#If you’re too much of a coward just say so

[sweetkpopmusings]

miserable (you & me) | s. changbin <3

a/n: i currently have a long weekend thanks to the thanksgiving holiday, so i'm in a bit of a writing frenzy. since i just posted some ateez fluff, i figured i should give into the stray kids angst demon again >:^) please enjoy a moment with changbin <3 pics not mine~

content: angst, happy ending | wc: 1.4k | warnings: none really! | pairing: changbin x gn!reader | requests:open

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

어떻게든 같이 걸어가려, I feel so tired but I can't give you up, my babe / “somehow try to walk with you / i feel so tired but i can’t give you up my babe”

changbin stared at some indiscernible object in the distance–or, rather, the direction opposite you–biding time until he absolutely had to respond to the information you just shared. sure, he was happy for you, but he couldn’t ignore the burning in the back of his throat as he tried to say encouraging words. the inner conflict was eating him alive, yet he felt he had no other choice than to be here and listen, like any good friend would. 

it wasn’t the first time he had been in this position. he ended up here, again and again, because he didn’t know how to get out of it. behind every i’m rooting for you and they’d be crazy not to say “yes” was an i can’t get you out of my head, you know? every time i look at you, i feel my whole self coming undone, only being put back together when you look at me begging to be said. but he couldn’t. changbin wished he could. he practically pleaded with himself each time he saw you to finally say something. changbin pretended it wasn’t his fear of you rejecting him that held him back. he swore that once he had figured out the right words, he would find the right moment, and then, once everything fell into place, he would bare his soul to you. changbin convinced himself he wasn’t a coward by reminding himself that someone as perfect as you deserved the perfect confession. even if it meant he spent years hiding and hurting. 

“changbin? did i lose you there?” the corners of your mouth upturned as you gently and playfully waved your hand in front of his face.

instinctively he smiled back, laughing a little despite the growing pang in his chest, “no, no, i’m right here.”

“good! because i haven’t gotten to the best part of the story yet,” you grinned before continuing to tell changbin all about the cute interaction shared between you and the coworker you were crushing on.

he couldn’t believe the beaming look in your eyes could hurt him so much. jealousy would do that though: make something so beautiful of yours hurt because he wasn’t the one igniting that beauty. that wouldn’t stop him from relishing in it though. your energy, your presence, it was always a gift, even if it broke his heart.

“so that’s when i figured, what the hell? i asked them out right then and there. they got flustered–it was so cute–and then they said ‘yes!’ we’re going out this saturday. can you help me pick out my outfit?”

changbin, who always turned to putty when he saw your puppy-dog eyes, let out a breathy laugh, “yeah, sure, i can help pick out the outfit that will get them to fall in love with you, just so they can break your heart in a few months like everyone else.”

changbin’s face filled with shock and regret before you could finish processing his words. it hurt you, but, judging by the slump in changbin’s shoulders, what he said hurt him even more.

“i’m so sorry for snapping, y/n, i–”

“no, it’s fine. i talk about them too much. i’m sure you’re tired of hearing me ramble on about all my crushes, especially when my dating life is so unlucky,” you forced a smile, aware that changbin saw right through you, as he always did, “i should probably go, so you don’t have to suffer through my rambling any longer.”

the way changbin looked at you kept you frozen in place. you wanted to turn and walk away before tears slipped down your cheeks, or, worse, before either of you said something that would hurt the other. but the way changbin watched you, the way his breath staggered, the way his eyes revealed he had no intention of every looking away from you…it all kept your feet firmly planted on the ground. 

changbin, knees weak and trembling, felt adrenaline coursing through his body. he stood in front of you, hands in his pockets, unsure if this was the moment to finally reach out to you. when he saw you break your gaze away from him to glance toward your route home, he knew, deep down, that it was now or never. he may have already ruined things by snapping. he figured it was better to ruin your friendship by showing you how much you were loved, rather than leaving you hurt with harsh words.

“y/n,” changbin took a deep breath when your eyes once again locked with his, “that was rude, and i hope you know that i never get annoyed by your rambling. i could hear you talk forever, even if it’s about someone you like, as long as that someone makes you happy. i just…it can be hard for me sometimes because…well…i like you. i have liked you for so long, but the timing never feels right, and everyone else seems to have the courage i don’t because you keep ending up with other people. if you’re happy, i’m happy. i guess i just can’t hide it anymore. i like you. i always will.”

changbin paused, eyes brimming with tears, and he mustered up a smile so you didn’t feel forced to comfort him, “i know you like them, your coworker. if your feelings for me aren’t the same, that’s fine. or, i mean, i at least can live with it, as long as you’re still my friend. i can’t give you up. if you need time away from me because of this, i understand. i hope this hasn’t made things too weird. i hope, more than anything, that we can still be friends. a life without you just doesn’t feel like the right life for me.”

you bit your lip, keeping yourself quiet until changbin finished. it was only fair to let him ramble after you had been talking his ear off all night. then, once you were sure he had said everything he meant to, you smiled. changbin, despite himself, let hope bloom in his chest when he saw the smile grow on your face.

“changbin,” you shook your head, laughing quietly in disbelief, “why didn’t you say something sooner? i like you more than everyone else.”

changbin’s eyes got so big you couldn’t do anything other than giggle. a few words from you, and he looked like he was over the moon.

“you…like me?”

“of course, changbin. are you free saturday? i just have to cancel some plans, but then i’m all yours.”i’m all yours turned changbin’s chest into a fireworks show, so, rather than answering you, he broke into a fit of giggles and wrapped you into his arms. he was, always and forever, all yours. he did not need any courage to tell you that, over and over and over again.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[arvandus]

Ok more thoughts on Dabi’s ending…

Like I’m not even mad about him dying, honestly. I get that his story has always been one riddled in tragedy. I love tragic characters so tragic endings sorta come with the package (still crying over the ending for Loki season 2).

I appreciate, from a literary standpoint, the impact of dying by one’s own rage. Of letting that hurt and anger literally consume you until there’s practically nothing left of you. I see that that is what they were going for with him, and that part is FINE. Sad as fuck, but not shocking, not surprising.

The issue I have with it is the context and overall messaging. The fact that Dabi dies but Endeavor doesn’t; I’m not even saying that Enji needed to die, and he does get permanently injured and has to give up hero work. BUT the fact that Enji, the abuser and the source of so many people’s pain, not only lives but gets to still have the support of at least some of his family (Natsuo, I love you baby!) leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I think it’s because I’ve never found Enji’s redemption very convincing. I’m not saying this in a “he’s evil and has no soul” sort of way, but it’s more in the fact that his actions have always been rooted in cowardice and ego. The fact that Enji gives up being a hero because he got injured in battle rather than giving up being a hero willingly because it was the very thing that made him so toxic and awful to begin with… meh. Not to mention he still had his son face off with his other son instead of confronting him directly. He still dilly dallied and never went searching for Touya after their initial conflict and reveal even though Shouto wanted to. That’s what I mean when I say Enji’s redemption was half-assed. He was too much of a coward and too focused on being a hero to the masses instead of being a father to his children and that never changed for him. So did he realize what he did in the past was wrong? Yes. Did he feel bad about it? Sure. Did he take the appropriate steps to right past wrongs? No. No he fucking didn’t. Too little, too late.

But it’s not just about Enji. It’s also the hopelessness that’s communicated by Shouto failing to save his brother and never have soba with him in the end. And it’s a message of hopelessness that’s communicated with Toga and Shigaraki’s deaths as well. I don’t know if they we’re going for a “loss of innocence/you can’t save everyone” sort of vibe as a part of the student characters growing up into adults, but it still just made it all feel sort of… pointless in the end. And that pointlessness was emphasized even more by how unmoved they all seemed to be in the aftermath/ending of the story. Not really much mourning, not really much regret. Add to that that the overall status quo seems to be maintained, and really it feels as if nothing has changed; nothing has gotten better (even though supposedly it has??).

I dunno. Take what I say with a grain of salt cuz I haven’t read the ending and I’ve gotten the info from tumblr screenshots. But I’m tired and don’t have it in me to pick it back up again. If the characters are going to die, that’s fine, but make it meaningful, make it worth it, make it cataclysmic in the ushering in of a better world. Give me systems of support within the society to help people in need, people with dangerous quirks. Give me a dismantling of the popularity aspect of heroism, because a system built on the monetization and entertainment cannot also be a moral system. Show me how you’re addressing the toxicity of hero worship, how you’re dismantling the pedestals so that quirkless children aren’t bullied and heroes aren’t driven to madness in the fight to the top.

If you can’t give me those things, then what’s the point. It’s just more of the same. Your story gave us nothing.

[gayerthanevertbh]

does it satisfy you?

summary: it was never meant to last.

warnings: mentions of sex, angst, and no happy ending. basically just a very short one-shot

notes: i'm trying to get back hehe, i hope you like this one :)

Does It Satisfy You?

Natasha took a drag from her cigarette, her exhale curling like whispers into the dim-lit room. Smoke hung in the air, soft and aching, as her fingers grazed your hand—a fleeting warmth that left your skin yearning. Her gaze wandered to the window, where the night stretched endless, stars distant and detached.

She turned to you, brows knit like a question she wasn’t ready to ask. “What do you mean?” she murmured, her voice a thread pulled taut.

You hesitated, the words trembling on your lips. “Every time we…” The sentence unraveled in the air, leaving a space too heavy to fill. “You know, have sex.”

Her laugh was a soft exhale, bittersweet and knowing. “You’re more than a mistress to me.”

“Really?”

Her eyes found yours, deep and searching, and her hand rose to your cheek. Her touch lingered like an unspoken promise. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t adore you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was crowded with your questions, all clawing for a voice. Is this real? Is she mine? Yet your mouth remained sealed, a coward’s prison. You feared the truth—that you were a flicker in her life while she burned brightly elsewhere. That you had no claim on her, no right to feel neglected.

And yet… somewhere in the dark corners of her heart, did she ache for you too?

“I have class later,” you said, breaking the silence in the air.

“Don’t skip,” she replied, her cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, its final embers fading. “You’ve been skipping too much.”

“I want to be with you.”

A smile ghosted her lips. “You are with me.”

But she didn’t see—couldn’t feel—the depth of what you meant. You shook your head, the weight of your longing pressing like an iron on your chest.

“Nat, I want to be with you completely. Every day. Every hour. Every moment.”

You turned from her touch, retreating into the view of the endless, indifferent night. And as the sky deepened in its darkness, you wondered if your yearning would ever find a home—or if it was destined to remain adrift, untethered, and alone.

Under the soft glow of moonlight, she cupped your face with a tenderness that belied her usual fierceness. Her lips brushed your forehead, and her nose nuzzled against yours like a fleeting promise of something more. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, hm?” she murmured, her voice as soft as a lullaby.

You wished she could be like this every day—gentle, unguarded—but the reality you shared was tangled and fragile, a fantasy slipping through your fingers. “What are you thinking?” she asked again, her tone a plea rather than a question.

The words burned on your tongue. Should you tell her? Should you push her away? Hatred was impossible—how could you hate the one who had given you everything you'd longed for? At first, it was only the fire of her touch, but now, it was more. So much more.

With an ache in your voice, you kissed the inside of her palm and whispered, “You have to go back to your wife, Natasha.”

Her brow furrowed in defiance, the sharp edge of her determination softening as she protested, “I don’t understand—”

“Please,” you interrupted, your hands trembling as you placed hers on her lap. You avoided her gaze, unable to bear the hurt you knew you’d find there. “You know I’m right.”

Natasha Romanoff—the woman who commanded attention, who ruled with a presence so unyielding it could bend steel—became someone else entirely with you. In your arms, her dominance melted into vulnerability, her armor discarded at your feet.

When you finally dared to look, her eyes were wounded, brimming with unsaid words. “I want to say it,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

You shook your head, your resolve faltering. “You can’t.”

“I love you,” she said, the confession spilling from her lips like a prayer.

“Do you?” 

“Yes,” she whined, her arms wrapping around your bare waist. She pulled you closer, her body pressing against yours as if she could fuse the pieces of you both into one. Her lips found your neck, her voice trembling as she whimpered, “I love you, darling.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with truth and impossibility. You knew this couldn’t last. But for a moment, you let yourself be held, feeling the weight of a love that was as intoxicating as it was doomed.

"Go back to your wife," you whispered, voice low and trembling, the weight of your words filling the room. With a gentle push, you placed the distance between you, though your trembling hand lingered, as if reluctant to let go of the warmth it knew so well.

You refused to meet her eyes, unable to bear the pain etched in their depths, a silent plea you dared not answer.

"This will be our last time," you murmured, the syllables breaking like fragile glass in the space between you, each one a shard that cut deeper than the last.

The air grew heavy, the unspoken emotions pressing down like a storm, until finally, she turned, and the void she left behind felt infinite.

END.

[neverthatsirius-jo]

[ 📦 ; day one ] BACK INTO THE ICE

summary — in which steve doesn't love ice or skating, but he does love you.

content — steve rogers x fem!reader, fluff, natasha and bucky make a cameo, reader used to skate as a kid.

word count — ~700

a/n — first day of the advent calendar!! woo!! but also do not trust me to go through with it completely. sorry about the title :p

‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡

“You are enjoying this.”

You turn around, bragging with a little hand flourish, to look at Steve, who’s struggling for his life, making grabs at the wall of the rink. You turn your lips downward, trying to conceal your smile.

“Don’t laugh! Help me!” He goes from chuckling to scaring the shit out of himself to chuckling again in a matter of seconds. He repeats the process several times.

“You’re all hunched over. Straighten up or you’ll lose your balance.” You skate back to stand next to him as he tries to follow your instructions. “It’s not hard once you get the correct form.”

“Easy for you to say… you used to compet—”

One of his feet slips and he stumbles backwards. You try to catch him as he falls but his weight brings you down with him.

There’s a clatter as your skates hit the ice and luckily you’ve had enough training to stop your head from hitting it too. You pull your hands away from the cold surface as they start burning.

“Shit, you okay?” He places his hand on one of your thighs.

You nod. That’s as much as you can manage while you cry from laughter.

Ever the gentleman he tries to stand up and offer you a hand, but it only serves him to fall on his butt again. 

“Steve!” You let out a choked yell, trying to wipe the tears off your cheeks. “Wait!”

He gives up trying to stand and instead turns around to lay you down on the ice and wrap his arms around you in between laughs. It doesn’t take much time before the ice starts to freeze your back even through all the layers of clothing.

“Get a room!” Natasha yells from across the rink, with her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. She’s elegantly gliding through the ice and you can’t help but wonder how many more things she’s good at that she keeps a secret. You discover at least one thing a year, and every time she just shrugs it off. 

You get up in front of Steve and dig your toe pick in the ice to stand firmly as you push him up. You extend your arms, he clutches onto one with one hand and the wall rink with the other, and you start pulling. Once he manages to stand up, you make him extend his arms in a ‘t’ form. He stands stiffly and he looks like he doesn't realize breathing won't make him fall. 

“There you go.” You say with a little smile. “Good.”

He smiles back. “That was so patronizing.”

“No, you’re doing it! You’ve been standing for more than five seconds!” 

He tries to push your shoulder but comes back to cling to your right arm instead when he forcefully gets remembered moving will make him fall.

“Okay, let’s not jinx it.” You put your arm out for him to hook his with. “May I take you on a lap around the rink?” 

“There is nothing I’d love more.” He says, if only to make you happy.

You stop every five seconds, he curses every ten, when he accidentally digs his toe pick into the ice, and at one point you start wondering if he has two left feet. Natasha gives twenty laps around the rink by the time you’re halfway through yours.

“Showoff!” Steve yells at her at the twenty first.

You finish your lap, going back to where Bucky was sitting behind the rink on a bench and drinking a cup of steaming hot chocolate. He hadn’t even tried to put the skates on. ‘I’d rather not lose my dignity’ you believe his words had been.

“Honey, I think I’m gonna get out.” He gives you a peck on the lips, arms wrapped around your waist. “I’d much rather watch you relive your skating glory days and cheer you on from the stands here with Bucks.”

“Coward,” you whisper as you kiss his cheek. 

You send him on his way and skate back to the middle of the rink, landing a simple jump to warm up. Steve hollers and claps; Bucky follows him, but only with the clapping, having just shoved half a croissant on his mouth.

“She’s good,” Bucky says, mouth full.

“And my girlfriend.” Steve smiles, lifting an eyebrow.

Bucky raises his hands, smiling innocently. "I didn't say anything!"

thank you for reading, reblogs and replies are always appreciated <3

back to advent calendar

[lifea16]

Mastermind live thoughts [Spoilers below cut]

The animation is amazing like oh my god! 💕

Ah, gonna be the Stolas trial I see

Andre stop flirting with your sister

✨Unpaid interns✨

Fuck.. double trial I see

RUN

Be fucking faster

Why do they sound like the cherubs

What is this….?

“Face the music” is honestly a bit too funny

Trailer scene time!

FUCK

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

Blitz you don’t deserve to be deadnamed :/

???

Andre what did I just say, stop flirting with her, at some point comphet is cursed

Oh thank Satan (?) that Blitz actually defended himself against the possibility he forced himself onto Stolas

Candle head in Wrath?

Vassago bilingual? And he here!

Don’t you wanna take Stolas down first??

Yep.. they are claiming Blitz S/A’d Stolas in the trial. Fuck. At least hopefully the Blitz antis will realise they’re wrong in the episode

Bestie (/s) I think you got Blitz and your sister’s names confused. Put Stella on trial coward

Grimour, Stricker

You tell them Blitz!

Poor Mox :(

Go off Bea!! /pos

Yep you too Ozz! Tell ‘em

Mammon aren’t you Ace?? Don’t you want not to be fucked??

Satan looks a lot more like a Candlehead than I would’ve thought

How is this not the finale?? AAAA

Well shit….

Yay! Classism!

Poor Fizz, seeing your best friend (?) almost get executed live on TV! TF

Blitz sacrifices himself (tries to) <//3

(My hc) “Bitches (Blitz) say “I wanna die” like a broken record, but when you almost get executed on live tv, you shit yourself

Stolas save your future boyfriend now!!!

Go off Blitz! Tell ‘em off on their classism

As much as I understand not liking racial coding, .. Blitz and imps in general especially in this episode are very POC coded, with a lot of he’ll just being racist

</3

No Blitz don’t accept your fate 😭😭😭😭😭😭

Stolas ex machena please please please please

😭😭😭😭😭😭

Why Blitz must you care so fucking much about your family and if I could cry I’m pretty sure I would be by now

The screencap I paused on is so pretty.. To bad it’s Blitz getting executed (And almost made me wanna cry) or I’d make it my banner

Aaaaa

Fuck yes Stolas!!

Blitz is saved !! ✨⭐️💕

Boyfriends protecting eachother 💕

Yay! Songs! <3

XD “half a brain”

“Some kind of Mastermind-“ roll credits

Stolas I know you’re dealing with rascists but please don’t act like that with Blitz rn ur doing a regression and I hope it’s an act

Nevermind lol kinda

Yep. This is a clear racial allegory. No hiding it now

Fancy ahh reveal Stolas

Also we just shifted the “I’ll sacrifice for my loved ones” horse to Stolas instead of Blitz

Stolas ur an idiot too

Fuck yes! Romantic ish Stolitz duet part!

No Blitz you fucking deserve to live <333

And I’m back too “if only tears could fall” again.. Please Blitz take his sacrifice and save him after that till the system breaks and you two will be free

Either death or.. whatever happened last two episodes

Shit

Where is Lucifer? Just because Luci’s in his depression era doesn’t mean you are the ruler of hell Satan

Oh nevermind

The sins have existed before Luci fell. Interesting

Blitz is so defensive over Stolas and his life ahh 💕😭

Step 1: *Panic* , Step 2: “Wow this is a sturdy door”

Blitz is being silly but not swearing so he must be concealing his emotions again

<33 Group hug <33

Are we starting some weird chain now (Octavia was now alerted and running for Stolas)

Or not..

Poor Via </3

Loophole! Also more racism allegory!

Banishing him is actually a decent idea (for once)

Ohhh Andrealphus just wants power. Honestly I should have figured sooner lol

If this is Mastermind then what the actual fuck will Sinmas be (unless it’s another Queen Bee situation)

100 years.. So have a relationship with Blitz and once that’s done go back to royalty! Sounds great!

..wait are we getting imp Stolas

Nevermind lol. Just hatless

He will enjoy very much

Ooh!~ Our theories were right! (Stolas must also learn classism the hard way for a bit)

So the white pupils are permanent now

<3

OMG Blitz hero! Yay!!! <3

<3333

Blitz is at an all time high and Stolas is at an all time low.. interesting

<33333

So.. are they immediately dating now?

THIS WAS ALL SO AMAZING!! Favourite episode now!

[incorrectquoteswwdits]

Saw this on Twitter about Nandermo

And I’m so mad so maybe thoughts later but

Gotta love that it’s somehow ALWAYS gay people whose relationship is “more” than sex (and thus never canon on screen), it’s always gay people who are said to be lesser if they are sexual. Meanwhile Nadja and Laszlo have sex all the fucking time. The fuck does he mean it would be less profound hello?!!!

problematic??? They literally murder people every episode what 💀

point is I love hilarious hypocrisy that means a presumably straight creator won’t have to go ahead and make the obvious pairing that has written itself and would make sense narratively happen. I am so tired of this type of homophobia, I’m fucking SICK OF IT. You would never say that Nadja and Laszlo’s relationship is less profound or less meaningful, they are love and they have sex and it’s treated as normal.

[jammyshouse]

finally accepting i am a gay man rather than whatever i thought i was is explaining a lot about everything to the point it’s actually making me angry. like man. man i guess it was very fucking obvious to everyone except me huh

[kavehater]

If I had a genie and could make one wish I’d wish that romantic relationships and anything to do with falling in love would be completely eradicated from existence. Not only is it gross and weird, but it’s also fundamentally an issue, like you can’t tell me it’s anything feasible to yearn for or believe in when so many crimes hardships and negativity stems as a by product of love. I wish everyone was aroace and we sprout from the soil via mitosis but somehow we still have genetic variation bc it’s a unique sub section of mitosis where it’s a hybrid of mitosis and meiosis.

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[criminalamnesia]

that 141 x reader you just did was so good! i need to know what happens next. like after reader is better, do they stay in the military? stay in 141? or do they take a discharge? I’m not the original ask but it was just so good.

love your writing btw!

thank you! here’s part two :)

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

you were beginning to hate the infirmary.

the white walls. the moans of pain. the smell of bleach and blood.

the reminder of why you were here. of who put you here.

your friends. your family. your team. john. johnny. kyle. simon.

you’d told the doctor to not let your teammates in, and she had tried, but there was only so much she could do. she couldn’t monitor the door all the time, and so a week after waking up from your coma, john price is sitting at your beside once again.

his hands are clasped together, knuckles white with the intensity of his grip. he’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the bed, hands under his chin. his position conveys his regret and worry. he looks like he should be in church, knelt between the pews and spewing silent prayers to a god that isn’t listening.

you haven’t spoken to him since he sat down ten minutes ago. the second you saw him step inside the infirmary, you knew he was there for you. there to try and speak to you, to apologize.

fuck him and his apologies.

you turned your head to the side, eyes staring at the white curtain separating your bed from the next. you studied the stitching while you listened to him breathe next to you. he hadn’t spoken either— just sat down and watched you.

it made your skin crawl, how he thought this was okay. how he thought this would be the way to get back into your good graces.

he clears his throat then, a sound you’ve heard a million times before. it makes you want to gag now.

“love,” his voice is soft, caring. you want to hit him in the jaw.

“can we talk? please?”

you don’t turn over, don’t even spare him a glance. you keep your gaze trained on the curtain. the only giveaway that he has your attention is the fists you clench at your sides.

he takes the silence as an invitation, that bastard.

“what happened—” he begins, then grunts. stops. takes a second, then begins again.

“what we did,” he says, and you roll your eyes. “it wasn’t right. the intel was from a trusted source. we—” he sighs then, and you can tell he’s rubbing his temple. he did that when he was stressed. when he was anxious.

“we were wrong to believe them over you, love. and im— im sorry.”

silence ensues. you don’t give him any indication that you’ve heard what he said. he sighs again, inhaling deeply.

“you’re still part of this team. johnny and gaz, they’ve been sitting outside this damn room like sentries. can barely pry ‘em away for drills.” he chuckles then, but it’s sad. pitiful. mournful.

“there’s nothing we can do to make this right,” he tells you. you’re still mulling over what he said about johnny and gaz. still hung up on the fact that he didn’t mention simon at all.

simon, who did the most damage to you, both psychologically and physically. simon, who shared your bed. simon.

simon, who is too much of a coward to face you for his crimes.

“but we want to try,” price is speaking again. “if you’ll let us.”

he stops talking. waits a beat, then two. then, you hear his chair scrape. he’s getting up, and that’s when you turn your head to face him.

he looks bad. bags under the eyes, skin pale, beard overgrown. you think he deserves this. deserves worse than this. his eyes meet yours, and they widen the tiniest bit at the attention you’re showing him.

your voice is full of venom as you speak.

“nothing,” you seethe, angry tears blurring your vision. “will ever undo what you did to me. what he did to me.”

price knows you’re talking about simon. the whole team knew you were a thing. hell, when they’d strapped you to that chair and debated who would ‘interrogate’ you, they hadn’t even thought to include simon. why would he want to torture the person he loved?

to their surprise, he had volunteered to take point.

“when i get out of this bed,” you continue. “im gone. and i never, never, want to see any of you again, or else im putting a fucking bullet between your eyes.”

the captain doesn’t speak. you can see the remorse on his face. you couldn’t care less about his feelings.

he gives a short nod, and without another word, he turns and leaves the room.

after john’s visit, no one else tries to visit you. you no longer catch glimpses of kyle or johnny outside the infirmary door. you’re glad they’re starting to get the hint.

but you’re still getting flowers. you don’t know where they’re coming from. sometimes they’re dropped off by a nurse, other times they appear in the morning after a restless sleep. there’s never a note. never anything to suggest who would be leaving them.

you know it’s one of the 141, but you don’t know exactly who. you feel certain it’s not simon.

but, unbeknownst to you, it is him. he knows you don’t want to see him— to see any of them. price had told them all about what you’d said to him during your talk.

price had also told them that he’d already started preparing your transfer papers. that had caused an uproar from soap, who’d quickly been quieted by a saddened price.

simon had expected it. expected worse, actually. he knew that if the roles had been reversed, he wouldn’t have been as merciful as you. it made him hate what they’d done to you so much more.

there had been the tiniest doubt in his mind when all the evidence pointed to you. he hadn’t believed it at first— and then things became damning. everything pointed to you. trusted sources were pointing their fingers at you, and everyone listened. he had listened.

he had volunteered to torture you because he’d been angry. rage he hadn’t felt in years bubbled to the surface of his skin, and he wanted to tear you limb from limb. how dare you come into their lives— his life— and betray them so substantially?

simon didn’t trust easily. he was battered and broken and scarred. shattered and malformed pieces hastily glued back together. he let the team in. let you in. let you see his face. let you into his bed. let you into his fucking heart.

and you turned around and drove a dagger into him. or so he thought.

he thought his anger and actions had been justified. thought he was doing the world a favor by butchering you. but he was wrong. the team was wrong.

he finds himself regretting how he hadn’t listened to your pleas, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

he knows the chances of you forgiving him, of letting him back into your life, are slim to none. but how could he not at least try?

you’d know each other for years. been together for years. all of it thrown away because he still knew the hurt of betrayal all too well. because it was too easy to fall back into the mindset that it was him against everyone. that the only person he knew, the only one he could rely on, was himself.

so he left flowers. your favorite ones. and he did so without making you face him, without apologizing or groveling. it was the least he owed you.

a month after your coma, you were finally allowed out of the infirmary. you were still healing, skin still tender and bruised. pink, jagged scars lining your skin; eternal reminders of the pain you’d been subjected to.

you’d been given a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, which you’d pulled on with much fuss. every time you struggled or stumbled, you found yourself getting angry. angry at the men who did this to you.

the anger was going to eat you alive, at least that’s what the psychologist that had been dropping by to see you had said. she’d told you you need to let it go, and you’d laughed in her face.

how do you let something like this go?

you didn’t know. you didn’t think you were strong enough to do that. not a good enough person to forgive the men that had carved into you.

once you had dressed, you shuffled out into the hallway. you’d profusely denied an escort, and the doctor had reluctantly acquiesced. she’d let you go, with just the promise that you’d keep your iv hooked in.

so here you were, trudging down the halls of the base, iv pole rattling along behind you.

you could feel eyes on you, but no one dared to get too close. you were glad. you didn’t want more empty apologies and sympathetic words.

you still remembered the way to price’s office like the back of your hand. you doubted you’d ever forget it.

time and time again you’d found yourself here. sometimes, getting reprimanded. others, congratulated. a few times you’d shown up in tears, and price had let you in without a word.

now you were standing outside his door, trying to contain the rage in your veins.

you raised a hand. knocked once, firm and loud.

“come in!” price called from inside.

you were already twisting the door knob, pushing into the room.

your eyes found price first. he was leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. his hat was absent from his head, instead resting beside him on the desk.

and then you noticed simon.

he was wearing all black. his hands were covered, bones decorating the black gloves. gloves you’d seen many times before. gloves that had been pressed to gunshots, trying to stop the bleeding.

the lower half of his face was covered, allowing you to see from his eyes up. his sandy blonde hair was ruffled.

you quickly turned your attention back to price.

“love, what are you doin’ here? you should be in bed—” he began, but you waved a hand as you stepped further into the room. you pulled your iv pole in behind you, then kicked the door shut.

“don’t talk, just listen. i still mean what i said when you came to visit. the only reason im here right now is because you haven’t put in for my fucking transfer.” you hissed.

the captain’s eyes widened, his face taking on a sheepish expression at the revelation that he’d been caught. simon stood quietly beside him, eyes trained on you. you ignored him.

“love, i didn’t want to do anything before you were ready—” he began. you cut him off.

“bullshit! you didn’t want to do anything because you don’t want me to leave. you want me to forgive you, right? hear you all out? come back and be a happy little family again?”

the room fell eerily silent as you stared at the captain. your heart was roaring in your ears.

“put in the fucking transfer, john.” you finished.

he reluctantly nodded. he inhaled, his eyes glancing at his lieutenant briefly, before he spoke again.

“of course, love. ‘m sorry.”

you didn’t say anything else. you turned to go, your back to the men, when simon’s voice cut through the air.

“you should be respectful to your captain, sergeant.”

you froze as you took in his words. was he fucking serious?

you didn’t turn around. you trained your eyes on the door as you spoke words through gritted teeth.

“you should watch your tongue, lieutenant, before I fucking cut it off.”

with that, you pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, slamming it loudly behind you.

author’s note:

apologies for the wait! I hope everyone enjoyed! (this is being posted before proofreading, so I hope it’s okay— I’ll read through it later, it’s just late and im tired lol)

[luveline]

hihihihi! 🥹💕 i want to let you know that i adore your hotch fics! and i wanted to ask if you’d be ok—but no pressure!!!— to write one with bombshell!reader waking up from anesthesia and forgetting hotch and her are already together and starts flirting with him the way bombshell!reader absolutely would lol? thank you!

thanks for requesting lovely! fem, 1k

You don’t remember waking up, but you’re sitting against a pillow with a yoghurt in your hand. You must’ve been on some sort of auto-pilot… Are you in a hospital gown?

You put your yoghurt down on the table that’s been wheeled over your lap and stare at the white-blue chequered gown creased between your thighs. Your head feels heavy. 

“You okay?” 

You drag your gaze to the source of the voice. 

Agent Hotchner sits in the chair next to your bed. He has one leg crossed over the other, but he notices your confusion and his nonchalance turns to concern. “You need help?” 

“With the yoghurt?” you ask. 

“Yeah, honey. I can help.” 

You roll that over in your mind. Stern Agent Hotchner just called you honey. 

You’ve been trying to convince him for a while that you’re someone worth being sweet to. Trying to sway him, because there are parts of him you can’t get out of your head when he’s not around. He has not yet been swayed. Honey is a hand held out you’re going to snatch. 

Hotch stands. He goes to pick up your yoghurt. 

“What, are you gonna spoon feed me?” you ask, a clumsy drawl to your voice.

“I was going to… but I don’t like your tone.” 

Is he flirting back? You must’ve hit your head. “Coward,” you murmur. Speaking of hitting your head, there’s a throbbing behind your eyes, and a dryness to your throat bordering on uncomfortable. The yoghurt was there for a reason, clearly, but you don’t have the energy in you to eat seductively. 

“My head hurts,” you say quietly. 

You close your eyes. 

“I know.” A hand touches your face. You stay very still, though your heart doesn’t. “You don’t feel too hot. Do you want a drink? I can get you anything.” 

“Your hand is so big…” 

“Not so much bigger than your own,” he says. 

“Prove it.” 

He says your name like he knows you well, which sets your racing heart off all over again. But, used to hiding from him, you open your eyes to watch him and wipe all surprise from your face. You raise your hand, and he raises his, and you press your fingers together. Your fingertips don’t reach his, his palm wider, warmer. You thread your fingers carefully into the gaps between his, your lips curling into a satisfied smile. 

Less satisfied when he closes his hand around yours. 

“You’re teasing me,” you say. 

“Honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t you lay back properly?” 

“Super, super forward.” You lay back under the pressure of his hand, stricken by the feeling that he’s done something like that before. You rest your head against your elevated pillows and have to give up —you can’t hide how surprised you are at his open touching, his face so close to yours you can see every warm fleck in his dark eyes. 

“You look startled,” he murmurs. 

“I think you’ve been bodysnatched.” 

“I have?” 

“Yes.” You nod. “I can’t keep up. And I’m usually pretty great at that.” 

“At what?” 

“Flirting.” 

“Oh,” he says, taking your hand again, pulling it toward his mouth, “you think I’m flirting?” 

“Is there something wrong with me?” 

“Not beyond the usual. You’re more lucid than they suspected you’d be, actually.” He kisses your knuckles. 

“I’ve hit my head.” 

“No, honey, you were under anaesthesia. Everything’s fine.” 

“You’ve hit your head.” 

He breathes out a laugh. “I don’t remember any injuries, but I’d love to know why you think so.” 

“You’re kissing me.” 

He pauses, lowering your hand. “Yes?” he says cautiously. 

“Would you want to do it again?” 

Hotch puts your hand on your chest. He cups your cheek in one hand, takes your shoulder into the other, and leans down to see you eye to eye. “Are you feeling okay?” he asks. You can feel the love he has for you in each word. 

Weirdly, you can feel it in yourself, too. Like, more than a crush. More than wanting him to spin you around or play with your thigh under a desk. You really love him. 

“I think I forgot you,” you say softly. 

“Amnesia is a very common symptom of anaesthesia, don’t worry.” He pulls your face up to peck you, quick but not without a gentleness that has your hands thrumming with pins and needle. “I thought you were acting strange, but I put it down to discomfort. Sorry, I imagine it’s very disconcerting to feel you don’t know me.” 

He just kissed you. “No, I know you, I just… I think I love you, but you don’t usually want me back.” 

He rubs your cheek with his thumb. “I’ve always wanted you,” he says, his dulcet tenor another comfort entirely. “And I love you, whether you remember it or not. Should we try to finish your yoghurt?” 

“You really love me?” 

He turns your face to press a kiss into your eyebrow. “You don’t remember?” 

“I do–” You begin before thinking about it, and realise that you’re telling the truth. You remember that he loves you. Agent Hotchner loves you. He’s in your hospital room handling you like thin glass.  

“Well, is there much else to remember?” 

You practically smirk at him. “I can think of some things.” 

“Wow!” He leans down for another kiss. “You’re awful,” he murmurs, his smile soft on your lips. 

[honey-tongued-devil]

HEYY

i saw the vi x chubby user and as a chubby girl I NEED more of the girlies x chubby user. please 🙀

[Arcane preference (girlies)] with a chubby s/o

I made you wait so long for nothing, I’m sorry if it’s short, BUT I haven’t forgotten about you!

Jinx:

- Forget that thing called “personal space.”

- If you want to sleep with her, you’ll be the little spoon, and she’ll even throw herself on top of you. She loves feeling human warmth, and with a partner with more body mass, it’s not painful to stay in a long embrace because no (or almost no) bones are attacking her.

- She pinches your love handles and thighs, then bursts out laughing. It's done with tenderness, she loves it to bits, and it’s something extremely rare in Zaun.

- If you can't find anything your size, she'll sew it for you from leftover fabric, or by beating up a passerby to steal their clothes. Either way, you don’t have to worry.

- If you even try to say the words "lose weight," she’ll furrow her brow, deeply offended: you’re hers, and if you lose mass, she has less of you for herself, which means you’re trying to take something from her.

- Which means for the following week, she’ll do everything to make you eat more, terrified that you might lose weight.

Vi:

- What’s the point of being so strong if not to lift you into her arms effortlessly?

- She makes you stay on her back while doing push-ups, carries you to the bedroom, and holds you on her lap on the couch.

- She’s a fighter, not a coward. If she can’t lift you, it’s not that you weigh too much, but that she’s too weak. And within three days, she’ll make sure she fixes this shortcoming.

- But it never actually happens. Vi never misses an opportunity to show you how strong she is and how special you are.

- When you talk under the blankets, she often loses herself playing with your soft spots, almost as if she’s relaxing.

Caytlin:

- She sits on your lap, but if you want, you can sit on her without any issues.

- She loves your body to bits, and if you try to hide it, she might put on a little show just to take off your shirt and enjoy what you were hiding, like your belly.

- Clothes aren’t a problem; she’ll have them made so that they not only fit you but also highlight your best features.

- No jokes here—when you go out together, she wants the world to see how proud she is of her partner and how attractive they are. So, she takes care of your preparation herself, even stealing a kiss here and there, but letting you choose what you want to wear.

Mel:

- She has a personal tailor who makes coordinated outfits for every occasion. She can’t let you look bad, and she wouldn’t want to, so she personally ensures every detail reflects you.

- She knows what you like and dislike, so she can correct the sketches herself, so when the clothes arrive, they’ll be a complete surprise.

- When you're in public, she likes to sit on your lap, if the occasion is casual enough to allow it. Otherwise, she’ll leave subtle lipstick marks on you before leaving, just enough to discreetly remind people you’re with her.

- She likes being the little spoon, feeling protected and vulnerable at least in one place, even though, subconsciously, she changes position while she sleeps. But in any case, feeling your softness against her gives her comfort.

Sevika:

- Think you’re big? Be more humble.

- She lifts you like you’re a little bunny, carries you around on her shoulder, takes you to bed in her arms, and constantly pulls you onto her lap, always keeping one hand on your waist.

- She loves skin-to-skin contact, and she’s strong enough to lift you completely onto her shoulders, with your back against the wall, and hold you like that until her ‘hunger’ passes (or until you can’t take it anymore).

- She’s still terrified of hurting you, so she always keeps you on the side of her good arm, so she doesn’t damage your body with her prosthetic limb.

- When you’re resting, she pulls you completely up onto her, no matter how tall or heavy you are, constantly reminding you that she’s big and strong enough.

[daveys-sister]

gotta unfollow for harry potter posting. come on, man.

Coolio

[lovebugism]

I love your writing <3 I saw “he so likes her” on the enemies to lovers but I so saw it pairing with the “me? I wouldn’t say I was flirting.” On the denial of feelings list. Eddie absolutely oblivious to the heart eyes he’s making as he pulls his hair in front of his face while chatting together

ty angel! hope you like it :D — eddie munson visits you at work every day, but not because he likes you (enemies to lovers-ish, fluff, 1.1k)

You hear Eddie before you see him. The clinking of his silver rings, the swishing of his leather jacket, the thudding of his worn sneakers. His musky cologne swaddles you in a cloud of his subtle scent before he’s even there. You’re smiling about it all before you mean to.

Crouched in the X-rated section of Family Video, you restock the vulgar printed tapes and glance up at the boy towering over you. Eddie’s smiling, too — perhaps bigger than he realizes.

“Don’t tell me you came all this way to keep me company, Munson,” you tease with narrowed eyes.

“No,” the boy scoffs, a little less than convincing. He props his shoulder against the metal shelf and crosses his arms over his chest. “I have much better things to do with my Friday nights. Trust me.”

Your knees creak in protest when you rise to stand before him. You cross your arms to resemble his stance and try to be normal about your forearms brushing his. “Do you?” you lilt, obviously sarcastic.

“Yeah,” he nods with a crooked smile on his pretty pink mouth. “I could give you their names.”

“Spare me,” you scoff, rolling your eyes and spinning on your heel. Eddie follows you like a lost puppy to the front counter. “You know, if you’re gonna flirt with me, maybe try not to mention other girls. I think that’s, like, rule number one.”

Eddie’s face swirls at your words. The cartoonish look of confusion makes you smile as you round the checkout station. He forces a chuckle and props his elbows on the countertop, leaning over it in a desperate attempt to be closer to you.

“There are no—” he starts, then cuts himself off. There are no other girls, he’d say if he weren’t a total coward. But, for the sake of keeping his cards to his chest, he settles on, “—I’m not flirting with you.”

Your brow arches in a playful look of inquiry. “No?”

Eddie almost caves, then. It’s almost like you want him to say yes — to admit that he’s been flirting with you this whole time because he’s loved you since the moment he met you. It would be the truth, anyway. One that he’s spent over a year shying from.

“No,” he echoes and shakes his wild head, surprising himself with his own self-control. “No, I’m— We’re just— We’re having a conversation. ‘Cause, you know, we’re friends. I guess.”

His face scrunches like there’s something sour on his tongue. He doesn’t even like the taste of his own words. 

You squint. “Do all of your friendly conversations typically include making heart eyes at the other person?” you joke with a poorly held-back grin.

Eddie falters for a moment, knowing he’s long been found out. He decides to lie anyway. Dig the hole deeper, as it were. “Yeah, actually,” he nods. “You’ve seen the way I look at Steve, haven’t you?”

You laugh before you mean to. The sunshine sound sputters up your throat and out of your mouth before you can stop it. Eddie must not realize how he often looks at Steve The Hair Harrington — with softly squinted eyes and gently furrowed brows — like he can never quite understand what the fuck the boy is talking about. 

“Right,” you nod, still giggling.

Eddie smiles at the pretty sound. The spearmint breath of your laughter fans across his cheek at the close proximity — one which neither of you seems eager to part from. “Yeah, so… Don’t let it go to your head, alright? There’s no flirting here.”

So you drove twenty minutes across town in a half-broken-down van to have a serious conversation? you’d ask if you felt like going around in circles.

Instead, you just nod. “Noted...”

“Now, tell me,” he starts, tilting his pretty head until his curls bunch at his shoulder. “What should me and my number of escapades watch for the evening? You know, as the resident expert and all?”

You laugh at the absurdity of his question. “I don’t know. Just— choose something,” you murmur unenthusiastically.

“I want you to choose for me,” he pouts.

“Why?” you retort, leaning against the counter to lessen the cavernous distance. 

The sudden closeness has a very obvious effect on the boy across from you. His adam’s apple bobs as his tongue darts across his bottom lip. You’re close enough to kiss now. He can almost taste you.

“So you can play it as background noise and think of me while you and this very fictitious person make out on your couch?”

“Well… I’ll probably be thinking about you either way, so…” Eddie answers when his senses return to him, shrugging with a stupid, lopsided grin. “Whether you recommend something or not doesn’t really matter.”

The look he gives you makes your stomach whirl. His eyes, made of melted chocolate, get all squishy at the edges when he looks at you. Something warm and fond swims in his gaze, speckles along his flushed cheeks, and sparkles in his smile. It’s so stupidly sincere for a boy who can’t seem to take anything seriously. The notion all but stabs you in the chest.

“You’re doing it again, you know?” you tease.

His fluffy brows pinch together. “Doing what?”

“The heart eyes thing.”

“There is no thing!” he insists with a loud, boyish laugh. “I’m just— I’m just looking at you! Is that a crime?”

“Just sayin’,” you singsong with an absentminded shrug.

Your gaze glimmers with knowing and something close to adoration as it flits up and down his form. Eddie squirms beneath your prying eyes. His ringed hands rise to his hair, gathering the untamed curls and hiding his blushing face behind them. 

“Here,” he mumbles behind his palms and chestnut locks. “Is this better for you?”

You giggle at his antics, slightly grieving his pretty face. “Much,” you nod despite yourself.

Steve and Robin watch the strange encounter from afar. They peer over the Action/Adventure aisle they’re supposed to be restocking — equal parts distracted and nosey. The boy’s scruffy face twists as he watches Eddie try hopelessly to flirt with you. “This is disgusting,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Do you think he knows?” Robin laughs, deep and gritty, as she stands on the tips of her toes to see over the metal shelf.

“Knows what?”

“That he’s obsessed with her?”

“Hell no! Look at him—” Steve scoffs, jutting his chin to the wild-haired boy across the room. 

Eddie’s got his rings all tangled in his hair now. His cheeks glow red as you help unknot the silver jewelry from his curls. He’s visibly embarrassed, but he can’t stop beaming at you. It’s borderline gag-worthy.

“—He’s got no fucking clue.”

[kavehater]

If things keep going wrong like this I’ll soon become like the xiao-less people in 2021 ;-;

[solxamber]

Take Two || Vil Schoenheit

You and Vil, once lovers, are forced to reunite through work, stirring up old heartbreak and undeniable tension. Slowly, you realize love never truly left, and some stories deserve a second chance.

i promise it's a happy ending

The night air feels sharp against your skin, the chill sinking into your bones as you stand face to face with Vil in the shadow of Pomefiore’s grand staircase. His golden hair catches the faint light, glimmering like spun silk, his expression frozen in a mask of disbelief. But his eyes—his eyes betray him, shining with an ache so raw that it almost makes you collapse under the weight of your decision.

"You’re leaving me," he says, his voice flat, brittle, like glass about to shatter. "After everything."

You try to smile, but it’s more of a grimace. "You deserve someone who can keep up with you, Vil. Someone who doesn’t have to fight just to be noticed, someone who—"

"Stop," he snaps, the word cutting through the night like a knife. "You think this is about keeping up? About deserving?" His voice rises, trembling with a rare fury. "You’re not a burden to me. You never were."

Tears spill over before you can stop them, warm against the chill of the night. "But I’m holding you back. You’re going to be an award-winning actor, a global icon. You’re meant for so much more, Vil. And I—I can’t be the reason you look back someday and wonder what you missed out on."

Vil’s hands curl into fists at his sides, his perfectly manicured nails digging into his palms. "You sound like a coward," he says bitterly. "Someone who doesn’t understand what it means to love. I gave you my heart, and you’re throwing it away like it’s... disposable."

You step closer, your voice trembling. "Vil, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. That’s why I’m doing this. Because I know that if I stay, I’ll be the anchor that holds you back."

He stares at you, stunned into silence, before his face crumples. It’s a sight you never thought you’d see—Vil Schoenheit, so composed, so regal, letting tears spill unchecked. "I regret it," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I regret giving my heart to someone who doesn’t want it."

Your breath hitches. You reach out, wiping his tears away with trembling fingers. "I want it. I’ll always want it."

"Then why—"

"Because I love you enough to let you go," you say, your voice cracking. You lean in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, tasting the salt of both your tears. It’s desperate and bittersweet, a farewell that neither of you wants but both know is inevitable.

When you pull back, his eyes are filled with an agony that mirrors your own. "I’ll pray to the stars that they align for us in another life," you whisper, stepping away even as every fiber of your being screams to stay.

Vil doesn’t follow. He stands rooted in place, watching as you disappear into the night, his tears sparkling under the starlight like diamonds.

And as you walk away, your heart breaking with every step, you can’t help but wonder if love is truly worth it when it hurts this much.

The spotlight gleams against the polished floors of the gala, chandeliers casting constellations on every surface. You stand at the edge of the room, champagne flute in hand, wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Laughter ripples around you, yet your heart pounds louder than any of the polite chatter.

Across the room, he stands, bathed in a soft golden light as if the universe itself couldn’t bear to dim him. Vil Schoenheit, global phenomenon, beloved by millions. And you, just a rising singer whose every success still feels like a shadow of his own.

You force yourself to look away before your gaze lingers too long. It's been years since that night—the night you kissed him goodbye, the night you walked away so he could become everything you knew he was destined to be.

And he did. Oh, he did.

Every magazine cover, every award stage, every grand performance is proof of that. You’re happy for him. Truly. You send flowers every time he wins something new, handpicking each bouquet and handwriting every note. Congratulations, Vil. You deserve this and more. No reply ever comes, but you never stop.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is enough.

He spots you before you spot him. He always does.

You stand by the windows, moonlight catching on the delicate fabric of your clothes. Your laughter mingles faintly with the music, but Vil knows you well enough to hear the cracks in it. To anyone else, you’re poised, radiant—a star in your own right. But to him, you’re the person who kissed him goodbye and took his heart with you.

He straightens his posture, as if that will shield him from the wave of memories crashing over him.

The flowers you send have become a cruel routine. He receives them like clockwork—each arrangement more thoughtful than the last, each card bearing your familiar handwriting. He reads every word, his thumb brushing over the ink, before placing the cards in a drawer he’s too afraid to open.

And yet, he saves them all.

Seeing you now is both agony and relief. He knows his worth; the world adores him, reveres him. But when he sees you, every ounce of that worth feels hollow. He feels young again, vulnerable—a teenager fumbling with emotions too large for his heart to hold.

The inevitable happens: your eyes meet.

You catch Vil’s gaze across the room, and your heart stutters. You force yourself to smile, a small, polite thing, and raise your glass in acknowledgment. He nods back, his face unreadable, and you swear your knees might give out.

You’re supposed to be over this. You’re supposed to be happy.

But every time you see him, the years fall away. It’s as if you’re back at Pomefiore, back on that staircase, wiping away his tears and whispering that you loved him before breaking both your hearts.

You excuse yourself to the balcony, the cool night air biting at your skin. You lean on the railing, taking deep breaths.

"Running away again?"

His voice is smooth, poised, and far too close.

You whirl around, and there he is, the moonlight outlining him like the leading man in some grand romantic drama. He’s holding his own champagne flute, his free hand tucked neatly in his pocket. He looks flawless, as always, but his eyes betray him.

"I wasn’t running," you say, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

"Of course not," he replies, his tone as sharp as ever, but there’s something softer beneath it. He steps closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you. "And yet, here you are. Avoiding me again."

Your throat tightens. "I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me."

He laughs, a quiet, bitter sound. "Do you really think I have nothing to say to you after all this time?"

You blink, taken aback. "I—I didn’t know. You never—"

"Responded?" He raises an eyebrow, his expression a careful mask. "What was I supposed to say, darling? That every card, every flower, every fleeting mention of you feels like a dagger?"

The word darling slips out so naturally that you almost miss it. Almost.

"Vil, I—"

He cuts you off, his voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. "Do you have any idea what it’s like to be adored by millions and still feel empty because the one person I want won’t even look at me properly?"

You gape at him, words caught in your throat.

"You left me," he says, and his voice breaks just enough for you to hear it. "You left, and I—" He exhales sharply, composing himself. "I told myself I hated you for it. But the truth is, I never stopped—"

You take a step forward, closing the distance. "Stop."

His eyes widen slightly, his perfect mask slipping.

"I never stopped either," you admit, your voice trembling. "I thought I was doing the right thing. For you, for us. But all I did was break us both."

And then you unceremoniously run, like you always do.

The sound of your phone vibrating aggressively on your nightstand jolts you awake. It’s your manager, and he’s barking something about an emergency meeting, now.

Still half-asleep, you throw on the first pair of pants you can find, grab your bag, and sprint like you’re being chased by a swarm of angry bees. By the time you reach your company’s little meeting room, you’re wheezing like an old accordion.

You stumble in, gasping for air. “I’m—here—what’s the—emergency?”

And there he is.

Vil Schoenheit, sitting in your dingy little meeting room, radiating elegance and beauty like he’s some Greek god forced to endure mortal company. His perfect golden hair gleams under the flickering fluorescent lights, and his outfit probably costs more than your annual rent.

For a second, you just stand there, staring at him in disbelief. "What?" you manage to choke out.

“Ah, you’ve arrived!” your manager says, completely ignoring your obvious confusion. He’s fawning over Vil like the man just descended from heaven itself. “Aren’t we so fortunate to have Vil Schoenheit here with us today? What a privilege!”

Vil sits there with the most unimpressed expression you’ve ever seen, his gaze lazily drifting to yours. He raises an eyebrow, and the look on his face very clearly says: The universe hates me as much as it hates you.

“Why…” You gesture wildly at him like that explains anything. “Why is he here?”

Your manager claps his hands together as if this is all the most wonderful news in the world. “You’ve been given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to compose and perform the opening theme for Vil’s new drama!”

“…What?”

“And Vil has graciously come all this way to provide you with inspiration!”

Vil crosses his legs, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I didn’t exactly volunteer,” he says flatly. “I was informed this meeting was non-negotiable.”

“Graciously forced,” you mutter under your breath, earning a sharp glance from him.

Your manager continues, oblivious. “This is huge for us! For you! For the company! A chance to collaborate with Vil Schoenheit!” He’s practically vibrating with excitement.

You? You’re mentally screaming. The room’s ancient air conditioning groans louder than your brain cells, and the smell of stale coffee is threatening to choke you. This is where Vil Schoenheit is supposed to get his inspiration?

“Great,” you say weakly, flopping into a chair. “Love that for us.”

Your manager claps you on the back, way too hard. “I’ll leave you two to get started! Can’t wait to hear what you come up with!” He scurries out of the room like his life depends on it.

The door clicks shut. Silence.

You turn to Vil, who’s looking at you like he’s silently calculating how fast he can escape. “So,” you say, attempting to sound professional. “I guess we’re doing this.”

Vil sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It seems we have no choice.”

“You could’ve said no.”

“And risk tarnishing my reputation? Hardly.”

You narrow your eyes. “Wow. Thanks for that vote of confidence in my music.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t misunderstand. I’ve heard your work. It’s… fine.”

“Fine?” You bristle. “Just fine?”

“I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion,” he says smoothly, completely ignoring your indignation. “Or at least, I hope you will.”

This is going to be a long day.

The next hour is spent with Vil giving you vague, lofty descriptions of “atmosphere” and “emotion” while you scribble down ideas that may or may not be entirely out of spite.

“Think regal, but with an edge,” Vil says, leaning back in his chair like a king addressing his court. “Something that captures the drama’s tone—elegance, intrigue, power.”

“Right,” you say, scrawling Fancy Soap Commercial Vibes in your notebook.

“And it must resonate with the audience on an emotional level,” he adds, completely serious.

You nod, underlining Fancy Soap Commercial for good measure.

At one point, Vil gets up to demonstrate a movement he wants the music to evoke, his motions fluid and precise like the world’s most intimidating interpretive dancer. You’re not sure if you’re inspired or just terrified.

Finally, you throw your pen down. “I get it! Regal, edgy, emotional. Big feels. Got it.”

Vil gives you a skeptical look. “Are you certain? Because your notes don’t inspire much confidence.”

You glance down at your notebook, where you’ve doodled a tiny stick figure labeled Vil’s Vibes surrounded by stars. “…Yeah, totally got this.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “If this ends up sounding like a children’s lullaby, I’m holding you personally accountable.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “Great. No pressure.”

And yet, as much as you want to throttle him for his impossible standards, there’s a part of you that doesn’t hate this. Because, well… it’s Vil. And whether you want to admit it or not, working with him is kind of incredible.

Even if he’s the most dramatic muse you’ve ever had.

The day starts with your manager shoving a revised directive into your hands: go watch Vil's shoot. Apparently, you needed more "inspiration" to compose a song fit for his upcoming drama.

Great. Because spending more time around Vil Schoenheit, global icon and your ex, is exactly what you needed to totally not lose your mind.

Still, you don’t show up empty-handed. On the way to the set, you grab an aggressively caffeinated iced espresso for yourself—because surviving the day calls for it—and, without much thought, you pick up a caramel macchiato with oat milk.

The barista hands it over, and you’re hit by a pang of nostalgia. This was Vil’s favorite back when you were teenagers, back when you’d watch the sunset with him after his rehearsals. You shake the thought away. It’s just coffee.

When you arrive, Vil’s seated on a folding chair, reading over his script like it’s sacred text. Even in the chaos of the bustling set, he looks poised, his hair perfect despite the heat of the lights.

You approach, clearing your throat. “Hey.”

He glances up. “You’re late.”

“I’m five minutes late.” You hold out the cup. “Peace offering?”

Vil takes the coffee without comment, but the moment he sips it, his movements falter. His eyes widen, ever so slightly, and you catch the flicker of emotion on his face before he masks it.

You don’t linger. “I’m going to talk to the producers.”

As you walk away, Vil stares at the cup, at the faint smiley face you’ve drawn on the lid. His chest tightens. You remembered.

He forces the thought down, folding it neatly into the drawer of unspoken feelings he’s cultivated since the day you left him. Setting the cup aside, he rises, perfectly composed. He has a scene to shoot, and Vil Schoenheit doesn’t falter.

Watching Vil perform is like watching magic. Every movement, every look, every line—he’s utterly captivating.

You sit near the monitors, jotting down notes as inspiration flows. There’s something about him—his intensity, his elegance—that fills your mind with melodies. You’re so engrossed that you barely notice the shoot wrapping up until Vil walks over, a towel slung casually around his neck.

“Are you leaving already?” he asks, his voice smooth and calm, like you hadn’t just been mentally composing an ode to his perfection.

“Uh, yeah. I’ll call an Uber.” You stand, shoving your notebook into your bag.

He frowns, clearly unimpressed. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take you home.”

“Vil, it’s fine—”

“I insist,” he says sharply, already walking towards his car.

You follow, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and dread.

The car ride is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the engine and the city lights flashing by. Vil’s driver keeps his gaze firmly on the road, giving the two of you privacy, but the atmosphere feels oddly intimate.

As you sit there, your mind drifts back to your first date. You were a nervous wreck back then, fumbling with your words, tripping over your feet. Vil, of course, had been effortlessly composed, amused by your flustered state but kind enough to guide you through it.

A small smile tugs at your lips at the memory.

“What’s so amusing?” Vil asks, his voice breaking the silence.

You glance at him, startled. He’s looking at you, his gaze sharp but curious.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shaking your head.

He doesn’t press, but his eyes linger on you longer than usual.

When the car pulls up to your apartment, you thank Vil and step out, but as you turn to leave, you feel his hand wrap around your wrist.

“Vil?” you ask, surprised.

He blinks, as if realizing what he’s done, and lets go immediately. “Nothing,” he says, straightening. “Just… be on time tomorrow.”

You raise an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “I will.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might say something more. But he doesn’t. He nods curtly, turning back to the car.

Inside your apartment, you close the door behind you and slide down to the floor, the tears spilling out before you can stop them.

He’s as beautiful as the day you let him go, and it hurts.

You’re so happy for him, so proud of everything he’s achieved. But God, you miss him.

Meanwhile, Vil sits in the back of the car, staring out the window as the city blurs past. His fingers brush against the empty coffee cup in his bag, the one with the faint smiley face you drew.

His heart aches, but he doesn’t let it show. Not even to himself.

The drama is an undeniable success, catapulting Vil’s already dazzling career into further stratospheric heights. But unexpectedly, the opening theme—your song—becomes the anthem of the year, a chart-topping sensation that has every talk show, magazine, and fan forum buzzing about your collaboration.

You, however, aren’t basking in the glow of success as expected. If anything, you’re moping.

Deuce notices first. “You okay? You look… weird.”

“I don’t look weird.”

“You do,” Grim adds, gnawing on his tuna sandwich. “You look like you ate bad tuna but don’t want to admit it.”

“Thank you for the visual,” you deadpan.

You sigh. Everyone else is ecstatic. Your phone is a whirlwind of congratulatory messages, your manager has been pacing like an over-caffeinated rodent, and your inbox is overflowing with offers. Yet all you can think about is the fact that the drama is over—and so are your obligations to Vil.

No more early mornings brainstorming lyrics with him. No more quiet moments sipping coffee during breaks. No more stolen glances when you thought he wasn’t looking (he always was).

It’s ridiculous, really. You’re thriving. Your career is skyrocketing. You should be ecstatic.

Instead, you feel like you’re bracing for an emotional wrecking ball.

Vil, on the other hand, is furious. Not at the drama’s success, of course—he’s a consummate professional, and his performance has been widely praised. No, Vil is furious because he can’t escape you.

He tried. Oh, how he tried. He kept himself busy with interviews, photoshoots, and premieres, meticulously avoiding the thought of you. But then the making-of video was released.

There you were, sitting beside him, coffee cup in hand, throwing out ideas with that little spark in your eyes. The fans lapped it up, the media ran with it, and now every outlet wanted the two of you together for joint interviews.

Vil could not imagine a worse fate.

The first interview is scheduled for 10 a.m., and you arrive early, clutching your notes like a lifeline.

Vil is already there, of course. He sits with perfect posture, his gaze steely as he scrolls through his phone. When he notices you, his lips press into a thin line.

“Good morning,” you venture hesitantly.

“Is it?” he replies coolly, without looking up.

Ouch.

The producer, blissfully unaware of the tension, claps his hands together as he enters the room. “Ah, our power duo! Ready to make magic?”

You exchange a strained glance with Vil. He raises a single brow, clearly unimpressed.

The interview begins, and for the most part, it’s harmless—questions about the creative process, the drama’s success, and future projects.

Then the interviewer smirks, leaning forward. “You two have such wonderful chemistry. Were you always this in sync, or did it take time to build that dynamic?”

Vil’s jaw tightens. You blink, feeling the weight of his stare.

“Well,” you start, “we worked really hard to make the song fit the tone of the drama. It’s all about teamwork.”

“Hmm, teamwork,” Vil echoes, his tone dangerously smooth. “Yes, that’s one way to put it.”

The interviewer beams, oblivious to the storm brewing. “Fans are dying to know—any plans for another collaboration?”

“Who knows?” Vil says, his smile razor-sharp. “Perhaps fate will decide.”

By the time the interview ends, you’re emotionally drained. Vil, of course, looks as pristine as ever.

“Thanks for being civil,” you mutter as you both head to the parking lot.

“Civil?” Vil’s laugh is devoid of humor. “Darling, if that’s your standard for civility, I fear you’ve been spending too much time with amateurs.”

You glare at him, heat rising in your cheeks. “I didn’t ask for this either, you know. You think it’s easy for me to—”

You stop yourself, biting your tongue. You’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he still affects you.

Vil arches a brow, waiting. When you say nothing, he smirks. “Thought so.”

Later that night, as you scroll through social media, you stumble upon a clip from the interview. It’s nothing scandalous—just a moment where you and Vil exchange a glance and laugh at a question. But the comments are merciless.

> “These two have HISTORY, I can feel it through the screen!” >“Vil looked like he wanted to stab and kiss them at the same time, and honestly, relatable.” >“Petition for them to star in a romantic drama together??”

You groan, throwing your phone onto the couch.

Somewhere across town, Vil is scrolling through the same comments, his expression unreadable. He closes the app with a sigh, but not before saving the clip to his private gallery.

He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s masochism. Maybe it’s hope. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because a part of him isn’t ready to let you go.

The day of the photoshoot arrives, and you’re running on a dangerous combination of nerves, caffeine, and denial. Standing next to Vil for hours under flashing cameras, forced to feign effortless chemistry, feels like a ticking time bomb.

Vil, of course, looks unbothered—poised and perfect as ever, his every movement calculated for maximum elegance. Meanwhile, you’re sweating like a guilty criminal.

“Relax,” Vil murmurs as he adjusts his jacket between shots. “Your unease is practically a stench.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” you grumble.

The shoot goes on without a hitch, until—of course—it doesn’t.

It happens in the middle of a particularly dramatic pose. Vil, perched precariously on a raised platform in heels, steps down just as an intern accidentally knocks over a loose prop. It lands with a sharp crack, and Vil, who’s clearly caught off guard, stumbles and falls.

A collective gasp ripples through the room.

“Are you okay?” someone yelps, rushing toward him.

“Don’t touch me,” Vil snaps, voice sharp as glass. He sits up with a wince, cradling his ankle.

You’ve been keeping your distance the entire shoot, trying to maintain your professional boundary. But the second you see Vil hurt, that self-imposed wall shatters.

“Vil!” you shout, practically tripping over cables as you rush to his side.

He looks up, his expression guarded. For a moment, you hesitate, half-expecting him to snap at you too. But instead, he simply nods, a subtle permission that shocks the entire production team into silence.

With a surprising amount of strength born from sheer adrenaline, you lift Vil into your arms, bridal style.

Someone from production stammers, “We can call for—”

“I’ve got him,” you cut them off, your tone firmer than you expected.

Vil doesn’t protest. He just loops an arm around your neck, tilting his head slightly as though he’s resigned to being carried like royalty. You can feel the weight of everyone’s stares as you carry him out of the studio, whispers trailing behind you like gossip at a high school cafeteria.

The walk to the medic feels like an eternity.

“You’re heavier than you look,” you mutter, trying to distract yourself from the way his perfume is overwhelming your senses.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Vil replies, his voice still sharp but lacking its usual venom.

When you finally reach the medic, you set him down gently, your arms trembling from the effort.

“You can leave,” Vil says as the medic begins their examination.

You nod, turning to go—but your feet refuse to move. Instead, you end up awkwardly sitting on a nearby chair, your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

You tell yourself it’s just to make sure he’s okay. That you’ll leave once the medic gives the all-clear.

Vil doesn’t say anything about your lingering presence. He keeps his eyes closed, his usual pristine mask slipping for just a moment as he exhales slowly.

When the medic finishes and declares him fit to leave, you finally stand. “Well, I should—”

“Thank you,” Vil says softly, cutting you off.

You freeze. For a moment, all you can do is nod before hurrying out of the room, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

Back in your dressing room, you sink into a chair and bury your face in your hands.

“What is wrong with me?” you groan.

Meanwhile, back in the medic’s office, Vil sits in contemplative silence, the ghost of your touch lingering like a memory he can’t shake.

You’re holding Vil’s phone like it’s made of glass, glaring at Rook’s number on your own screen.

“You sure I can’t just leave it at the studio?” you ask for the third time.

“Non, non, mon ami!” Rook’s dramatic voice practically vibrates through your speaker. “Vil has a most pressing engagement this evening, and the phone is vital to his work. You’re already such a dear for delivering it!”

“Couldn’t you do it?”

“Alas, I have an engagement myself. A critical affair, truly,” Rook sighs, his tone more playful than apologetic. “I’ve sent you his address. Bon courage!”

Before you can protest, the line goes dead, leaving you staring at the apartment address like it’s an execution order.

You’re in the car, grumbling to yourself as you mentally rehearse what you’ll say.

Here’s your phone. Bye.

Short. Simple. No emotional mines to step on.

But then you accidentally touch the screen, and his phone lights up.

And there it is. The lock screen.

It’s a selfie of the two of you from years ago, taken on some lazy afternoon. You’re both laughing, your faces smushed together awkwardly. You remember the moment vividly—Vil had just cracked a rare joke, one so unexpected it had you crying with laughter.

And now here it is, preserved like some cruel reminder of what you had.

Your stomach twists.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

The driver glances at you in the rearview mirror, concerned.

You’re ugly sniffling by the time you pull yourself together, the poor driver tactfully pretending not to notice. “Sorry,” you choke out. “Allergies.”

He nods slowly, clearly not buying it.

When you finally arrive at Vil’s penthouse—a sleek, modern building that screams successful celebrity—you take a deep breath and ring the doorbell.

Vil answers the door himself, wearing a loose, elegant cardigan and lounge pants that still manage to look couture. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you.

“You left this,” you blurt, shoving the phone into his hands.

He takes it, his gaze lingering on your face. “Were you crying?”

“No,” you lie, unable to meet his eyes.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

“I’m fine—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” he says, his tone soft but firm.

Despite your better judgment, you step inside.

The interior hits you like a brick wall of memories.

The layout is different, but the details are achingly familiar. The same muted color scheme you’d picked out together. The same arrangement of throw pillows on the couch—even the same colors.

Your eyes dart to the bookshelf, spotting a framed photo of the two of you tucked discreetly among the décor.

It’s too much.

“You did this on purpose,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Vil’s gaze softens. “I didn’t want to forget."

Before you can respond, he goes to the kitchen to get something to drink, leaving you to drown in memories.

You’re sitting on Vil’s pristine couch, sipping tea that you can’t even taste. He’s seated across from you, the distance between you both palpable, like a chasm you’re too afraid to cross.

But Vil doesn’t wait this time. He doesn’t dance around the words.

“Why?” he asks, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence.

“Why what?” you whisper, even though you know exactly what he means.

“Why did you leave?” he snaps, the composure he always clings to starting to crack. “Why did you take my heart—my trust—and then shatter it into a million pieces? Do you have any idea what you did to me?”

You flinch, tears already pooling in your eyes. “I—I thought—”

“No,” Vil interrupts, standing abruptly. His hands tremble as he gestures, his voice rising. “You didn’t think. If you had, you would’ve seen how much I loved you, how much I—” He cuts himself off, his chest heaving.

You’re crying now, hands gripping your knees so tightly they hurt. “I didn’t want to hold you back, Vil. You had so much ahead of you, so much to achieve—”

“And you thought you were the thing holding me back?” he yells, his voice breaking. “You thought I would’ve been better off without you?!”

You nod miserably, choking on a sob. “I wanted you to thrive! I didn’t want to be the thing that kept you from reaching your dreams!”

Vil laughs bitterly, the sound hollow and laced with pain. “And you did just that. You leaving—you leaving—was the only thing that’s held me back. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. You haunt my dreams, my every waking moment. And I hate it. I hate you for it. So tell me—”

He drops to his knees in front of you, his face inches from yours as his voice cracks. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me you don’t love me anymore, so I can move on. Please, I’m begging you.”

You’re sobbing now, shaking your head frantically. “I can’t. I—I don’t hate you. I never stopped loving you. I left because I thought I was doing the right thing, but I see now that I was so, so stupid—”

“Yes, you were,” Vil cuts in, tears streaming down his face. “So stupid. And so cruel.”

His sobs are raw, unrestrained, and they tear at your heart. You cradle his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away his tears even as more fall. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never leave again. I’ll stay. Forever, if you’ll let me.”

Vil closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. When he opens them again, his voice is barely audible. “Don’t promise me that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it,” you say, your voice steady despite your tears. “I’ll stay. I’ll stay.”

Vil exhales shakily, his arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face in your shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispers, and for the first time in years, the weight between you begins to lift.

You’ve barely put the mop down when Vil calls from the living room.

“Hurry up with the tea,” he says without even looking up from his script. “And don’t forget to fold the laundry after this. Properly, please—last time you folded one of my scarves into an actual triangle. Who does that?”

You mutter a half-hearted "Yes, your majesty," and shuffle toward the kitchen. You’re halfway there when Rook bursts in through the front door, a bouquet in hand and stars practically bursting from his eyes.

“Ah, l’amour! C’est magnifique!” Rook declares, startling you so badly you almost drop the tea tray.

Vil raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by the dramatics. “Rook, must you barge in unannounced?”

“Mais oui!” Rook exclaims, twirling dramatically. “How could I not visit when my dear friends have rekindled their eternal flame of passion? Look at you two! You, bossing them around, and them—obediently obeying every word like a loyal partner. True love has won!”

You roll your eyes but can’t fight the grin spreading across your face. Vil, however, looks less charmed. “They’re making up for years of terrible life decisions, Rook,” he says, deadpan.

“Oh, of course,” Rook says, his grin never faltering. “But love is in the air, and I, your humble admirer, could not be happier. Do not deny it—my heart soars!”

You and Vil exchange a look, both exasperated and oddly amused.

“Fine,” Vil says with a sigh. “If it makes you happy, Rook, then yes. True love has won. Now, will you let me enjoy my tea in peace?”

Rook gasps as though he’s been given the greatest gift of all time and promptly sits down, refusing to leave.

When you and Vil finally announce your relationship, the internet goes into an immediate frenzy.

The official post is simple: a photo of the two of you holding hands, captioned, "It’s official."

But the comments?

>"Wow, groundbreaking news. I couldn’t tell from the way Vil stared at them like they invented oxygen." >"You’re telling me they weren’t already dating? I thought this was public knowledge." >"The tension between these two could’ve powered the whole continent. About time." >"Wasn’t their last interview basically a rom-com in disguise?" >"Not even surprised. I’m more shocked it took this long."

Vil reads through the comments with a scoff. “Captain Obvious seems to be having their moment in the spotlight.”

You laugh, peeking at his phone. “I mean, they’re not wrong. We weren’t exactly subtle.”

Vil hums, a small smile tugging at his lips. “At least they approve. For now."

It’s late by the time you both get home, the quiet hum of the city fading behind you as Vil unlocks the door. The soft glow of the apartment feels comforting, like the kind of peace you didn’t know you needed until now.

You both kick off your shoes, and Vil immediately starts fussing with his scarf. You grab it before he can hang it up, putting it neatly on the rack.

As you settle on the couch, Vil joins you, resting his head lightly on your shoulder. For a moment, neither of you speaks, just enjoying the stillness.

“Do you ever wonder why we made it so complicated?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence.

Vil chuckles softly. “Often. But then again…” He tilts his head to look up at you, his violet eyes warm and full of something you can only describe as home. “Perhaps we wouldn’t have appreciated it as much if it had been easy.”

You hum in agreement, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “You’re probably right. But still…”

Vil smirks, pulling you closer. “No more unnecessary complications. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” you whisper, letting yourself finally, fully relax.

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