

“Is that so?”

He nods, ducking down to press his lips to yours. “Need I remind you that they have to deal with me?”

Even more laughter escapes you, and you’re immediately put at ease, even more so than before. How could you not, when your boyfriend knows exactly what to say? Perhaps not to other people, but he’s so attuned to you and your needs that you just kiss him back in thanks.

[satellite-evans]

right where you left me

Pairing: Max Verstappen x ex girlfriend!reader

Summary: You're still where Max left you.

Word count: 2.8k+

Warnings: angst, based on the Taylor Swift song

A/N:

Hi everyone, this is the first fic that I’m posting for the folkmore series, I am so excited!!! Can’t wait to hear what you guys think <3

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The restaurant still smells the same. The warm scent of buttered bread, the faint tang of expensive wine in the air, the subtle undertone of aged wood and candle wax melting into soft pools of gold. It’s been months—years, maybe—since the night Max walked out, yet the place feels untouched, frozen in time. Just like you.

You sit at the same table, your fingers brushing against the linen napkin, tracing invisible patterns on the surface. The same table where his laughter once curled in the air, where his hands would have reached for yours without thinking. Your glass of water remains half-full, just as it was that night. Untouched. Forgotten. A relic of a moment that still lingers in the corners of your mind like an echo you can’t quite silence.

The candlelight flickers, its glow catching the delicate ring you still wear on your right hand—the one he gave you as a promise before he decided promises were too heavy to keep. You twist it absentmindedly, the metal cool against your skin, a contrast to the warmth of memory.

Outside, the city hums with life. Cars glide past, their headlights flashing like distant stars. The murmur of strangers, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter—all of it moves forward, untethered to the past. But here, at this table, in this restaurant where time seems to hold its breath, you sit in the hollow space he left behind.

And for the first time in a long while, you wonder if he ever comes here, too. If he ever stops just outside the door, hand hesitating on the handle, breathing in the familiar scent and remembering. Or if, like the promises he made, he’s let it all go.

“Are you ready to order?”

The waiter’s voice pulls you from your trance, gently but firmly, like a hand on your shoulder bringing you back to the present. You blink, your gaze shifting from the flickering candlelight to the young man standing beside your table, his notepad poised, his expression polite but unreadable.

You only shake your head, offering a tight smile. “Not yet,” you murmur, though you already know the answer.

He doesn’t question it. He never does. Maybe by now, he recognizes you—not just as another customer, but as a fixture of this place. The girl who always sits alone. The girl who never changes her order. The girl who lingers too long over a half-full glass of water, as if she’s waiting for it to fill itself. The girl who still waits for someone who isn’t coming back.

Does he wonder? Does he piece together the story in his mind, constructing quiet theories about why you return to the same spot, why your fingers still play absentmindedly with a ring that should’ve lost its meaning by now? Is he used to people like you—the ones who haunt old memories like ghosts who refuse to be laid to rest?

Or does he just think that you’re a girl frozen in time, that time went on for everyone else but that you wouldn’t know?

A girl that just can’t move on.

He nods, stepping away without another word, leaving you alone once more. Alone with the past. Alone with the quiet hum of the restaurant around you, the soft clatter of silverware, the muted conversations that blur together into white noise.

You exhale, glancing toward the empty chair across from you. It remains untouched, just as it was that night. Just as it has been every night since.

You wonder if Max ever thinks about this place. If he ever remembers the way your fingers used to trace lazy patterns over his knuckles while he rambled about race strategy, his voice animated, his eyes alight with passion. If he recalls how you’d bite your lip to keep from laughing when he confidently—yet disastrously—mispronounced the names of the wines on the menu, only to scowl at you in mock offense when you corrected him. If he ever sits in a quiet moment, caught off guard by a passing scent or a familiar song playing in the background, and suddenly, inexplicably, thinks of you.

If he feels even the slightest pang of nostalgia when he hears your name.

If he even knows that you come to this restaurant, even though you felt the most heart crushing pain here.

That he left you no choice but to stay here forever.

Or if he’s forgotten all of it. All of you.

You hadn’t meant to check, but old habits die hard. One second, your mind was wandering, and the next, your fingers were already scrolling, moving with a muscle memory you wished you didn’t have. Before your brain could stop them. Before your heart could brace itself.

And suddenly, there it was, a picture trending on Twitter.

Max Verstappen & Kelly Piquet expecting their first child together!

The words seem to blur for a moment, your vision tunneling, breath catching somewhere in your throat. And then, below the headline, a photo.

You wanted to say that it was irony or even faith that you found out that he was expecting a baby with another woman in the same restaurant where he would whispered sweet words about how he wanted to be father to your children so badly, but you don’t believe in faith anymore. This restaurant was just destined to haunt you forever.

At least he looks happy.

Happier than you remember. Happier than he ever was with you.

Your grip tightens on your phone, but your body remains still, frozen in place. The sounds of the restaurant fade into static, the clinking glasses and quiet laughter around you suddenly feeling like background noise to a scene you no longer belong in.

You exhale slowly, pressing your lips together as you force yourself to look away from the screen, as if that might erase the image from your mind. As if that might make it hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

The ring on your finger feels heavier. It presses into your skin like an anchor, pulling you back to a past you can’t escape, a past you’re still tethered to. You blink rapidly at the screen, hoping, praying, that the words will change. That maybe this is some cruel joke, some mistake, but they don’t. The image doesn’t blur. It’s real. It’s him.

Another picture.

Christmas. They’re spending it together.

A perfect family. The kind you used to imagine when you’d sit together, planning for the future, talking about how one day, maybe, you’d have a house full of children and laughter.

The cruelest part is how ordinary it all looks. A picture-perfect moment, the kind you once dreamed of having with him, now shared with someone else. A life you are no longer a part of.

It’s funny, really. How time moves forward for everyone but you. How the world shifts, the seasons change, new memories replace the old ones. Love finds new homes. But you? You’re still here, frozen in place, gathering dust like an abandoned photograph tucked away in a forgotten drawer, one that’s too painful to even look at anymore.

You can’t help yourself but eread the headline over and over again and look at the pictures of them spending Christmas together, as if the repetition might somehow make it easier to swallow. Your heart clenches, a familiar ache spreading through your chest. The kind of ache that never really goes away. The kind of ache that lingers, festers, and refuses to fade no matter how much time passes.

You want to scream, to throw your phone across the room, to erase the image, the words, the entire situation from existence. But you don’t. You sit still, paralyzed, watching the truth unfold in front of you, as if you’re witnessing something that’s no longer your story but someone else’s.

And maybe it is. Maybe it always was.

You think about the night he told you. The memory lingers, every detail sharp as if it just happened yesterday. The dim candlelight flickered between you, casting warm, uneven shadows on the table, making his eyes look darker than usual. Your hair was pinned up, just the way he liked it, because all you wanted was to be enough for him, to be loved and cherished by him just the way you loved him. You remember the way he fidgeted with the water glass in his hands, the way his fingers trembled slightly, betraying the calmness his voice tried to convey. He didn’t even drink from it, just held it there like it was something to anchor him. And you? You could feel it before he even spoke. The knot in your stomach, tight and twisting, the way your heart seemed to freeze in place, like it already knew what was coming before your brain would allow it to acknowledge the truth.

"I met someone."

The words barely make sense. They hang in the air between you, impossible to grasp. For a moment, it feels like the world tilts on its axis, like reality itself has cracked and this is some sort of cruel dream you’ll wake up from.

You almost laugh, bitter and disbelieving, because it doesn’t sound real. It doesn’t sound like Max. Not the Max who once whispered forever into your hair, promising you a future where nothing could tear you apart. Not the Max who swore he couldn’t imagine a life without you, who said your names together like they belonged in the same sentence, forever linked. But the words still come, and somehow, despite everything, they are his.

The restaurant around you starts to fade away, the sounds dulling to a distant hum, muffled like you’re underwater, as if the world is pulling away from you, inch by inch. Your heart races, but your body feels oddly disconnected from it all, like you're watching someone else’s life unfold before you, helpless to stop it. You take a shallow breath, but it doesn’t reach the depths of your chest, and the weight of the moment settles in there like a stone you can’t dislodge.

"What?" Your voice barely makes it past your lips, a fragile whisper, so quiet that for a second you think he won’t even hear you. But he does.

His gaze drops to the table, his eyes avoiding yours, as if he can’t bear to see you crumble, as if he’s already sorry for what he knows he’s about to do. His voice is quieter now, almost too soft to catch. "I didn’t mean for it to happen."

You shake your head, disbelief clouding your thoughts. Your hands curl into fists in your lap, nails digging painfully into your palms, trying to hold on to something, anything. The ring on your finger suddenly feels like it’s choking the life out of you. "But it did."

The words escape from your throat like shards of glass, sharp and cold, biting as they land between you. He swallows hard, and you wonder if he’s doing it to hold back tears, or if it’s just the weight of what he’s about to say.

“She has a daughter,” he adds, his voice thick, but the words hit you like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. You feel your mascara run as your eyes sting with the hot, unfamiliar ache of betrayal. But you don’t wipe the tears away. You don’t move. You just sit there, paralyzed, staring at him, waiting for him to say something—anything—that could take it all back. That could prove this isn’t real. That could remind you of the love you thought was enough.

“She’s not mine,” he continues, his voice wavering, like he’s trying to make it sound better, like he’s trying to convince you this is somehow okay. “But I love her like she is.”

The words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. A sudden, cold numbness spreads across your chest, a pain that feels both sharp and hollow. The space between you and him stretches, filling with the things he can’t say.

“And her mother?” You force the words out, each one heavier than the last.

His silence is loud enough to drown out everything else—the clinking of silverware, the murmur of conversations from nearby tables, the soft jazz music playing in the background. Everything around you fades into the background until all that’s left is him and you, caught in the unbearable weight of what he won’t say.

When he finally speaks again, his voice barely rises above a whisper, like he’s afraid of the truth. “I love her too.”

And just like that, it’s over. The last thread of hope you had been clinging to snaps, leaving you floating in a place where nothing makes sense anymore. The ring on your finger burns, searing into your skin, but you don’t take it off. Not yet. You can’t. Because somehow, it’s the only thing left of him, of the person you thought you knew, of the future that is no longer yours.

You know where he is now. He’s winning. He’s thriving. The world sees him on podiums, champagne in hand, his new life already unfolding in the bright lights. He’s standing beside someone else now, someone who doesn’t carry the weight of the past, someone who fills the space you left behind with ease. The world loves him, adores him. And you? You’re still at the restaurant, in the ruins of what he left behind, trapped in a love story that never got its happy ending, a story that no longer belongs to you.

You press your phone to your chest, as if it could somehow stop the ache from spreading. As if holding onto the past will make the present hurt less. But it doesn’t. The weight of the truth is suffocating, a heavy fog that settles over your heart, and you realize, with painful clarity, that you were never meant to be a part of his forever. You were never meant to last.

The whispers around you grow louder, piercing through the fog of your thoughts, and it doesn’t take much to understand why. You hear his name before you see him, and when you finally do, it feels like the ground beneath you tilts ever so slightly.

Max.

He looks different—sharper, somehow. More defined, more polished by the world that shaped him after you. His eyes sweep over the restaurant, and you wonder if they’ll stop on you, if he’ll look at you and see something from the past, something worth acknowledging. But no.

He’s here’s. At the restaurant. With her.

He really brought her here.

Kelly is beside him, her laughter effortless, untouched by the weight of history, the burden of old wounds. She leans into him, her hand resting gently on her stomach, a soft smile playing on her lips as she looks up at him with the kind of love you used to think was meant for you. She doesn’t know what it’s like to sit in this seat, to watch someone walk away, to feel the years stretch endlessly before you as you wonder if they ever think about you.

Max’s gaze flicks across the room, and for just a split second, it lands on you. It’s so brief that you almost convince yourself it didn’t happen. But it did. His steps falter for a fraction of a second, his fingers tightening around Kelly’s hand before he looks away, as if something inside him is trying to hold onto a memory that’s already slipping through his fingers.

And that’s it. No smile. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just a glance, a flash of something unspoken, and then—nothing.

You knew that he didn’t care about you but, facing with that reality hurt you more than you thought. Here you were, coming to the same place a man hurt you because you loved him so much, only for the same man to come too because he didn’t love you at all.

What a shame.

Maybe it is true. Maybe you really are unawarely frozen in time. Maybe that would explain why you still feel the same pain now as on the day he left you.

You swallow hard, blinking away the burning in your eyes. The candle on the table flickers, casting long shadows that seem to stretch endlessly across the walls. The world outside moves forward, time marching on relentlessly, but you remain frozen in place, clutching onto the past like it’s the only thing that hasn’t slipped away.

The moment passes, and Max moves on, just like he always does.

But you? You’re still right where he left you.

[xi-vz]

Look at me back on my BS. HC—Shen Yuan looks like Mobei Jun.

•

•

•

Shen Yuan was a cute guy, at least his mom always said he was. He honestly didn’t care much for his looks. He was a teenage boy, and his interests lied with books, gaming, and trolling the comments section of the PIDW forums.

So maybe this whole thing was the forums fault?

Apparently Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky was going to make his first ever public appearance at a convention—it was exciting stuff seeing as PIDW just received a live action TV deal. (Shen Yuan wondered if the TV show would be able to transform the utter garbage parts into gold.)

Shen Yuan, with the fervor only a true (anti) fan could muster, scrambled to get his hands on a convention ticket the moment they went on sale. His parents even encouraged him! Happy to see him excited for something other than the internet. Securing his place, he also entered the cosplay competition where Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky would be a judge. Because why not? When else would he get to dress like a xianxia character?

It took him a while to decide who he wanted to dress up as. Look, if it were up to Shen Yuan he’d have been Luo Binghe. But, one, he doubted he could pull it off. Two, there were probably going to be a ton of Luo Binghe’s.

“Be the ice king,” his younger sister suggested one evening while the two fo them were hanging out in Shen Yuan’s room. She was busy on her Switch while he was on his laptop.

“Mobei Jun?” He asked, a skeptical look on his face.

“Yeah! You look like him.”

Which was untrue but whatever. Since he didn’t have any other ideas, he spent weeks (months) perfecting his costume, studying every detail from the illustrations and fan art.

(Shen Yuan learned how to sew for this costume!)

(And spent way too much money on commissioning what he couldn’t make.)

“You need to bulk up a bit,” his second older brother suggested one night. “I read some of Proud Immortal Demon Way, and Mobei Jun isn’t a twig like you.”

“Ha, A-Yuan is more of a twink,” his eldest brother teased.

So…Shen Yuan began to work out. He still had a few months until the costume contest.

It was hard at first, but his doctor had been on board. Granted, Shen Yuan couldn’t really get buff within a few months, but he did wind up with the beginnings of abs, his shoulders broadened and his ass looked great. There were a bunch of girls (and some guys) who made eyes at him at school now. Not that Shen Yuan noticed. But, he did notice that for the first time in his 19 years, he felt healthy.

When the day of the convention finally arrived, Shen Yuan found himself subjected to his sister's meticulous and admittedly skilled hand. She styled his already long black hair, adding extensions to achieve the full, flowing mane of Mobei Jun. She also worked some magic with makeup, highlighting his naturally icy blue eyes, which he had always considered a genetic defect, but today they were his greatest asset.

When he looked in the mirror, he barely recognized himself. There stood Mobei Jun, the demon king, imposing and cold. Shen Yuan’s heart pounded with excitement and a tinge of apprehension as he made his way to the convention center. His siblings in tow, because they wanted to root for him. As embarrassing as that was.

Upon arrival, the crowd was bustling with anticipation. Shen Yuan attracted a lot of attention—both for his stunning costume and his uncanny resemblance to Mobei Jun. A lot of people called out “my king!” As he walked by them, his cloak billowing behind him.

Damn, he felt majestic as fuck.

As he stood before the judges—a voice actress, a manhua artist and Airplane himself—he couldn’t help but feel a mix of pride and anxiety.

That was until he saw Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky for the first time. And. Wow. Okay.

Airplane was younger than Shen Yuan thought. Maybe 20; handsome, which was so weird. Square-jawed, in great shape with his DanDaDan graphic tee stretched enticingly over his pecs and biceps. His hair was curly and kept in an attractive undercut. He wore glasses and had ear piercings and a lip piercing and dimples and a sleeve tattoo. What? What the fuck?

Was Shen Yuan experiencing heart palpitations?

Airplane looked exactly how Shen Yuan envisioned Luo Binghe to look.

Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky's dark eyes widened in surprise and delight at seeing a Mobei Jun cosplay. It wasn’t done often, the king was not a fan favorite. But, his jaw dropped as he stared.

Something happened when Shen Yuan and Airplane's eyes met. A zing went up Shen Yuan's spine. Airplane stopped the contest then and there and declared Shen Yuan the winner while jokingly (not really) asking for his phone number. They did get to chat later, one-on-one, when Airplane began to sign autographs into books.

“Well, My King,” Airplane smiled at Shen Yuan, and there went his heart again! Which was bad, and meant that Shen Yuan probably needed to see a doctor. “What name shall I write out as the receiver of this book?”

“Um,” Shen Yuan’s brain scrambled. Did he give his name? Did he coyly say Mobei Jun? Ah, he didn’t know what he was doing! That was his only excuse as he blurted out, “Peerless Cucumber.”

Airplane froze.

Shen Yuan froze.

And then Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky began to laugh.

[juletheghoul]

If the General and Girlwife have 1000 fans, I'm one of them.

If the General and Girlwife have 100 fans, I'm one of them.

If the General and Girlwife have 1 fan, it's me.

If the General and Girlwife have no fans, it's because I'm no longer here.

(Ty for this wonderful story, and this is also a plea for a wedding night drabble please and ty 💜)

you cannot know how happy this comment made me, just laughing and giggling like a teen, here's your Drabble - I genuinely didn't even proofread this one- enjoy!

Warnings: fluff, implied sexy stuff, mostly just romantic wedding stuff. (took some liberties because I really have no idea what ancient Roman weddings were like)

Masterlist series masterlist

-

The house buzzes like a hive, attendants and slaves rush around the villa, finishing their last minute tasks for the wedding and despite there being months of preparation it still feels wrong to not participate. It feels wrong to be tended to. 

“May I know where he is?” You ask the older woman fussing at your hair, every second she spends on it weighs you down, flowers have been threaded through it, a crown of blooms that make you smell like a garden. 

“He is preparing for the wedding, Domina. Just now I imagine they are oiling his skin and dressing him in his finery for the ceremony.” She smiles, patting your shoulder, “he is eager, I can promise you that.” 

“Is he? I confess, my belly flutters and my nerves are shredded.” You huff out a nervous laugh, struggling to keep your cool in all of the layers. A fine dress draped with heavy, snow white fabric. Your arms are laden with the gifts he’d sent, heavy golden bracelets and intricate armbands coiled around three times over. Your ears are heavy with dark blue stones, a necklace to match at your neck. Your fingers press at the heavy thing just at your throat and you take a deep breath. 

You haven’t seen him since the night before, the two of you falling asleep, exhausted after a day of preparations. You’d hoped to see him in the morning, to gain some comfort to take with you through the day but he had been gone. The older woman had greeted you instead, a tray heavy-laden with food as well as a host of other women sent to bathe and prepare you for your wedding day. 

When you finally see him, he looks nothing short of regal, an Emperor dripping in white and gold and ordained by the Gods themselves. His eyes are soft when they land upon you, focused, and completely enraptured. He doesn’t look away. 

Everything falls away when you finally stand before him, when his hands grasp yours. You follow along, barely cognizant of anything except him, barely aware of the witnesses, of the people who cheer and clap and when he presses his mouth to yours, soft and sweet you smile and grip him tight. 

The feast after is a dream. It is a cloud on which you both rest and focus on nothing but each other. Perhaps as a girl, late at night in your dreams you imagined a wedding, a man who would choose you above all others and give you a home and a family. Never was it like this, even in the uncharted land of hope and romance where anything could happen, this felt like too much. This beautiful, loving, devoted man surpassed any fantasy you might have had.

Your face warms under his eye, nervous despite all you’ve been through with him. He smiles wide, his dimple on display as he feeds you from his hand, your heart races when he eats from yours. This is the happiest he’s been, that brutal man who’d kept to himself has been replaced with a man that laughs, someone soft and warm, a man that holds your hand to his chest, a husband, a protector. 

He whispers his devotion throughout the feast, he pulls your chair close to his, drapes his arm around your shoulder because he cannot be close enough. 

People you recognize, and some you don’t congratulate you, extol his virtues and praise the Gods on the good fortune that has befallen the house of Acacius. They offer to make sacrifices, that your house should fill with children and although your heart sinks, you thank them. Marcus squeezes at your shoulder, a wordless reassurance and he also thanks them for their kind words. 

When at last he takes you to bed, your nerves are calm. You smile brightly when he slips your robes off with practiced hands, the jewels and gold he must have spent a fortune on are taken off and placed within their box, his smile is smaller, but it warms you like the sun. Your hands join in, divesting him of his layers until you both stand nude, bathed in candlelight. He leaves the flowers in your hair when he loves you and you fall asleep amongst a storm of petals. 

-

[ribbonedreverie]

He Won’t Say I Love You

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Osamu Dazai – “Don’t Die Before Me”

Dazai doesn’t say “I love you.”

Dazai’s way of loving is contradictory, elusive, and impossible to pin down. His words are always laced with meaning, but never in the way you’d expect—because he does not speak plainly, not about things that matter. Love is a game to most, but to him, it is a ghost—something he has studied, something he understands deeply, yet something that has always evaded him.

That’s why he won’t say he loves you.

Because love, in its purest form, has never been kind to him. He knows love from the pages of books, from the way poets drown themselves in it, from the way people call it devotion but mean self-destruction. And Dazai is a master of self-destruction.

So instead, he turns love into something abstract. Something for you to decipher, something for you to chase, if you’re willing.

He flirts without effort, spins sweet words with a poet’s cadence, smiles like he’s already figured you out. But if you pay attention, you’ll notice the gaps—the empty spaces between his words, the careful distance he keeps no matter how close he leans. The way he offers everything and nothing at the same time.

He won’t say he loves you.

But you’ll hear it in the way he remembers things he shouldn’t—the way your voice sounds when you’re tired, the exact time the streetlights in your neighborhood flicker on. You’ll see it in the way he steals your pen but always returns it, tucked next to a note written in his elegant, half-mocking script.

You’ll feel it in the way his fingers brush against your wrist just long enough to make you wonder if it was intentional.

You’ll notice it in the way he never lies to you. Not because he is kind, not because he trusts you, but because if you saw through him, if you recognized what he really is, he wonders if you would stay anyway.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you do leave, if you choose to walk away, he will not chase you. He will not beg, will not plead. He will laugh it off, throw some teasing remark over his shoulder, and turn the page as if you were just another fleeting story in his collection.

But late at night, when the city is quiet and the ghosts press in too closely, he will still pour two cups of tea.

“Don’t die before me.”

That’s what he really means.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

Chuuya Nakahara – “You already know, don’t you?”

He won’t say he loves you.

Not because he doesn’t want to—he does, more than he’d ever admit—but because love, real love, isn’t something spoken. It’s something you prove.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he proves it in the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, shielding you from passing cars. In the way he places a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through a crowd, steady, present. In the way he always remembers your favorite drink and orders it without asking, as if knowing your preferences is as natural to him as breathing.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he loves like a storm—fierce, untamed, all-consuming. But around you, that fire softens into something warm, something safe.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will roll his eyes when you forget your scarf but wrap his around you without a second thought. He will complain about your reckless habits but pull you into his arms the second you stumble. He will grumble that you’re a handful, that you make his life harder, but his hands will never let you go.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he loves with his entire being. He will hold you like you’re something precious, something irreplaceable, like he’s terrified that one wrong move will shatter the moment. He will kiss you like it’s a promise, like he’s memorizing the way you fit against him in case fate decides to be cruel.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you are hurt—if you so much as wince in pain, if you ever cry in front of him— he will carry the weight of it himself. He will fight with his teeth bared, his fists clenched, his body a shield between you and the world. Because no one gets to hurt what’s his.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will never ask you to stay. Not because he doesn’t want you to—but because he wants you to choose him, freely, without hesitation. He doesn’t need declarations, doesn’t need grand confessions—he just needs to know that when he reaches for you, you will be there.

He won’t say he loves you.

But when he stands beside you in a room, offering his hand with a smirk that softens only for you, it’s there in the way he holds you.

He won’t say he loves you.

But when he sleeps better with you tucked beside him, when his hand finds yours even in dreamless nights, when he fights like hell to keep you safe, it’s there in the way he chooses you. Every time.

“You already know, don’t you?”

That’s what he really means.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

Ryunosuke Akutagawa – “Don’t die before I can protect you properly.”

He won’t say he loves you.

Not because he doesn’t feel it, but because love is foreign to him, something distant and unreachable, like the stars above the slums he grew up in. It is something delicate, something soft, something he was never meant to hold in his own hands.

He won’t say he loves you.

Because love, to him, has always been synonymous with loss. Everything he has ever cared for has been taken, ripped from his grasp before he even had a chance to understand it. So why would this be any different?

He won’t say he loves you.

But you’ll feel it in the way he teaches you how to fight, how he watches your every movement, memorizing the rhythm of your steps as if preparing to shield you before you even fall. You’ll see it in the way Rashomon hovers near you, shifting subtly, positioning itself between you and danger like an unspoken vow.

He won’t say he loves you.

But when you speak, he listens—truly listens, in a way he never does with anyone else. He absorbs your words like they are gospel, lets them settle deep in his chest, turns them over in his mind long after you’re gone.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you are hurt—if someone dares to lay a hand on you, if you ever bleed because of another, his rage will be instant, merciless. Not because he is angry, but because the sight of you in pain is unbearable in a way he doesn’t have the language to explain.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will stand beside you in silence, his presence unwavering, his eyes dark with something unspoken. He will never call you strong, but he will only ever respect those who are, and you are the only one he allows close.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you ever left, he would never stop looking for you. He would never say your name out loud, but it would echo in his mind like an unfinished sentence, like a prayer whispered too late.

“Don’t die before I can protect you properly.”

That’s what he really means.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

Fyodor Dostoevsky – “You amuse me.”

He won’t say he loves you.

Because love, to him, is a human weakness. A flaw. A crack in the foundation of something that should be unshakable. Love clouds judgment, warps perspective, turns the brilliant into fools—and Fyodor Dostoevsky is no fool.

He won’t say he loves you.

But you are an exception. A variable he did not account for. A contradiction he cannot solve. And that interests him.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will watch you—not with longing, not with sentimentality, but with the gaze of a man who is used to understanding everything, and yet, somehow, does not understand you. He studies you the way he studies a chessboard, as if you are a piece that does not belong, a move he did not anticipate.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will never lie to you. Not because he is kind, not because he respects you, but because there is no need to deceive something he already considers his.

He won’t say he loves you.

But his touch, when it comes, is deliberate. He brushes his fingers against yours as he hands you a teacup, lingers just long enough for the contact to mean something—but not long enough for you to be sure. He never calls you by your name when he can call you something softer, something more intimate, something that makes it feel like you are special, even when you know you shouldn’t be.

He won’t say he loves you.

But his affection is in the silences, in the spaces between words, in the moments when he allows you to stand close when he would never tolerate another. He lets you speak your mind, even when he already knows what you will say. He allows you to question him, because he enjoys watching you try to unravel something that cannot be unraveled.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he lets you live. And that, more than anything, should terrify you.

“You amuse me.”

That’s what he really means.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

Sigma – “Tell me I’m real.”

He won’t say he loves you.

Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. He is a man who did not exist until recently, a being with no past, no childhood, no proof that he belongs in this world at all.

He won’t say he loves you.

Because to love means to claim something as your own, and he is still unsure if he is allowed to claim anything. He does not know what he is, where he came from, or what fate has planned for him—but he knows you.

He won’t say he loves you.

But you’ll feel it in the way he always makes sure your favorite things are stocked in the casino, even if you never ask. In the way his hands hesitate before pulling away, as if he wants to hold on just a little longer but fears what it might mean.

He won’t say he loves you.

But you are the only thing that makes him feel real. The only proof he has that he exists as something more than a placeholder in a story someone else wrote.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will memorize your schedule, not out of control, but out of a quiet longing to be part of your world. He will watch you from the corner of his eye, wondering if he can be someone worth staying for.

He won’t say he loves you.

But when you leave a room, he waits an extra second before breathing again, as if your presence alone steadies him.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you ever tried to leave for good, he would not beg you to stay. Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he fears that if you go, he will forget what it felt like to be wanted at all.

“Tell me I’m real.”

That’s what he really means.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

Nikolai Gogol – “You’re the only one who makes me stay.”

He won’t say he loves you.

Because love is a chain, and chains were meant to be broken. Love is something that binds, tethers, shackles—and he has spent his whole life cutting himself free.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he lingers longer than he should, just close enough for you to wonder if he means to stay. He calls you his little trick, his favorite act, his most entertaining performance—but the way he watches you when you aren’t looking? That’s not an act.

He won’t say he loves you.

But you’ll feel it in the way his chaos never quite touches you. In the way his games are never at your expense, the way he teases but never cuts too deep, the way he pretends to be fickle but always, always finds his way back to you.

He won’t say he loves you.

But when he speaks of freedom—his one obsession, the thing that drives him, the only thing he has ever truly wanted—you notice he never includes you in the things he wants to leave behind.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you ever tried to run, he would let you. He would laugh, twirl his cane, bow like a gentleman as if bidding farewell to a fleeting amusement. But if you watched closely—if you really knew him—you would notice the hesitation, the half-second of stillness, as if something inside of him had just unraveled.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you ever truly disappeared, he would burn the world down looking for you, laughing all the while, like it was all just another game.

“You’re the only one who makes me stay.”

That’s what he really means.

[jd-loves-fiction]

Hey there! I might have an oddly specific request, but like. I am craving a trope but I am too lazy to write anything myself. Feel free to not accept this :"D

Could you write maybe like a *micro* oneshot about Boothill finding his past lover (from before his planet got nuked), but here's the thing, the lover did an ftm transition, so Boothill may have not realised at first.

And secondly, there is a child. Boothill's, but he had no idea.

The circumstances under what they reconnect is up to you. Wether it's fluff or angst, also.

Thank you in advance, cool writer person!<3

🌑felt that first part😭 ALSO this idea is so good rAAAH I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT IIITT (idk if this sucks but i hope i did this wonderful idea justice my dear, i poured all my love into this ❤️)

ALSO ALSO listened to 'Would you fall in love with me again' on loop writing this cuz the vibes are immaculate :)

Warnings: Spoilers for Boothill's backstory, mention of reader pre-transition as 'her' once but by male descriptors everwhere else, I have no experience writing ftm reader's so forgive my ignorance and let me know if I did good if you can 🥺

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 / 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠

The saloon is lively, crowded, not Boothill’s usual scene but fate or whatever sorry god is in charge of his path brought him here. His mission is complete and he’s exhausted – so out drinking he goes, even though he can barely feel the drink’s effects anymore. He supposes it must be the principle of the thing, a sort of tradition that helps him not lose his mind along the way.

Boothill scans the room by instinct, seeing dancing couples fill the entire room up to the corners – some slowly, some so fast it’s as if the universe is about to implode. A flash of a memory stings at the back of his brain, but he ignores it.

“Uhm! Mister!” Chirps a high pitched voice from below, clearly directed at himself. Looking down he spots a chubby-faced little girl, at which he raises a brow. Why a girl her age would ever think to approach him of all people in the saloon, he cannot imagine.

“Can you help me up, please? I wanna ask for some water,” she asks, polite but determined.

“Oh, well of course little lady!” He responds, gently holding her up and placing her onto the stool, once the cloud of nostalgia is gone from before his eyes. She just looks so familiar… The particular shade of brown of her eyes–

“Thank you mister!” The girl says brightly, sitting all cute and proper as Boothill waves the barkeep over, “It’s no trouble. Whatcha doin’ here, anyway? Y’ain’t alone, right?”

“Oh no mister, I’m here with my papa!” She replies cheerfully, pointing to the center of the room where the most people gather. Between swaying bodies he finds who she points at – twirling a giggling old lady is who Boothill suspects is the girl’s ‘papa’.

The cyborg cowboy no longer has a heart, nor a chest really, but it feels as if it stops in that moment. You don't spot him yet, lost as you are in your own little world, twirling around as sweat builds at your hairline.

But to Boothill everyone else fades as the pieces click into place – a grassfield beneath a starry sky, the love of his life before him, his flesh and bone hands around her blushing face… your face… no matter how you’ve changed, it’s you, he’d recognize you anywhere.

He must be seeing ghosts, surely. The girl’s father must just look like you, that’s it, it has to be, you’re dead… you have to be.

But Boothill knows in his soul that it is. You’re right there, dancing without a care in the world, changed and yet the same.

“Mister?” The little girl to him again, grasping at one of his sleeves and he turns. Her eyes, that particular shade of brown… it’s his, from when he was still flesh and blood. His head hurts. He feels drunk and crazy, maybe he should stop drinking after missions.

“There you are! You should’ve told me you wanted to rest,” You lightheartedly tell the girl, panting as you wipe sweat from your brow. From this close he’s sure it’s you, but Boothill still feels a little crazy for his thoughts. “Made a friend–?!”

The moment your eyes meet his, Boothill is finally sure it’s you. And he can tell you remember him too. Both of you seem stuck in time, gazing at each other like you’ve seen a ghost, which maybe you have, all things considered. The both of you should be dead.

Your mouth opens to speak but no words come out and you’re aching for a glass of water of your own. He’s here, alive and…

“You’ve… changed.” Boothill says lamely – so many things he wants to say, things he should’ve said long ago, things he would’ve said if he knew you were alive all this time.

“S-So have you!” Your voice cracks as you gawk at him, “You’re all… metal?”

Boothill chuckles, nerves eased by the familiarity that settles over the two of you – seems you haven't changed where it counts. “Yeah… it’s a long story.”

“Well, all I have is time.” He can tell you’re still upset with him, perhaps you will be for a while– heck! He’s upset with himself! He should’ve gone back for you, checked, double checked, triple checked!

“Just tell me one thing first;” The cyborg asks, watching as the girl sprints off towards who he assumes is a friend of hers, “Is she…” he points at himself.

“... Yeah. Her name’s Julia.” You tell him, sitting where she was, shoulders still tense as you watch him closely. He’s still as handsome as always, more rugged perhaps, more tired and grim, but the sight of his face still makes your heart stutter with affection. 

Boothill sighs heavily at the information, like the air’s been punched from his lungs, slumping over the bar and covering his eyes. You, alone as your planet burned while he went off to punish the ones who did it, was a heartbreaking enough picture to paint, but with a child? His child?

If they hadn't taken his tear ducts, he’d be filling the saloon up to the ceiling with his tears.

“Hey now, you can cry about it later, ok?” You say awkwardly, knowing you might start crying too if he does. 

He does as you ask, finally raising his head to look at you properly. You’re as beautiful as he remembers, of course you are. You could never stop looking so unfairly stunning to him, never.

Squirming in place as his cybernetic lock onto you, you feel the need to fill the empty space between you – as much as you wish to act like nothing had changed, a lot had, “How did you… recognize me?”

He finds it to be an odd question, of course he’d recognize you, yours is the only face he seems when he closes his eyes, haunting the few dreams he does have like a siren’s song beckoning him to linger within the memories of a better life before he became what he is now, “Y’haven’t changed that much.”

You blink at him, suddenly self-conscious, “... haven't I?”

Oh no, you look upset. He should’ve just said what he was thinking instead of whatever that was, “I– I didn't mean it like– I mean, you look great! Fudge I–”

You’re laughing, open and bright and lovely. Laughing at him no doubt, but laughing, “W-what– why do you– Fudge?”

“Ah, well, that’s part of that long story I told ya’bout.” He replies bashfully, because yeah, it would be strange to hear that coming out of his mouth to you.

Catching your breath and wiping the tears from your eyes, you smile fondly at the cowboy, “Sounds to me like we have some catching up to do.”

The farm boy in him wishes still that nothing had changed, that he could wake up from his dream and lay in the field beneath the stars again, hold you against his warm chest like always and have no IPC blood caked under his metaphorical nails, only dirt and sand from a hard day’s work. But the galaxy ranger he is now likes it better this way – change is inevitable and all things considered, this is one of the more fortunate outcomes of your story. 

You’ve both changed, but not where really it counts.

“That we do, sweetheart.”

[riiwriting]

Another Year | Lucifer (Obey Me)

summary : after a big, rowdy birthday party that you were not expecting, you end your birthday the way you really wanted to -- getting the eldest brother to open up.

a little blurb based on your year 2 birthday call from luci in the og game! based on the original dialogue, though it won't be exact.

warnings : none! just a lot of fluffs hehe

You silently thanked the stars as you fell backwards against your mattress, your eyes immediately shutting around a pounding headache. You were so genuinely grateful to see another birthday come and go in the Devildom, but you were undeniably exhausted. You loved the boys, and you loved how much they had grown into showing their affection for you, there was no doubt about that. However, it would be nice if once in a while they asked before doing things.

For the second year in a row, your birthday was celebrated with a surprise party at the House of Lamentation, complete with decorations, am esteemed guest list of your favorite people, and a cake baked by Barbatos himself. While the effort was most definitely appreciated, it still wasn't how you would have chosen to celebrate the day.

Since you first arrived in the Devildom, it was rare that you saw an uneventful day. If Mammon and Asmo had taken a moment to consult you before going into full party-planner mode, you would have told them as such. Of course, such wasn't the case, and you ended up having quite an overstimulating evening. Though you did manage to have fun throughout the night, you were extremely happy to be in bed.

You were just beginning to feel yourself drift off when your D.D.D began to buzz on your pillow. Unintentionally, you let out a groan as you peeled one eye open to glance at the glowing screen. As soon as you recognized the contact photo, your expression brightened, and you found yourself immediately regretting your temporary annoyance. You hit answer, a content smile on your face as you pressed the speaker to your ear. "Hello?"

"MC, hello. I'm sorry my brothers caused yet another ruckus this year," Lucifer was immediately apologizing, his deep voice quiet in your ear.

His consideration made your stomach flutter. A year ago, you would've convinced yourself that he was just seeing it as his duty to make sure you're surviving in the Devildom. Now, you knew better. "I am a bit tired, I won't lie to you," you admitted bashfully.

Your words were met by a sigh, "I apologize. They went a bit overboard this time." After a moment of contemplation, he added, "I'll make sure to scold them accordingly tomorrow."

You couldn't help the slight laugh that left your lips. "Oh please let them be, Luci. It was a nice party, really. The effort was nice," you insisted, feeling a bit guilty. The thought really was what mattered, and the boys went to great lengths to make the night special. The last thing you wanted was for them to feel as though they had done something wrong.

Lucifer hummed, before conceding with a begrudging promise not to mention it. You enjoyed a comfortable silence as Lucifer apparently shifted about his room on the other end of the line. Just as you felt your eyes begin to lid once more, his throat cleared, and his voice returned. "I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday again. I admit I'm quite happy we got to celebrate another of your birthdays together," he admitted sweetly.

A smile naturally curved onto your lips as you quietly thanked him. "Of course," he responded quickly, and if you could see his face, you imagined his cheeks were, by this point, probably a bit flushed. "I'm sure humans get to celebrate far fewer birthdays than we demons do."

The thought brought a twist of fear to your chest. Being here, it was so easy to forget about your mortality. Other than Mammon's casual insistence on calling you "his human," it was easy to ignore the fact that you didn't really belong here at all. And yet, here you were, and after two years and two wonderful birthdays, you couldn't imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

"I've loved spending my last couple of birthdays here," you told Lucifer, your eyes closed as you snuggled further back into your pillows. "Even with the parties."

Another low chuckle drifted through your D.D.D. as Lucifer took in your words. "I feel very lucky to have gotten to spend not just one, but now two birthdays with you," he gushed, the admission the most open you had heard him in a while.

Before you could sort out what to say that would be just as meaningful, he surprised you again. "If possible, I'd like to celebrate many more of your birthdays in the future," he murmured. There another brief pause, before his gravely voice returned soothingly to your ears. "If we do get to spend your next birthday together, perhaps I can see that it's a bit more relaxing for you. More special."

You weren't sure if it was the exhaustion beginning to seep into your bones, or the way his voice sounded in the silence of the night, or your sudden realization of how short your time here might really be, but a spark of confidence lit up your chest. "Do we really have to wait a year for that?" you asked quietly, your sleepiness evident in your tone.

There was a very brief pause, ended by Lucifer saying, "It's getting rather late, MC. You said yourself that you're tired, you should get some sleep."

You hardly gave your next words a thought before they were tumbling out of your mouth, "Is that not something we can do together?"

This time, there was no pause. "I'll be there in a moment, then," he said curtly. The call dropped before you had a chance to respond.

Turning on your side to face your bedroom door, you waited patiently for the forty seconds it took for him to reach your end of the hall. There was a light knock on the wood, though from the way the door immediately creaked open, you knew it was more a formality than anything. The light from the hall illuminated a familiar physique, clad in nice blue pajamas and a messy bedhead. "MC?" Lucifer spoke quietly into your room, his gaze falling onto you almost immediately.

Rather than respond, you simply stretched your arms out in his direction, wordlessly inviting him into your embrace. He wasted no time in letting the door click shut behind him before taking a few long strides to cross your room. You shuffled over to make space as he peeled back your blankets and slid between the sheets beside you. Immediately, his arms were around your waist, holding you tightly against him. As soon as your head found a comfortable place on his chest, you felt his entire body relax.

You couldn't help the sigh of contentment that left your lips. "Perfect," you murmured dreamily.

Gentle fingers traced up and down the length of your arm, making it increasingly harder to resist the sleepiness rising behind your eyes. "You are, yes," you heard Lucifer murmur into the top of your head. "I hope you've had a nice birthday."

At his words, you tipped your chin upwards, dragging your eyes open to look up at the handsome demon in your bed. "The day was nice," you responded. Then will a small smile, you added, "but this has made it much better."

Lucifer's smile grew to mirror yours, his eyes drifting as he admired every inch of your face. "I'm glad I could make your birthday special," he responded softly, his fingertips moving from your arm to your cheek. Delicately, you felt his thumb brush down the outline of your face before coming to a stop beneath your chin. You leaned into his touch, a change in body language that he read perfectly.

Your eyes slid shut as he pulled you closer, eliminating the little bit of space left between you. When his lips met yours you melted, your fingers gripping the silk fabric of his open pajama shirt. With one of his arms wound around you waist, he held you as though he was afraid you might disappear. After a moment, you pulled away, opening your eyes to see Lucifer's affectionate smile.

"Happy birthday, my darling," he whispered, pressing his lips to your forehead. "Now I think we could both use some rest."

Humming in agreement, you snuggled into him and let your eyes drift shut. With his arms around you, and your weight pleasantly pressed against his body, each of you slept better than you had all year.

[whenlifegivesticks-blog]

The long overdue, extremely lengthy Heroes in Crisis Review. Put on your reading glasses because this is long. I just want to give a little summary, The entire comic is the definition of disrespecting existing characters as well as real people and their problems. I seen better writing from 13 year old wattpad kids who are just getting started on their writing journey. It's hard for me to believe professional writers wrote this. Now onto the detailed review.

Brain rot enjoyment meter (how much I enjoyed it without actually analyzing it) : 7/10

Actual rating: 3/10

I'll go on with the analysis part by part.

first of all characters: Half of them are out of character and the other half are random characters that dc hasn't used in over a decade, we don't care about. Only to kill them off and it has no impact whatsoever as we don't know who these people are plus bunch of one panel cameos of characters for absolute no reason and adds absolutely nothing to the actual plot or story. For example, Red Devil, Tattooed man, Hotspot (i later recognized him from teen titans). I am pretty young person so I absolutely did not know half the characters. And they didn't introduce or reintroduce in this case any of these characters. We barely know what their issues are or why they are at sanctuary.

All characters are out of character or completely dumbed down. Wally's entire character is massacred and even by the end I barely understood what was up with him. I'll expand on this later.

Batgirl, Barbara was just frustrating and felt really empty. Like she was just there and really didn't seem to add anything to the story. At least as a character she doesn't. She felt more like a plot device.

Batman was just ??? but he wasn't that bad but suffers from same thing as Babs. Felt like he was just there as a plot device and character wise he added nothing whatsoever. We don't even see him investigating properly.

superman was downright foul And made no sense. Ok so you're working on the investigation with Diana and Bruce, so what's with the tension and secrecy??? Like Clark is that really you?

and louis lane was just evil, will be explained later.

Hal Jordan made one of the one panel appearances and that one panel was enough to show that the writer knew absolutely nothing about him. I been reading old GL comics and that one panel was just... wow.

the bat kids made cameos and they just copy pasted dialogue for them with little differences.

The comic is only 9 issues and is short so it just doesn't really show off a lot of personality from characters that aren't Harley or booster. And even then these two were just... not very satisfactory.

Second of all, plot: Made absolutely no sense whatsoever, I read the ending twice and still don't know what happened or what's the message.

obvious spoilers:

So, in a heroes mental institute called sanctuary, everyone was found dead other than Harley Quinn and booster gold. Booster saw Harley kill everyone. Harley saw booster kill everyone. So its a murder mystery.

Except the comic is all over the place and does not give any needed or required context so it doesn't really feel anything. Like it immediately pulls you in with no context whatsoever, with characters you aren't allowed to build a connection with.

There's this ridiculous segment where Harley Quinn defeats the trinity like what???? Harley Quinn defeating superman , wonder woman and batman is impossible. Ya telling me Harley is stronger than darksied??? Better plot armor than batman...

and superman comments saying how Harley is just as good as Bruce... I call BS. The writers really trynna convince us Harley is stronger than batman.

like what?

she went toe to toe with booster gold and I'm like??? even with half his powers, booster gold wipes the floor with Harley.

And here's the thing, Barry Allen thinks booster killed everyone. Ya telling me he chose to believe Harley Quinn a known dangerous criminal over booster gold?? Booster gold isn't even a anti hero. he doesn't kill. Plus someone pointed out to me Booster probably experienced all this after he watched a version of batman kill himself in front of Booster. Which explains Booster talking about how he sees the blood on his visor despite nothing being there.

Barbara helps Harley and takes down blue beetle (whose helping booster) like even she chose the psycho Harley to protect over booster??

what they smoking!

Now if you take actual culprit. it was wally. Now the story shows a pretty okish segment of wally's downward spiral to a mental breakdown. Except it still was more tell than show. And the plot made no sense.

Wally had a mental breakdown because he believed everyone at sanctuary was faking their mental illness to make him feel better. That he alone was the crazy one. So he "hacked" the system in place and found recordings for everyone's sessions and lost control of his powers accidentally killing everyone.

Ok I can believe he accidentally killed everyone. He was insane and not in the right mind.

but then the writers make him make a plan to frame Harley and booster so he can have time to release all the footage he found as a way to do good for the world what??? people anonymous confidential therapy sessions to louis lane as a way to do good in exchange for his murders and framing others. He also time traveled to kill himself and get a body??

Wally has a segment where everyone tells him he's hope or something. Plus him reliving his Titan days. Him using the stupid mask. But I can't make a sense of it. Because mentally ill people are more likely to hurt themselves than others. The comic perpetuates harmful stereotypes even if Wally killed by accident.

worst part is the writer make it a good thing showing bunch of cameo characters who came to therapy because they realized they weren't alone due to the released recordings???

so Wally was insane enough to lose control and kill and yet still manage to make a supervillain ass plan to frame and kill himself. the story's point is lost in this nonsense.

Plus Clark didn't tell Bruce or Diana about louis having the recordings and only told them after releasing them to the public. What happened to patient confidentiality??? Do superheroes not have rights? Clark went on a spiel about being a reporter- So being a reporter means stomping other peoples rights and outing their private info. The time travel nonsense didn't make sense even with my drawn diagrams to make sense of it. So I'm just left confused. The conclusion is this vague shit where its ok to get help and hope something.

third thing the premise: The premise is mental health institute yet, the writer shown they know nothing about mental health Sanctuary isn't run by people. its run by an AI. The place has chambers where heroes can go in and make anything they want. Any scenario. Now imagine mentally ill people with no guidance and just using the chambers for whatever they want. Wally was using it to relive his dead family in fantasy lala land. Lagoon boy was reliving his ptsd again and again and again Gnarrk was the only one who it helped and that's because he wasn't mentally ill in the way wally or lagoon were. He was just lost and used it as a guidance because he already knew his own issues. Yet dc tries to frame the chambers as a helpful thing and heroes are getting better You cant expect me to believe that after watching wally ignore the AI's questions and pretend has back with his family in a fantasy. The comic is an insult to mental health.

Again, we don't know why 90% of the heroes are at sanctuary. They are just killed off after one appearance. Plus, Jason canonically never went to therapy. Roy was killed off for shock factor. Green lantern apparently doesn't know what "WILL" is... Harley Quinn's word is taken more than Boosters-

I have so many more things I could say but if I have to list everything wrong in this comic this review would be longer than my future. I DO NOT recommend this comic. It's trash and save your sanity. Not even the retcon of this comic salvaged it. Over all, The only good thing in this was Harley and booster interactions because it was funny. That's it.

[totentnz]

anyway i just got home from "clubbing" and because im not "normal" i am now thinking about v going clubbing with johnny

[solitairedeere]

i was never as optimistic about the ending of bnha as some villain stans were, but i never thought it'd end so badly it left me wondering why horikoshi ever bothered to humanize the villains or make them complex characters at all.

like-- i expected that at least 1-2 of the 3 villains who were heavily foreshadowed and outlined by the narrative as people to be saved would be, you know, actually saved. i didn't think that was a high bar. i've been let down before in fandoms where everyone was certain a character would live and then they didn't, so i tried to keep my hopes low. AND YET.

what happened to tomura was upsetting, but i wasn't that shocked after how disinterested the manga has seemed to be in him for like, the past 100 or so chapters. a bit surprised, because you'd think if anyone would succeed in the 'saving' mission it would be the MC, but whatever. dabi, well, they've spent a lot of time showing the way his quirk destroys his body even before this arc, so that also sucked but at least it didn't feel completely out of left field.

........but they're not even letting toga live???

i just-- what have we even been doing here? when zero out of the 3 characters that were marked out for saving were actually saved, you have to acknowledge that something has gone seriously fucking wrong with the storytelling. not even just from the perspective of a villain fan but from the perspective of someone who likes stories to be thematically consistent or satisfying in any way.

you can set up an expectation of these characters being saved and then subvert that and turn it into a tragedy- if done well that could even be worthwhile and interesting. but you can't turn it into a tragedy and then just... keep trucking along with the happy ending messaging and act like anything in the manga has been resolved and that the characters have somehow successfully completed their heroic origin stories.

like, maybe i shouldn't have expected this much from a shounen- at the end of the day it is still a shounen so i didn't expect to feel that it truly satisfactorily wrapped up all the themes it brought up around societal ills. but i expected it to at least resolve those things in a shounen-y way where they punch the problems and help these specific people and then you can feel good assuming that the state of things will continue to improve in the post-canon world of the manga.

instead we got... uh, none of that. the story refused to answer a single one of the larger questions it's been outlining for the past 400+ chapters. in the end, it was all flash and no substance, which again could've been fine, if it weren't for the way the story seemed to spend significant chunks of time trying to delude you into thinking it had substance.

truly makes me wonder what horikoshi thought he was doing the entire time. can it really all be blamed on burnout? the most that can be said for this ending is that it is, well, an ending. fuck dude, it is that.

and that's just... such a sad way to end a project that took up 10 years of your life.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

POOR GABRIEL MONTEZ! YOU NEVER SAW THIS COMING DID YOU? ALL YOU WANTED WAS POWER. SECURITY. SAFETY. & THATS EXACTLY WHAT YOU GOT! JUST IN EXCHANGE FOR YOUR BODY. LETS JUST HOPE NO ONE FUCKS THIS UP. LETS JUST HOPE YOU WONT HAVE TO CLEAN UP THE MESS.

[dreamyintersexouppy]

transmascs stop pretending that transfems are untrustworthy sources for transfeminism challenge impos- fuck i didn't even finish and you already complained about our terminology

[britishdisasters]

.

[thedrotter]

Do any of you remember a Youtube video about Re:Kinder talking about how the game is seen and percieved by some people (mostly touching upon and arguing against how it has been treated insensitively as some sort of weird legend like "ooo disturbing game with a hidden truth behind it" due to it's creator being dead), as well as talking about the charm of the game (even mentioning it's art at some point) and sadness of the themes without spoiling anything at the same time?? I remember the video avoided saying any spoilers at all and only touched on the literal plot as the kids being stuck in a dire situation in the town with all the adults dead without really getting into the why (it didn't even say one of the kids themselves was the cause— as thus, spoiler free), other than that it just touched on the emotional side of it and vaguely mentioned some scenes.

i also remember at some point the later half (at the very least if not in all of it) of the video, music by Siinamota was playing in the background. Does anyone remember seeing a video like this?

I can't seem to find it anywhere and don't even remember the exact year I watched it.😭 It was the way I found out about this game a while ago, which eventually ended up in me playing it, and I really wish I could watch it again. I thought it was a deleted video by someone called hazel as it was mentioned by a lot of people, but I found that one and it isnt it.😓 I'm wondering if anyone remembers watching something along the lines of what im describing and knows if it's still up.