#because he can’t break his own heart like that

[hoshifighting]

𖧷 crybaby

— synopsis: seungcheol can’t help but be a crybaby every time you break his heart, yet he always comes running back to you, desperate for your attention. even when you leave him cold for days or push him away, he can’t seem to stay away. his friends and family don’t get it—they hate how you treat him.

— WC: 4.6k — WARNINGS: agnst, smut, emotionallly detached!reader, emotionally attached!seungcheol, crying, he kind of pisses his friends and family out because of his whiny ass, explicit language, blowjob, cock riding, clit stimulation, face slapping, choking. — inspired by: cry baby by megan thee stallion — ''his friends and his dad hate me, I broke his lil' heart, he's a crybaby"

seungcheol was such a fucking crybaby. like, how does a man that big, that beefy, built like he could crush a watermelon between his thighs, have the emotional resilience of a damp tissue? 5′10 of pure gym dedication and somehow, here he was, sulking like a kicked puppy in the corner of his own damn birthday party. honestly, you broke his heart so many times you’d lost count, but the man was like a boomerang—always came back. didn’t matter how hard you threw him.

his friends absolutely hated you. well, maybe hate was strong—more like they hated how he acted because of you. jeonghan said you lived rent-free in his head, which you knew was true. but the real kicker was his family. they couldn’t stand hearing your name. apparently, he cried into his whiskey glass over you at his last family dinner. like, straight-up sniffles and shaky voice in front of his dad. the boys’ nights weren’t any better; they’d barely crack open a soju bottle before seungcheol was teary-eyed, rambling about you like you were the love of his life and not the emotional hurricane you were.

but that’s the thing, though. seungcheol was built for family. the whole package—white picket fence, Sunday brunches, PTA meetings. meanwhile, you were emotionally unavailable as fuck. couldn’t even commit to a favorite boba flavor, let alone a relationship. and now, you’d ghosted him for a week. a whole-ass week. no texts, no calls, not even the stupid memes you usually sent him at 3 a.m.

today was his birthday. his fucking birthday.

the party at his place was in full swing—laughter, good food, good drinks, jeonghan and mingyu lowkey roasting him about his “girlfriend” (air quotes and all). his parents were there too, of course. his brother had even flown in. but cheol barely moved from the couch all night. just sat there, one arm slung over the backrest, looking at his phone like a guy waiting for a miracle.

because in his head, if you were his girlfriend—like, properly his—you’d be here. with him. celebrating, holding his hand, maybe sitting in his lap. but instead, he got radio silence.

“bro, seriously, what the fuck is your problem?” jeonghan hissed, leaning over the couch to snatch the beer from cheol’s hand. “your mom’s asking why you look like you’re about to cry into the birthday cake.”

“i’m fine,” cheol muttered, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

“no, you’re not. you’ve checked your phone like a hundred times, and it’s giving ‘sad loser.’ cut it out before mingyu makes a meme out of you.”

but cheol didn’t cut it out. he just stared at the screen, lips pulled into a pout so tragic it could’ve been a fucking Greek play. the hours dragged. one by one, people started leaving, and eventually, it wasn’t even his birthday anymore.

august 9th. 9:54 p.m.

cheol sighed, running a hand through his hair, looking like he was about to combust.

and then, his phone buzzed.

one message.

from: future girlfriend ❤️ - “come over.”

that’s it. two words, no explanation. cheol shot up from the couch so fast he nearly knocked over the coffee table.

jeonghan raised an eyebrow. “where the hell are you going?”

cheol didn’t answer. he was already grabbing his keys, muttering something about how he’d “she texted me.”

he hard his friend groan out in defeat, disappointment, some even surprised that seungcheol would leave his own party like that.

while you were still just chilling at your place, sitting there like nothing had happened, waiting to see if this man who you’d left on read for a week would actually show up.

spoiler alert—he would.

the door wasn’t even locked—like you’d left it wide open for him, knowing he’d come running the second you told him to. seungcheol stepped inside your apartment, and it was so you in a way that made his chest tighten. that familiar scent? god, it was everywhere. in the air, clinging to the couch, the walls, probably gonna soak into his clothes and stay there for days, torturing him. like you’d marked your territory without even trying.

he moved on autopilot, his feet carrying him down the hallway to your bedroom like he didn’t even need directions. the door was cracked open, and he froze for a second when he saw you.

you were standing there, slipping a sheer robe over your shoulders—transparent. and it wasn’t doing a damn thing to hide you. the way the fabric barely skimmed over your hips, nipples peeking through, leading his eyes all the way down to the hem that just teased your thighs… it was insane.

you turned your head slightly, catching him in the doorway like some kind of lost puppy. your expression was unreadable, but he looked at you like you were magic or something—eyes wide, lips slightly parted. pathetic.

you stepped toward him, and before he could even process it, his hands moved to your waist like they belonged there. your arms looped lazily around his neck, and the warmth of your skin had his breath hitching. you glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall—10:01 p.m.—then met his gaze, your lips curling.

“happy birthday… birthday boy,” you said, your voice smooth as velvet.

he exhaled shakily, his eyes fluttering shut like the sound of your voice was too much. his brows knit together in that pitiful little frown you’d missed more than you cared to admit.

“why’d you leave me like that?” he muttered, voice cracking slightly. “did… did i do something? i’m sorry, i—”

you didn’t answer, didn’t even flinch, because honestly? you didn’t have a reason. there was no deep, dark explanation, no hidden agenda. you just did.

instead, you pushed him backward toward the bed, your hands firm on his chest. he stumbled slightly but kept talking, his voice climbing higher in pitch.

“please, just—just tell me. what did i do? i can fix it, i swear, just—”

you pushed him harder this time, and he landed on the bed with a bounce. he stared up at you, eyes glassy, lips trembling. “answer me,” he whined, his voice soft and desperate.

“shhh,” you hushed, pressing a finger to his lips.

he whimpered at the touch, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “why—why won’t you just—”

your hand came down on his cheek in a sharp slap. not too hard, but enough to make him moan, his mouth falling open in a perfect little “o.”

“quiet,” you said firmly, watching as his expression shifted. the sting seemed to zap the fight out of him, his mouth closing into a pout as his tears spilled over.

“aww,” you cooed, leaning down to brush your thumb under his eye. “don’t cry, birthday boy. let me give you a gift.”

his gaze flickered immesiately. a gift? he nodded eagerly.

“you gonna be good for me?” you asked, tilting your head.

“y-yeah,” he stammered, his voice so small it made you smile.

your hands moving to his belt. the way he watched you, like you were about to destroy his dignity, was almost comical.

you tugged his pants and underwear down in with a graceful sweep, leaving him bare and exposed. his cock was already rock hard, flushed red and leaking precum that smeared against his stomach.

“look at you,” you teased, wrapping a hand around the base. his breath hitched at the contact, his hips jerking slightly. “crying all over yourself, huh?”

he let out a choked whimper, his hands fisting the sheets beside him. “i—i can’t help it,” he whispered.

“poor baby,” you mocked, your thumb swiping over the tip to collect the sticky wetness. his whole body twitched at the motion, his eyes squeezing shut as more tears slipped down his cheeks.

you leaned down, letting your lips hover just above him. “you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? never let you have it before, but tonight… you’re special.”

he nodded frantically, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. “please,” he begged, his voice breaking.

you smiled, finally taking him into your mouth. the heat and wetness made him sob outright, his hands flying to your hair but stopping short—like he was scared to touch you without permission.

“oh—fuck, fuck, fuck,” he babbled, his thighs trembling as you worked him over. your tongue dragged along the veins as your hand played with his balls, and he keened, his head falling back against the pillows.

“so good,” he choked out, tears streaming down his face. “m-missed you.”

you hummed around him, and the vibrations nearly sent him over the edge. his whole body tensed, his hips bucking slightly as he moaned your name.

“gonna be good for me?” you asked, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze.

“y-yes,” he stammered, his eyes glassy and desperate. “so good, i’ll be so good, please—”

“then take it,” you said, and he did.

your tongue swirled around the swollen tip of his cock, drawing a shuddering breath out of him that turned into a whimper when you pulled back slightly, letting a string of spit connect your lips to his flushed skin. his chest heaved, his abs clenching under the weight of your stare.

you fold your tongue up and slid along the underside of his length, like you had all the time in the world. his thighs trembled as you worked your way down, your nails scratching lightly along the sides of his hips, keeping him still. by the time you reached his base, his whole body was taut, his hands fisted so tightly into the sheets you thought he might rip them.

“you’re so sensitive,” you murmured, letting your breath ghost over his skin.

“i can’t—” he choked, cutting himself off with a high-pitched moan when your tongue flicked over the soft skin of his balls.

you smiled against him, pressing a kiss to one of the heavy globes before taking it into your mouth, sucking gently. his hips jerked off the bed, but your hand pressed firmly against his stomach, pinning him down.

“stay still,” you ordered.

“i’m trying—fuck, i’m trying,” he babbled, his voice cracking. his head lolled to the side, his lips parted in a silent cry as you continued to suck and lick at him, your tongue tracing slow, wet circles.

your free hand moved back to his cock, wrapping around the shaft and stroking it slowly, your thumb smearing the precum that was steadily leaking from the tip.

“look at me,” you said, your voice softer this time.

his eyes fluttered open, glassy and red-rimmed, his gaze locking onto yours. the sight of you, lips wrapped around him, your hand working him in tandem, had him letting out a desperate, broken sound that went straight to your core.

“you like this?” you asked, pulling back slightly, your hand still stroking him as you kissed along his inner thigh.

“yes,” he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “fuck, yes. feels so good.”

“yeah?” you teased, your lips quirking into a smirk as you nipped at his skin. “you’ve been waiting for this? waiting for me to touch you like this?”

he nodded frantically, “always,” he admitted. “always wanted you like this. please don’t stop.”

you purred, letting your tongue glide back up to his base before taking him into your mouth again, this time deeper, letting him feel the heat of your throat. “fuck—oh my god,” he sobbed, his hands twitching at his sides, like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare.

“go on,” you encouraged, pulling off just enough to speak. “touch me. you’re being good, aren’t you?”

his hands immediately flew to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he let out another choked moan. “yes,” he breathed, “yes, so good, i’ll be so good for you.”

you hollowed your cheeks, bobbing your head slowly, your hand working in time with your movements. his thighs shook beneath you, his breath hitching every time your tongue pressed against the sensitive vein running along the underside of his cock.

“you’re so fucking pretty like this,” you said, pulling back just enough to let your spit-coated hand continue stroking him. “all flushed and crying for me. does it feel that good?”

“so good!” he gasped, tears spilling over again as he bucked his hips involuntarily.

you hummed in approval, your tongue flicking over the tip before dipping lower again, taking one of his balls into your mouth once more. the way his entire body shook beneath you, his voice breaking into desperate little cries—it was everything.

“you’re mine,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his skin. “aren’t you?”

“yours!” he sobbed, his voice cracking. “all yours...”

you pulled back, your lips slick with spit and precum, watching as seungcheol’s chest heaved like he’d just run a marathon. his head was tilted back against the pillows, mouth slightly open, a trail of drool glistening at the corner of his lips. his cock twitched in your hand, still throbbing and leaking like it couldn’t survive a second without you.

“cheol,” you said, your voice sharp enough to cut through the haze.

he didn’t answer. his eyes were half-lidded, rolling back as another pathetic whimper slipped past his lips.

“yah,” you hissed, your free hand moving down to cup his balls, squeezing them just enough to snap him out of it.

he jerked, his hips twitching as a choked cry tore from his throat. his wide, glassy eyes met yours, full of confusion, like he wasn’t sure whether to apologize or beg for more.

“you listening now?” you asked, your tone playful but firm.

“y-yeah,” he stammered.

you smirked, leaning forward just enough to let your breath fan over his cock. “good. now, tell me—do you want me to make you cum like this?” your hand gave his length a slow, deliberate stroke, watching as his eyes fluttered shut again. “or do you want me to ride you?”

his eyes snapped open at the second option, but he still didn’t answer. his mouth opened and closed like he was trying to speak but couldn’t get the words out, and you swore he looked like a little kid trying to pick between candy flavors.

“cheol,” you said again, your grip on his balls tightening just enough to make him yelp. “i’m not giving you both, so choose. now.”

he whimpered, his lower lip trembling as he looked at you like you were some kind of goddess and he didn’t want to disappoint.

“i—i want…” he trailed off, his voice cracking as his cock twitched in your hand again.

“come on,” you urged. “use your words, birthday boy.”

his cheeks flushed deeper, and he swallowed hard before finally stammering out, “i want you to ride me.”

“do you?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as your hand gave him one last teasing stroke.

“mhmm,” he breathed, his voice shaky but certain. “please. want to feel you. need to—need to be close to you.”

you smiled, your chest swelling. “good boy,” you murmured, releasing him completely and watching as he whimpered at the cut-off.

you climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips as his hands immediately flew to your thighs, gripping them like he was scared you’d disappear—again. the way his eyes roamed over your body, taking in every inch of exposed skin through the transparency of the robe, and the big slit that have been created as the robe opened up, made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

you reached between your legs, guiding his cock to your entrance, letting the tip tease your folds just enough to have him squirming beneath you.

“mm..fuck” he groaned, his head falling back against the pillows. “you’re so wet. is that—fuck, is that for me?”

“all for you,” you lied, he knew you were mocking him as you slowly sank down onto him.

the stretch was so good, never fails to make you arch your back, his cock filled you so perfectly had your breath hitching. but the sound he made was way down pathetic. it was half moan, half sob, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“oh my god,” he choked, his hands flying to your waist as his hips jerked involuntarily. “you’re so—so tight. best birthday gift ever.”

you rolled your hips slowly, letting him feel every inch of your gummy walls, and his grip tightened, you can feel his strong fingers marking your meat.

“you like being used like this?”

“yes!” he gasped, his voice high and broken. “love it. love you.”

you froze for half a second, the words catching you off guard, but you quickly recovered, your lips curling into a smirk. “that so?”

“yeah,” he breathed, his eyes squeezing shut as you started to move again. “fuck, i love you. love everything about you.”

every roll of your hips, pulled more sounds from him than you thought possible—moans, gasps, sobs, all spilling from his lips like a declaration.

your hips moved in a steady rhythm, dragging his cock in and out of you in a way that made your thighs burn, but the way seungcheol looked at you—like you were the fucking universe—made it impossible to stop. you clenched around him, squeezing tightly, and his mouth fell open, a strained whimper spilling out as his fingers dug into your hips as you rocked your pussy back and forth.

you pushed his shirt up higher, your eyes falling on his chest, where his nipples were flushed a deep red against his tan skin. his brows furrowed in confusion when he noticed your gaze.

“what?” he asked, his voice hoarse and breathless.

“you don’t even know, do you?” you teased, your nails trailing up his chest. “how red they get when you’re about to cum?”

“what?” he repeated, his tone higher this time, all embarassed.

“oh, baby,” you cooed, leaning down to brush your lips against his. “you’re so fucking cute.”

his face flushed even deeper, and you felt his cock twitch inside you as your hands wrapped around his neck. his eyes widened immediately, his breath hitching as he stared up at you, his lips parted in surprise.

“you like this?” you asked, your grip tightening just enough to make his pulse race beneath your fingers.

he let out a strangled moan, his hands flying up to your thighs like he didn’t know whether to stop you or hold on tighter. “y-yeah,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “fuck, yeah.”

“then be good for me, cum for me, cheol. now.”

his entire body tensed, his hips jerking up. you clenched around him again, your grip on his neck firm as you ground down harder as the first waves of your orgasm hit you.

you raised your hips just in time, letting his cock slip out of you as he spilled all over his stomach, ropes of cum painting his skin. his head fell back against the pillows, his chest heaving as he let out a broken sob, his hands trembling against your thighs.

you collapsed onto his chest, your hand moving between your legs to circle your clit frantically, your moans muffled against his ear as you chased the last remnants of your own orgasm.

“oh my fucking god...” you panted, your fingers working faster as your hips ground against his thigh.

he turned his head slightly, his eyes hazy as he watched you, his lips parted in awe. “you’re…so beautiful...”

you moaned loudly as your orgasm hit you, your body shaking against his as you buried your face in his neck, your hand slowing to a stop.

as the high ebbed away, your body melted into his, your limbs heavy and your breath evening out. you let your full weight settle on him, and he groaned softly, the sound less of discomfort and more of deep, satisfied contentment. his arms came around you instinctively, holding you close, his hands splayed wide against your back like he never wanted to let go.

you lay there, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. you tried to ignore how your own heart raced, guilt creeping in as you replayed the last week in your head.

sometimes, you really felt like shit about the way you treated him. seungcheol was too good for you, with that big heart of his—always giving, always forgiving. the problem wasn’t him. it was you.

you hoped he couldn’t feel the way your heart thudded against his chest, the weight of your remorse making it beat faster.

you lifted your head slightly, pressing soft kisses to his cheek, your fingers tangling in his hair as you gently scratched at his scalp. he sighed, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“cheol,” you murmured, your voice softer than you planned. “can i give you one more gift tonight?”

he didn’t answer right away. his eyes drifted to the ceiling, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“only one?” he asked after a moment.

you hummed, matching his teasing tone. “yeah. just one. better make it count, birthday boy.”

he chuckled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. instead, his gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your back.

“i don’t think you can give me what i really want...” he said finally.

you tilted your head, your brows furrowing. “what do you mean?”

he hesitated before he turned his head to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

“i want to be here with you... but knowing that you… that you actually like me back.”

he held your gaze, his eyes raw and vulnerable, waiting for a response that you didn’t know how to give.

“cheol, you know that right now i—” you started, your voice cracking.

but he shook his head, his lips curving into a small, sad smile. “it’s okay,” he said quickly, though the way his arms tightened around you betrayed his words. “i didn’t mean to ruin the moment. i just… i had to say it.”

you didn’t know what to say. guilt churned in your stomach, your heart pounding against his chest as his words echoed in your head.

he deserved so much more than you could give, and yet here he was, holding you like you were his whole world.

seungcheol let out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against the curve of your spine. “but since that won’t happen…” he trailed off, his voice wistful.

your chest tightened, the words striking a nerve you weren’t ready to deal with. you stayed silent, pressing your cheek against his shoulder, hoping he couldn’t see the way your brows knitted together.

“can you…” he hesitated, his fingers twitching against your skin. “can you come to my birthday party tonight? i know it’s late, but it’s probably still going. i’d love to see you there.”

you froze. you knew what he was asking—he wanted you to show up for him, to step into his world, even if it made you uncomfortable.

“cheol,” you said slowly, lifting your head to look at him. his expression was expectant.

“please,” he added, whispering in an almost pityful way. “just for a little while. it’s my birthday.”

you bit your lip, glancing away. the idea of walking into a room full of people who probably hated you wasn’t exactly appealing, but the way he looked at you, made it hard to say no.

“fine,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.

“really?” he asked, his face lighting up instantly.

“yeah, really,” you said, rolling your eyes.

he sat up, pulling you with him.

you groaned, pushing against his chest. “ugh, fine. let me get ready, then.”

he followed you into the bathroom like a puppy, leaning against the doorway as you washed your face and fixed your hair. his gaze was soft, trailing over you like he was memorizing every detail.

“stop staring,” you said, your tone sharp but lacking any real bite.

“can’t help it,” he replied, his voice warm. “you’re gorgeous.”

you rolled your eyes again, but your cheeks flushed anyway, and you hated how easily he got to you.

“you should get ready too,” you said, pointing at him with a toothbrush in hand.

“i’m fine like this,” he said with a shrug, gesturing to his wrinkled shirt and jeans.

“you’re not showing up to your own party looking like you just got laid,” you shot back, smirking when his ears turned red.

“fine,” he grumbled, shuffling off.

by the time you were both dressed and ready, the nerves in your stomach were in full swing. seungcheol, however, looked ridiculously pleased with himself, his hand finding yours as he led you toward the door.

seungcheol practically vibrated with happiness as he led you up to the front door of his house. he tried so damn hard to play it cool, to keep his steps measured and his grin from stretching too wide. but his chest felt like it might burst at any moment, the thought of walking in with you by his side enough to make him wanna jump like some kind of elf in a fairytale.

this was it. you were here. about to meet his family, his friends. his whole world.

he took a deep breath and opened the door, immediately met with a chorus of voices.

“finally!” jeonghan shouted, throwing his arms up like he’d been waiting for years.

“where the hell have you been?” his brother added exasperatedly.

seungcheol pressed his lips together, holding back a smile as he glanced over his shoulder at you. “i, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down for a second before looking back up, his voice soft but proud. “i needed to bring someone special before the ‘happy birthday.’”

the room fell silent as you stepped out from behind him, your hands clutching the straps of your bag like a lifeline. your small, tentative smile was enough to stop everyone in their tracks.

you shifted awkwardly under the weight of their stares, the sound of the music thumping softly in the background the only thing filling the silence.

and that’s when it hit them.

oh.

this was the reason seungcheol had been acting so out of character, the reason he’d been spiraling for months. you weren’t just some girl he was into. no, you were a fucking vision. gorgeous in a way that made the room seem brighter. mesmerizing without even trying.

now they understood. now it all made sense.

of course he was crazy over you. of course he’d been spiraling. who wouldn’t be?

but the realization also came with a quieter, more awkward truth: this was the girl they’d all cursed out in private. the girl they’d ranted about after every drunken night where seungcheol had cried into his beer or disappeared to avoid them.

they exchanged quick glances. yeah, they got it now, but it didn’t erase the fact that they’d judged you before even meeting you.

a nagging question none of them dared to voice but couldn’t shake.

were you really worth it?

jeonghan, the one who never held his tongue, raised a brow and smirked. “well, shit. now i get it.”

seungcheol’s face flushed a deep red, his hand instinctively finding the small of your back as if to shield you from the inevitable onslaught of teasing.

but instead of cracking a joke, jeonghan just smiled and nodded, his eyes softening. “welcome,” he said, his voice genuine.

the others slowly followed suit, their smiles tentative but warm as they tried to mask their lingering curiosity.

and as seungcheol led you further into the house, his hand never leaving your back, he felt like he’d just won the lottery. because for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t walking into this house feeling defeated or embarrassed.

this time, he was walking in with you.

© 2024 Hoshi Fighting | All Rights Reserved

[emmcfrxst]

I’m wondering how Laura would react if reader and OldMan!Logan got into a fight? Maybe they tried to keep it away from her but unfortunately the girls too much like her father and ends up hearing most of it.

Ugh and imagine if she saw Logan storming off not realizing that he left you in tears…

(I’m feeling extremely angsty tonight.)

TW: MENTIONS OF DEATH, TRAUMA, ILLNESS, UNHEALTHY COPING MECHANISMS, SUICIDAL IDEATIONS & GOD (I guess????) Set before Logan gets, as nonnie put it, chest-fucked, so during the period of time everyone’s trying to escape the fucking Reavers while figuring shit out. It got too long so it’s under the cut

You don’t argue that often with Logan— your relationship is solid and although communication was rocky at first, he’s made significant progress and is able to hold a serious conversation without immediately jumping back into his defense mechanisms (misguided anger, deflection and ultimately fleeing were his initial reactions when you tried establishing proper communication about feelings in the beginning). His progress, however, is rendered completely useless when the conversation is about his rapidly declining health; he’s immediately on the defensive, body going rigid and eyes going dark, jaw clenched so hard you’re afraid he might shatter it— he hates thinking about his newfound mortality, not necessarily because he’s afraid of death (it’s actually quite the opposite, he seeks death in a way, longing for the pain and the nightmares to just stop once and for all) but because he knows that dying means leaving you on your own and that’s something he can’t bear to think about— the guilt he feels at the thought of leaving you is immeasurable; it overwhelms him entirely because he knows that losing him would break you and it makes him feel physically ill to think about the consequences. So in true Logan fashion, he blows you off whenever you bring up your concerns, stating that he’s fine, and the anger he feels at himself and his body for failing him ends up being taken out on you through biting words he regrets as soon as they slip from his tongue.

“I’m the one who’s fuckin’ dying, for Christ’s sake, quit your fuckin’ yapping.” It’s a phrase he regrets uttering for multiple reasons: he hates being rude to you in any way, shape or form because you’re the last person who deserves to be subjected to his emotional constipation— you’ve taken all of his broken parts into your hands and pieced them back together with your unconditional love and unwavering patience, you’ve made him feel loved, you’ve made him feel alive, and most importantly, you’ve shown him that he doesn’t have to feel guilty or bitter about his existence. You’ve done so much for him throughout the years and he fucking hates himself for letting his emotions get the better of him like that. The other thing that bothers him deeply about his reaction is the verbal acknowledgment of his condition; it’s something that he somehow believes can be ignored, as if denying it could make it any less real. Acknowledging that he’s dying makes bile rise up his throat— it’s a bitter feeling, really, because he used to wish for death everyday before he met you, heart and mind torn to shreds from years of horrific abuse and unwavering violence; he even prayed to whatever God was out there, despite not being a believer, to just let him go, to free him of the chains of trauma that bound his psyche. His prayers were left unanswered, Logan only accumulating more trauma as the years went by— he can’t count how many times he’s cursed God for making him go through what he’s gone through, needing someone to blame and wishing for a way to end it all. Ironically, Logan’s immortality only seems to waver once he starts treasuring life; it feels like a stab in the back, a cruel joke orchestrated by God who finally decided to answer his prayers now that he wishes he could take them back. The feeling of betrayal only seems to further fuel Logan’s anger towards his illness, which, combined with the guilt he feels at the thought of leaving you alone, causes him to act out whenever you bring up the subject. You take offense in the words thrown at you, hurt by the reminder of his impending death and the way he navigates it, arguing back that you do this because you care about him, for fuck’s sake. Unfortunately, that only seems to make things worse, upsetting Logan further and bringing back years’ worth of feeling unworthy of your affections.

“That’s your fuckin’ problem bub. I told ya you shouldn’t waste your time with a man like me.” he physically winces as he utters those words, wishing he could unsee the way it makes your entire face crumble with despair— it’s a slap in the face, really, to be brought back to square one and have him reject you in this way. Logan flees before either of you can say anything else, slamming the front door behind him and walking in no particular direction until he feels like he can finally breathe again, leaving you in tears at home. Laura, although playing in her makeshift room at the time, hears the whole exchange as clear as day due to her enhanced senses, her fists clenching with rage when her ears pick up the sound of your stifled sobs. You feel her before you even hear her, your body tensing as a pair of small, skinny arms wrap around your middle, a head resting along your spine. After the initial alarm of feeling someone touching you, you can’t help but let out a watery laugh at just how easy it seemed for her to surprise you, turning around in Laura’s arms so you can look down at her. A frown is etched onto her features, lips puckered into an angry pout as she hugs you tighter, insulting Logan in spanish under her breath. It makes you laugh again, this time softly, your hand smoothing out her hair as you sniffle.

“I’m okay, Laura. I’m okay.” she glares up at you, unconvinced, giving you another squeeze and reluctantly allowing her features to relax when you gently run a fingertip across the furrow of her brows— despite not being together for long, you find that you’re able to soothe Laura quite easily; there is a connection between the two of you like you’ve never felt before, a bond that you feel like you were always destined to have. Your heart warms at the obvious way the child seems to care for you, wanting nothing more than to make all of her worries disappear.

“He made you cry.” her voice is so quiet that you almost miss it, a soft, indignant noise leaving her at the sight of your tear-stained cheeks. You sniffle again, free hand moving up to wipe at your eyes, the other caressing her hair lovingly.

“I know.” you don’t say that it’s okay because it’s not— Logan crossed a line that you thought had been worn down ages ago, and you’ll be damned before you ever teach Laura that hurtful words can be brushed aside so easily without an apology. It’s for her as much as for you; you’re aware that you deserve respect even when Logan is upset, and you’re not about to stomp down on your self-worth to coddle him when he’s done something wrong. He’ll apologize, you’re sure of it, but until that happens, you’re not going to pretend that his reaction was acceptable. It’s something you categorically refuse to do, and it’s one of the many reasons Logan fell in love with you in the first place. You know your worth.

“I’ll be okay soon.” you tell her honestly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. She studies you for a moment longer before nodding her head, allowing you to lead her onto the couch where she curls up next to you.

You’re asleep by the time Logan starts walking back towards the house but Laura hears the crunching of sand and gravel under his shoes, quietly untangling herself from you and moving to the side of the door, frown back on her features. Logan barely has the time to pass the threshold before she’s on him, jumping onto his back like a feral animal and punching his shoulders repeatedly, growling when he grabs her and holds her still, visibly confused and irritated by her behavior.

“Don’t even think about it.” he warns her when she makes to bite the hand that holds her down, frowning down at her just as hard she does up to him. She struggles in his hold, trying to hit him again, making him grunt in pain.

“You made her cry, coño.” the words make Logan freeze in his tracks, eyes falling on your sleeping form on the couch, noting the way your eyes look reddened and the tear tracks on your cheeks. Nausea immediately strikes him like lightning, the expression on his face seeming to satisfy Laura as she stops struggling, frown still evident on her face. She sits up and watches silently once he lets her go, staying nearby to see the situation unfold.

You awake to a calloused hand gently running over the plane of your cheekbone, eyes opening to meet Logan’s remorseful ones. He’s sitting on the ground next to the couch, looming over you in a way that makes you feel safe like no one else ever could.

“Hey.” his voice is hoarse but soft, thumb swiping back and forth over your skin in a silent act of comfort. It makes you smile despite your grogginess, and you feel more than you hear Logan releasing a soft, relieved inhale through his nose.

“Hey.” you answer him just as softly, leaning into his touch and closing your eyes again, content to feel him again.

“I’m sorry.” the words sound heavy coming out of his mouth, a grim expression taking over his features as he wipes off the remnants of your earlier tears.

“I know.” you reply simply, turning your head to press a gentle kiss against the roughened palm of his hand. It makes him exhale shakily, shoulders squaring as he prepares himself for the discomfort of the following words.

“Didn’t mean to snap at you, baby. I just… I feel helpless, I guess, and it fuckin’ pisses me off. Never had to worry about dying and leaving you alone before.” he says the words slowly, trying to make the last sentence sound like a joke, tone falling flat. You can tell he’s uncomfortable with the discussion but he pushes through, causing you to feel a rush of sympathy— he’s trying, you know he’s trying, and that means something to you.

“I know. I feel helpless, too. But you have to remember that you’re not alone. Not anymore. And I’m not going anywhere. No matter what happens, it’s you and me until the end.” he laughs wetly at your words, nodding his head and swallowing thickly before speaking again.

“I know.” this time it’s his turn to provide reassurance, the two little words more than enough for the both of you. The feeling of his warm lips connecting with your forehead makes your eyes flutter shut, hand coming up to lay over the one he’s curled around the back of your neck.

“Kid’s kicked my ass for making you cry.” he mumbles against your skin, the amusement in his voice clear. It makes you snort in surprise, unaware that Laura had intervened before you woke up.

“Did she? Well, you kinda deserved it.” your answer is playful, tone devoid of its previous heaviness, your eyes meeting Laura’s over Logan’s shoulder for a brief moment before focusing on your lover once again.

“That I did.” he agrees simply, a soft, tender, apologetic smile on his face. You lean further into him when he kisses your nose, heart feeling lighter than it had in a while.

You were going to be okay.

[luveline]

hi again!! i saw you mention wanting to write for prince!steve, and i also saw that you write with dialogue prompts so i present to you:

A: “I’ll take care of you.”

B: “It’s rotten work.”

A: “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

maybe the reader gets injured doing something for training, but it’s all up to you!! i’m sure we’ll love it regardless. kisses!!

thank you for requesting! —prince steve au. fem, 1.5k

Pain was familiar before you came to the palace. Small pains and big, all kinds of hurting, poverty-driven neglect leading to toothaches and back pain, twisted ankles walked on without choice, sore skin otherwise ignored. It didn’t matter if you got hurt as long as you lived. 

Not in a dramatic sense. It didn’t feel dramatic at the time, only miserable. You go to work with a migraine because you can’t afford not to. You walk home in the dark because the mag-trams are getting too expensive. You break your holo, so you make do without one. You pick your head up to keep looking both ways and you get everywhere you need to go because you need to work, to get paid, to eat, to work. 

That’s how it always was. So getting sick didn’t matter. An injury was temporary pain that your body would fix eventually, and if it didn’t, well, it’s cheaper to pull a tooth than pay to have it filled. 

You were used to your sorry life, and then you met Steve. Tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed Steve. Looking at him sometimes is enough to make your whole body a void for things you used to complain about; you wake up across from him in the big bed and forget you can feel pain at all, if only because he’s already awake, waiting for you to open your eyes before he rests his hand on your cheek. You met him and your soul-mark glowed with a lacy, almost feathered light, your wrist braceleted with white colour that soon faded to mellow blue. 

When you first meet your soulmate, the colours you make tend to shift. It takes time for your heart to decide if love is pink or orange or blue. It seems to have settled now —when Steve kisses you, your mark turns a Gaussian amber. When you kiss back, his mark turns light pink, like the lotus flowers he keeps in his private gardens. 

Right now, your mark hums an angry red. It’s typical in its colour, and it’s common. Most people’s marks turn red when they’re hurting. Yours is a crimson so dark it looks black in the dim lighting, and it throbs in time with your pain like a vexing metronome. You’ll never be able to put it from your mind if the mark continues to remind you. 

Steve is uncharacteristically quiet at your side. His own mark is lit in sympathy, mostly pink with his affection, but threaded in red like spider lily flowers blooming against his forearm. 

He shifts beside you. It’s been more than a month since your wedding, and yet he’s careful with you. Almost shy, though he can be brash and cocky. You know intimately how sweet Steve can be when he’s in love. 

It doesn’t make any sense. 

“How’s the pain now?” he asks, his eyebrows pulled together at their starts. 

“Not so bad.” 

“Could you rate it on a scale? If zero was no pain at all, and ten were enough to warrant another dose of white willow bark?” 

“What if I were at a five?” you ask. 

“A half dose and a good kiss?” 

You turn his way but flinch when it puts undue pressure on your leg, a stab of hot pain jumping from your fractured tibia to deep inside of your hips. Steve sees your wincing and presses your shoulder into the bed, leaning over you, a scolding he doesn’t give in the pinch of his eyebrows as he leans down to kiss you. It’s more caress than kiss, his hand cupping your cheek, his lips barely touching yours before he rests his nose at your brow. “Can you stay still?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“Just don’t want you to hurt yourself again.” 

He lifts his head. Holds your cheek for longer than you can work out why, dotting another soft kiss to your nose before slinking out of bed to find you some white willow bark tincture. It’s a potent pain reliever. You shouldn’t have too much of it. If you were still living your past life, you’d be chewing on ginger skins trying to limp your way back into work. There’d be no time to stop. 

“Steve,” you say, watching him a small ways away at the table of your quarters. He turns to you. “I don’t really need anything else.” 

“You said it’s hurting?” Steve pipettes the tincture into a cup of water. “You said a five, and you lie. Knowing you, it’s closer to an eight, you just don’t want to tell me.” 

It might not be as extreme as an eight now, laying down and bandaged, but it hurts badly and a tincture would solve this. Still, you say, “It’s fine, I don’t need it.” 

He brings the glass regardless and puts it on the nightstand. Your bed is yards too big for one person, even two, but when Steve sits next to you he leaves no room between you. He looks down at you fondly. Brown hair like down feather falls against his forehead. 

“You’re going to be in pain for a long time.” He brings a hand to your cheek again. “It might sound tame, a plateau fracture, but that’s still a fracture. You know doctors say fracture when they mean broken, right? You broke your leg. It’s okay to want pain relief.” 

“I knew that. I didn’t know you knew it.” 

“Impolite.” He ducks down to look you in the eyes. You’re a little skewiff, straight to his sideways, but it gets a point across. He wants to kiss you while you’ve said something maddening. “I don’t see why you’re so insistent on pretending it hasn’t happened and that you’re fine. You got hurt, and you’ll stay hurt for a while. It might be weeks of bed and– and you need to be looked after. I don’t know why you’re so guilty about it.” 

“I’m not guilty,” you deny guilty, turning your face to lean into his hand, rather than continue to face his imploring gaze. “I just… I’m not used to this. Before, if something went wrong, I couldn’t just lay down and wait to get better, and I surely wouldn’t be laying here with doctors and servants and the ladies in waiting all trying to make sure– It’s like it’s not my fault, and that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t want to be a burden on everyone. More than I already am,” you add, a bitter mumble nearly lost to his palm. 

He makes a promise, then, turning your face to the light. “I’ll take care of you,” he says. 

“It’s rotten work.” 

Steve shakes his head gently. “Not to me. Not if it’s you.” 

You press your tongue to your teeth, worried you’ll say something you’ll regret. You don’t want him to go. You want him to mean exactly what he says, to stay here and take care of you, and to enjoy doing it. Wouldn’t it be nice to be loved for love's sake? 

Steve shuffles inward and encourages your head into his lap, thrusting pillows aside to take up station against your headboard. He frames your face, upside down, before both hands begin to run down your arms. A hug, in a way, as he twists his face to kiss the skin beside your eye. You squint at the proximity. 

“You’re not a burden,” he says, hands climbing upwards now, warm and steady where they travel, “you’re my wife. My cherished wife, remember?” 

His tone is silk. 

“You… haven’t proved to be a wretched husband,” you confess. 

“I did try. But loving you has been easy. It makes husbandry a gift.” He laughs at his grandiose and gives you a kiss that’s more familiar by your ear, his pleading, searching kisses, the kind he likes to press to all your softest junctures. “I wish you could understand that we’re marked for a reason. We were always meant to be together, and I couldn’t have asked for a better person to stand with me. I’m happy you’re here. I want to take care of you.” 

Not if it’s you, he’d said. 

You wonder if it might be okay to cry. He’s massaging your arms, still bent in half over you trying to kiss some belief in him into your forehead. 

“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs between chaste, silent kisses, “really. You don’t have to pretend things don’t hurt you anymore.” 

You feel strange, then, shivery and weak as you turn your face into his thigh. His hand slips behind your back to hold you.

“Can I convince you to drink this tincture now?” he asks, just above your ear. 

“I love you,” you mumble. 

He pauses his trailing hands. You squeeze your eyes closed, but he doesn’t pause for long enough to scare you. “I love you,” he says. “Since the day we met, I’ve loved you. I’ll take care of you.” 

He is easy to believe. 

[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.

Masterlist

[retroaria]

♡ "All the little things..."

⟡ itoshi rin | oliver aiku | michael kaiser ⟡

summary: gn!reader, things that they’d look for/love in a partner! pure fluff! (i do describe something as ‘sexy’ but it really isn't that serious)

˗ˏˋ written for arias 1.5k follower event! ˎˊ˗

he’d never admit it, but rin would want a partner who can take him down a few notches. someone to calm his nerves and balance out his animosity. he can come to you at the end of every match and immediately release all tension and frustration. but also, someone to ground him and his ego a bit off the field. someone who can remind him to take things slowly and relax when he can and should.

he’s secretly very attracted to kindness. it’s a weird thing to be secretive about but rin is a weird guy what can i say. it makes his heart flutter to see you treating others with such grace, it even tugs a small smile at the corners of his lips which he quickly tries to pull back down into his usual blank expression.

rin tends to be a more private person himself, and he likes others that can keep their peace in that same way. he wouldn’t want to tell the whole world about your relationship, not because he wants to keep you a secret, but because he feels like you’re relationship is even more special the more it exists only to serve the two of you. he likes the idea of having you all to himself.

as a runner up for sassiest man of the year (lost to kaiser lol), oliver tends to find that same snappiness attractive in other people as well. he loves someone who can speak their mind and be confident about it, someone who can stand their ground and not let themselves be belittled. he thinks it’s hot, sexy even.

he likes people that are more outgoing then he is. while oliver doesn’t usually shy away from any fun, he can tend to back out of things because he feels it may be “too much” or an over exertion. he wants someone who can push him out of his comfort zone and get him to try new things that he wouldn’t have otherwise done on his own.

out of the whole cast, oliver is probably one of the most comfortable in his own masculinity methinks. he loves doing self-care and other beautification rituals (lol) with you! would let you do his eyebrows, dye his hair, make him smell like a strawberry shortcake; he fucking loves it. “Can’t turn down a bit of TLC and relaxation” he’d say. he totally does call a lot of it “goop” and “slime” or “sticky stuff” and can only remember to categorize it by color. “Babe, come feel my face, that pink goopy stuff made it so soft.~”

similar to mr. aiku, kaiser also loves a bit of sass in his partners, in a more subtle way though. sarcasm and brutally honest humor make him wanna bark like a dog. he loves it. he’s like the girl in a romance manga that falls in love with the cold and stoic upperclassmen. wants to break your hard exterior, but also wants to be the only person who ever could.

he loves being on the receiving end of ‘acts of service’. if that’s your love language, he’s all for it. he already thanks you just for putting up with him on a daily basis - considers that an act of service lol. making him food or planning a date for him would make his heart swell to the point of explosion.

physical and emotional intimacy need to be a huge priority for him. similarly to how rin likes things to just be between him and his partner, kaiser also needs certain things to be private, though he's more than happy to let the whole world know you're the person he loves. as long as he gets to have those quiet tender moments with you, wrapped in each others arms, he's a happy boy.

dividers: @cafekitsune vv cute :3 | header by me !!

@bllk-tv

[revelboo]

I miss my husband Ratchet owo

Wasn’t sure which doc, so went with TFP

The Weakends Pt 8

TFP Ratchet x Reader

• Stretching slowly, it’s the feel of something heavy against your back shifting against you that brings you wide awake. Relaxing when you realize you’re sprawled inelegantly on Ratchet’s red and white chassis, his servos draped across your back. He’s still out as you lift your head enough to see his face and you rest your chin on him to watch him, unwilling to wake him. As exhausted as you were, he’d been nearly dead on his peds and he needs this. Always pushing himself, driven to take care of everyone else and neglecting himself.

• There’s a spot of warmth on him, something soft under his servos as he comes back online. Starting to sit up and catching you against him when you start to slide. “I think that’s the longest I’ve ever seen you recharge,” you say as he grimaces and wonders how long he’s been out. He hadn’t meant to rest so long, used to recharging in short intervals at his desk, sometimes drifting off while working on research. How long has it been since he’s had any significant rest in his actual berth? Usually his mind is too busy, keeping him wound up. But somehow having you there, feeling the beat of your heart kept him still. “You really need to take better care of yourself, doc.”

• You wait for the cranky grumbling, but he just touches a servo to the back of your head in a gentle bump as a rebuke and sits up completely, warm servos pinning you in place. “We need to check on Bumblebee,” he says, but he doesn’t move or shift his grip on you. Like he’s reluctant to start the day. Leaning against his warmth, you listen to the hum of his spark. Feel his servos flex against you before he vents tiredly and slides off his berth.

• “I don’t think I’ve been so mad at someone as I was at you,” you say as his peds hit the ground and he pauses to look down at you. Your little head is leaned against him, avoiding his optics. “Do you know how hard it is to see someone you care about just not give a damn about themself?” There it is, the root of your anger before. The truth. That it wasn’t his grouchy act that set you off, it was because of the way he pushed himself. Working himself to exhaustion again and again, because of course you’d noticed. Even knowing you, being around you, it’s so easy to forget how observant you are. Always looking to him.

• “I’m fine.” Liar. It’s pretty much what you expect from him, though, to play it off. Everyone else so much more important than his own health and happiness. You expect it, because you understand it all too well. It’s the same way you worry over those three kids, anxiety cranking you tight when they leave with the bots and you want to go with them to watch over them, because they’re just kids. And they’re so easy to overlook, a wrong step, a wrong move? You hate that they might be in danger. Wanting to take care of them and Ratchet, all of the bots. Because as dysfunctional as this is, it feels like a family and you want to protect that.

• “Yeah, so am I,” you mutter in a tone that clearly says that you aren’t. At all. He can feel those walls going back up, but admitting the truth? That he’s so tired of this war, of fighting? That he just wants something to break their way. A place to call home once and for all where he doesn’t have to watch friends die right in front of him. He can’t say those things. Not without cracking wide open, because that anxious worry is all that’s keeping him together. That and you.

Previous

[miaountainmama]

sharp

characters: boothill, gn!reader contains: little angst that's resolved by the end. boothill is terrified of love

wc: 1148

a/n: i love boothill so much that i needed to write something with thought and emotion and not just smut. i have 3 other boothill fics in the works because i keep getting ideas. girl help

You have always loved softly. You know this, have embraced it, giving your soft touches and quiet words freely. Boothill has forgotten how to love. It has been so long since he loved that his love has turned sharp, pierces through his heart and wounds him so deeply he can’t stand it. He cannot recall how to love like you do anymore— he can only scream the depths of his affection from the rooftops, harsh and loud, and hold you so tightly he swears you’ll break. He has become so sharp he’s afraid, afraid he’ll puncture your soft skin, afraid the razor edge of his smile will leave you bleeding.

Fear doesn’t suit Boothill, but you see it in every glance he gives you. It drives you insane, the way his expression sobers when he’s around you. That near-constant smile of his drops clean from his face, turning into the gentle slope of a frown that just doesn’t look right on him. Existing in the same room as him has become suffocating, the sheer longing in his being crashing from his body in waves so strong they’re capable of sending you to your knees. Still, he withdraws-- his touches have become few and far between, and when you tell him you love him, that look of anguish he gives you nearly breaks you.

“I’m not fragile, you know. You’re not going to snap me in half,” you tell him, stepping closer to him, and it doesn’t escape you the way that he leans back slightly, that all familiar expression bubbling up in his eyes.

“I… I can’t, darlin’,” he says in return, voice laced with yearning that he refuses to address, and your own eyes turn desperate, though you know you can’t force anything. You want to reach out and grab him so badly, to press yourself against him and thread your hands through his hair and tell him it’s okay, that you know he would never hurt you on purpose, that anything he does you can take-- but you know it’ll make it worse. You know it’ll drive the knife in his heart a thousand times deeper.

Instead, you reach out your hand.

He looks at it questioningly, lips slightly parted in a question, and you just gesture until he gets the memo-- you would almost think his mechanics were malfunctioning, the way his hand stutters on the way to yours, and when his fingers brush against yours ever so lightly you smile at him, a smile so soft and patient he feels like a wounded animal before you. Gently, you lead him to the couch, sitting down and motioning for him to sit beside you. He does, taking a seat right in the middle of the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds, and it lights his hair up golden.

“Do you love me, Boothill?” you start simply, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that this man was head over heels for you. He nods, not a sliver of hesitation running through his veins.

“More than life itself,” he says, and you hum in acknowledgement. You run your thumb over his knuckles, and that everlasting ache in his eyes intensifies.

“Then what’s stopping you?” you ask, and he goes silent. His head dips, and you can feel him struggle, at war with his own thoughts.

“I ain’t too good with words, darlin’,”, he admits, and you don’t miss that little undercurrent of shame in his tone. You tilt your head slightly, leaning back slightly to make yourself just a bit more comfortable in the cushions.

“Think about it. I can wait as long as you need,” you say, and his gaze flickers up to meet yours for a moment before it goes back to your hands resting softly on each other. He takes a minute or so, refusing to make eye contact for its entirety and then some.

“You don’t deserve a man like me,” he starts, and you huff, rolling your eyes. Of course he would land on a reason so basic and absurd. No, you needed him to unpack that a little more, dive a bit deeper.

“Why?” you probe further, and he takes another pause.

“I ain’t fit for much but shootin’ these days, darlin’. Haven’t loved anything in so long I think I’ve forgotten how.” He’s still looking at anything but your face, and it’s almost boyish, the way he’s near hiding. You reply as easily as breathing.

“You can always relearn,” you say, and his eyes finally snap to yours.

“What if I mess up? What if I hurt you?” he says, urgent, and your voice is ever calm in contrast. You send him another small smile.

“Oh, you will,” you say with finality, and his face scrunches up-- he moves to pull away his hand, but you’ve suddenly tightened your grip, and he gives up and leaves it there without too much resistance. You’re too calm about this, too willing.

“Then why would I-”

“Boothill,” you interrupt, and he shuts up the moment the words leave your mouth. “Did you make mistakes when you became a parent?”

Understanding the point you’re getting at, he frowns. “Of course I did, but-”

“Do you regret it then? Being her dad?”

That stops him in his tracks.

“Of course not. I… she was my little girl, darlin’, my pride and joy,” he says, and you can hear the hurt in his voice, the wistfulness as he’s taken many years into the past. Part of you regrets bringing her up, but you know he needs a personal analogy to get out of the headspace he’s in and she’s the only example you can think of.

“Then do you regret loving me?” you ask quietly.

“There is not a single damn reality where I regret loving you, darlin’,” he answers you, face dead serious, and it soothes your heart. That’s all the answer you need from him and he knows it-- you just look at him, face softening as you wait for him to connect the dots and piece together what you’re implying.

That it’s worth it. That a life in which you have loved and experienced pain is worth more than a thousand lifetimes without loving. That mistakes are inevitable and a part of anything. That you know all this and have accepted it wholly-- have accepted him wholly, him in all his imperfections. 

He looks back at you. He looks back at you and swears he sees the whole world-- you in the sunlight, infinitely forgiving and merciful, and he nearly renounces his faith then and there. Forget the Hunt-- forget Lan, forget any Aeon and the paths they have built. Compared to the divinity before him, they are nothing, and he knows his heart must answer in kind.

He reaches out tentatively to touch your face, and you swear you melt.

[ofbatsandballads]

kindness you can’t afford

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: injured character, multiple descriptions of blood + wounds

a/n: so this is the very first jason fic I’ve written since I was twelve, so forgive me while I find my jay’s voice now that I’m not a preteen. anyways I humbly offer thee my wares.

divider credit: cafekitsune

Gotham’s a shithole. You hadn’t known that when you first moved here. To be honest, you’d kind of thrown a dart at a map and gone where it landed. Alright, maybe it wasn’t literally a dart throw, more so finding the cheapest metropolitan city because New York was tempting but it would bankrupt you. Mostly you just wanted a place to not exist. And so Gotham’s relatively low rent rates and towering skylines were the pick with little to no research.

Gotham’s a shithole. You know that beyond a shadow of a doubt now. It’s surprising, honestly, how little of Gotham’s chaos makes it outside the city limits. One would think a psychotic killer clown that’s prone to gassing a whole city district or a half-plant poison lady or a guy going around dressed like a bat would make national news. And yet, no. You’d known superheroes existed, of course. Superman was the shining jewel in the crown of the country that is Metropolis. Everyone knows about the extraordinary Wonder Woman. It’s not like hyper skilled people working for the greater good aren’t a thing. But Gotham plays her cards close to her chest.

You've lived here almost two years now and you’ve managed to make it through relatively unscathed. An impressive feat especially since you live in the Bowery. The Bowery itself isn’t so bad, but its neighboring district Park Row, more often known as Crime Alley, is about the worst Gotham has to offer. You’ve heard your fair share of gunshots and sirens, and you’ll never forget the time that Scarecrow released fear toxin in the district and you had to shove every towel and blanket you owned against the cracks by the doors and windows to keep it out. However, you’ve avoided being mugged or assaulted or anything like that so far. And you’ve never encountered the vigilantes that run the night here.

But there’s always time for new and exciting experiences.

The loud thunk that sounds outside your living room window makes you jump and starts your heart pounding. You know you should just ignore it. Crawl off the couch and to the bedroom, lock the door. The lights in the apartment are already off, only the television light illuminating the room, so it would be easy to creep unseen. But you can’t. Something pulls you to the window. Maybe it’s the cat killing curiosity, or maybe it’s your own little voice of self destruction, or maybe it’s something else entirely. All you know is that you have to go look.

So you do. And there, out cold on the fire escape, is a man. A very large man. A very large man in a red helmet. A very large man in a red helmet with dual pistols holstered to his thighs. Red Hood. Red Hood is passed out face up on your fire escape. Huh.

You’d heard of him. It was hard not to. The Bat had the most notoriety by far, but it was Red Hood that truly scared the criminals of Gotham. Batman might break your bones, cripple you even, but you’d leave with your life. No such guarantee existed if you crossed Red Hood. Hurt a few innocent people and you might end up with a bullet or three in your skull. Then there was that thing about heads in a duffel bag and Red Hood running crime for a solid year in Gotham, but he’s better now, apparently. None of this is deterring you from unlocking the window, pushing it up, and stepping out into the cold winter air. Not when you see the blood seeping through his body armor start to drip off the fire escape grate.

He needs help and he can’t stay unconscious in the middle of the city. If whoever injured him didn’t find him, the cops would. He’s just as wanted as the actual rogues of Gotham. You think it’s bullshit, which is why you’re trying to find a way to get him inside the safety of your apartment. He’s huge up close. This is going to be very, very difficult. Your mind flashes suddenly to one of your favorite childhood movies and how the princess pulled the dashing rogue around with her hair. You glance down at the street before heading to your bedroom.

You come back out with sheets bundled up in your arms. You’re not even sure if this harebrained idea will work, but you weave the sheets through the gaps in the grates and around Red Hood’s waist nonetheless. You secure a knot and go back into your apartment with the length of the sheets. Your legs are stronger than your arms, so you brace them against the wall and pull. You can feel his body slowly dragging towards you and you pause to check your progress. He’s slumped against the window now. Good. You loop your arms under his, place your feet back against the wall, and pull hard. Your hard work is rewarded with his body breaching the threshold of your window and landing directly on top of you. The air is knocked clean out of your lungs. He is heavy.

It’s a struggle but you manage to roll out from under him and immediately see the massive red stain contrasting against the white of your fluffy pajama pants. A small puddle of blood is emerging on your floor under his left thigh, and droplets of blood have splattered next to his torso. He’s not in great shape. It suddenly hits you what you’ve done. You dragged an injured vigilante, known for shooting first and asking questions later, into your apartment with no plan on what to do after the fact.

What the fuck did I do?

That’s all you can think as you look down at him. Then something snaps into place inside your rattled mind and you run to your bathroom to grab your first aid kit. You’d bought it and learned the basics after Wayne Enterprises ran televised infomercials about the importance of first aid a couple months back. You’re carefully balancing all the supplies in your arms as you head back out to the living room.

The empty living room. No vigilante in sight. Then your world spins. Everything clatters to the floor as you’re yanked backwards by your waist, pinned to something solid and unable to move.

“Who are you?” A growl sounds behind you, modulated to sound semi-mechanical.

Ah. There he is. You think you should be panicking, absolutely losing your shit even. But your brain is moving in slow motion.

“Someone trying to help you,” you breathe out.

“Doesn’t answer the question.”

The grip around your waist tightens. You want to laugh. As if you could’ve made a run for it in the first place. You tell him your name, and explain that you live alone. There’s no one else here but the two of you and you really do want to help.

“You were passed out on my fire escape. I couldn’t just leave you out there,” you explain cautiously.

The two of you stay like that for a minute longer. Then, a mechanical sigh sounds from behind you and the vice grip on your waist goes slack. You turn to him and see that he’s already halfway to your window.

“Hey! Wait! I can help!” you shout, scrambling after him.

“Don’t need it,” he snaps.

“You were bleeding out on my floor!” you exclaim.

You don’t know why you feel so strongly about this. Maybe because he seemed so…mortal. It’s easy to forget that these guys running around at night are people. They’re strong, tough, and capable, but they’re still human. The fact that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the window frame proves your point.

“Please. I promise I won’t take long. Please just let me help,” you beg.

He turns around and even through that unreadable helmet you can tell he’s sizing you up. You’re sure you must be a sight in your fuzzy white cat pajama pants, old Snoopy t-shirt, and fluffy white socks. Honestly, it’s a bit of a ridiculous tableau. Massive armed man in tactical gear opposite a woman in fluffy pajamas, both bloodstained. But either you seem harmless enough or he’s in exceptionally bad shape, because he just slumps against your wall and gives a barely noticeable nod of his head.

You go into autopilot the second you get his consent. A dining room chair is dragged to the center of your living room and Red Hood drops himself into it, the old wood creaking under the force. You go to assess the damage on his torso first. Light slashes litter his waist, none of them are deep enough for stitches. You grab the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls from the floor where you kneel before warning him that it might sting.

“I got slashed. Think that might’ve hurt a bit more,” he deadpans.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

The torso slashes are light work. It takes all of five minutes to disinfect them and seal them shut with bandages. It’s his thigh that you’re a little more concerned about. There’s enough blood that it’s soaked his tactical pants around where you’re guessing the wound is. You can vaguely make out what appears to be cut fabric, so you’re assuming he was stabbed.

“How deep did the knife go?” you ask.

“Hm. ‘Bout two inches?” he offers.

“Why’d you take it out?” you ask incredulously. Anyone with half a brain knew not to take a knife out of a stab wound.

“No idea. Should’ve just gone runnin’ around the city with a knife wedged in my leg.”

The mask’s modulator does nothing to hide the teasing edge to his voice. Of everything you’d heard about Red Hood, you’d never heard he was such a smartass.

“You know how to do stitches?” he asks.

Great. So he saw the deer-in-headlights look you had while thinking about how to fix his stab wound.

“If you count mending clothing then, uh, sure,” you reply.

The white slits of the helmet stare hard at you before a warped chuckle comes from under it.

“Well, close enough.”

Oh, so he liked to gamble with his health then. Okay. Sure. Great. You could totally do this. Untrained, unlicensed, unsupervised you. You have to stop your hands from shaking as you thread the curved needle. You have to stop yourself from vomiting with anxiety as you push the needle through his skin. He hisses and you immediately feel bad. He’d handled the alcohol without flinching, but the stitches were a different story. You whisper sorry’s with every puncture of his skin you make. Soon enough, his leg is closed up and the whole thing is said and done.

“Okay, should be good to go,” you start, “Well, not good per se, but functional to go.”

A hum and a quick nod of his head are the only response you get before he’s back on his feet. He’s about to climb out your window for the second time tonight when you call out to him again. He turns around and you’d swear he almost seems exasperated.

“Take these with you. You’ll probably need them,” you say as you toss him a water bottle and a small carton of orange juice.

He snatches them easily from the air. But then he just stands there and stares at the drinks in his hands. You think you may have somehow offended him and go to apologize when he speaks.

“Thanks,” he says, mechanical voice catching on the word.

And then he’s gone. Out your window and off into the night. Once you shut and lock the window you feel exhaustion hit you like a freight train. All the adrenaline drains from you and it takes whatever energy you have left to collapse on to your bed and drift off to sleep.

You’ll never know it, but the Red Hood spends the last fifteen minutes of his patrol sipping his orange juice and dutifully watching your apartment window.

You’ll never know it, but Jason Todd lingers across the street to make sure you get home from the grocery store safely, and he scoffs as he sees you feed and pet a stray dog. It’s silly, he thinks.

Don’t you know that now you’ve shown it some kindness, it’ll just keep coming back?

[anakinstwinklebunny]

Author's note: smth for my angsty people. Inspo from amazing writer of all times @rssmary

SAM MONROE thought he'd never find someone who truly understood him. Then there was you—brilliant, kind, and everything he didn’t think he deserved. You were his lifeline, the one who believed in him when no one else did. When you told him you were pregnant, he was terrified, but your excitement and unwavering faith in him made him believe he could be better for you—for both of you.

But life is cruel.

The labor was supposed to be hard but worth it. Everyone told him that once he heard the baby’s first cry, he’d forget the pain of waiting. But when your hand went limp in his, and the machines blared around him, he forgot everything else instead.

Time stopped as they pulled him away, shoving your baby into his arms while they tried to save you. The nurses told him to hold on to the little one, to stay strong, but all he could do was stare at your lifeless body through the window, his mind refusing to accept the reality.

You were gone..

You

Were

Gone

He tried to understand the meaning of the words

Days bled into nights as Sam sat in the nursery, the small bassinet feeling like a cruel mockery. The baby—their baby—was beautiful, with tiny fingers and your nose. But every time he looked at them, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. It was like holding his heart outside his body and knowing it came at the cost of losing his own soul.

The funeral was unbearable. He didn't appear at the ceremony, hell, it pained him to even think about going there. Yet, he still did. Out of respect and love he had for you.

He stood there alone hours after the ceremony, staring at your casket, tears streaming down his face. 'I can’t do this without you' he whispered into the silence.

Because who he was? A random guy who wore eyeliner and constantly did drugs now to raise a child alone?

Yet, still, he had to.

The first night without you was the longest of his life. The baby cried and cried, and Sam had no idea what to do. He was a mess—fumbling with bottles, pacing the floor, begging them to stop screaming. At some point, he sank to the floor, the baby against his chest as he sobbed into their tiny body. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry.”

His mother was all supportive, helping Sam to do the stuff he never thought he'd have to do, but Sam refused to let anyone fully take over.

'They’re all I have left of her' he'd constantly say, not letting anyone to his room

Every milestone felt like a knife to the chest. The first time they smiled, he saw you. The first time they babbled, he heard your voice. And yet, he celebrated it all because he knew that’s what you would’ve wanted.

Sam made sure they grew up knowing you. He told them stories about your laugh, how you used to tease him, and how you were the bravest person he’d ever known. “Your mom,” he’d say, his voice holding onto the life to not break, “she was magic..wherever she is right now, she definitely loves you so much”

But there were nights when the grief swallowed him whole. When he’d sit in the nursery, the baby fast asleep in his arms, and cry silently. He’d whisper to the darkness, wishing you could see them, wishing you could see him trying so hard not to break.

“Why’d you leave me?” he asked once, his voice cracking as he rocked your baby in his arms. “How am I supposed to do this without you?”

He'd often find himself doing something so out of character to him - each week he wrote you long letters about the baby, about new stuff they did or how he got peed on while changing the diaper. Letters were hidden properly under his bed, becoming a mountain of folded papers. It was therapeutic to him, but also he felt like he owe you that, to let you know how his life's going without you, how he still lives - for the sake of your baby.

As the years passed, Sam became a father you’d be proud of. He was there for every scraped knee, every bedtime story, every school play. He wasn’t perfect—he had days when the weight of your absence was too much—but he loved fiercely.

Still, most of the nights, when the world went quiet and the baby-turned-toddler slept peacefully, he’d sit by their bed and mumble quiet “I miss you.” as if you could hear him

And he did.

Every.single.day.

Because no matter how much time passed, the hole you left in his heart never healed. You were his first love, his only love, and even though you were gone, you were everywhere. In the way the sunlight streamed through the windows, in the baby’s laughter, in the quiet moments when he closed his eyes and pretended you were still there.

And though it hurt more than he could ever put into words, he wouldn’t trade a single second of it. Because loving you, even in your absence, was the greatest thing he’d ever done.

And he’d spend the rest of his life making sure your baby—your legacy—knew just how much they were loved by the most extraordinary person SAM MONROE had ever known.

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @deceptiive @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan

(if you want to be on the tag list or don't want to be, don't be shy and let me know 💋)

[daisymbin]

Hi belle!! ive loved all the mingyu drabbles ive read from u!! 💗 may i request a mingyu 2nd chance romance with prompt no. 5? 🥹

hello!! yes you definitely can!! & thank you for your compliments 🥹🤍

request your own: full prompt list!

check out my masterlist!

second chance prompt #5: "I still keep your picture in my wallet."

mingyu had always been good at pretending. pretending he didn’t still think about you when he woke up in the morning, pretending that he didn’t miss the way you laughed, how your presence could fill up a room. he was good at pretending, until he saw you again.

when he walked into the café, with the sun hitting your face just right, mingyu felt his chest tighten. he wasn’t supposed to be here. not like this. he had told himself time and time again that seeing you again would only make it worse. but when joshua casually mentioned you were in town, mingyu couldn’t stop himself from asking if he could come along.

he hadn’t realized how much he needed to see you until now, until he was standing next to you, feeling that familiar pull he’d tried so hard to bury.

as he paid for everyone's drinks, mingyu didn’t notice the photo slip from his wallet until it fluttered onto the counter.

it was the polaroid of you at the beach. he’d kept it there for so long, tucked into the folds of his wallet, a small token of a time that felt so far away but still so close.

he watched as you froze, your eyes locking onto the photo with a recognition that hit him like a punch in the gut.

"why..." you whispered, your voice cracking. "why do you have this still?"

mingyu’s heart dropped. he wasn’t sure why he’d kept it. maybe it was because he still couldn’t let go. maybe it was because he knew, deep down, that the version of you in that picture—the carefree, happy version—was something he would never find again. not with anyone else.

“i still keep your picture in my wallet,” he admitted, his voice coming out quieter than he intended.

your gaze never left the photo, your breath catching in your throat. mingyu’s chest ached, knowing how much the past still hurt you.

“mingyu…”

he ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could take back the way things ended between you. “i know. i know i messed up. i shouldn’t have pushed you away like that. but i couldn’t throw this away. it felt wrong to.”

you looked at him then, your eyes filled with so many emotions he couldn’t decipher. “you’re still holding on to this... after everything? after we—”

“i couldn’t forget you,” he cut you off, his words spilling out before he could stop them. “i’ve tried, but i can’t. you were never just a phase for me. you were... everything.”

he saw the way your lip trembled. “why did you leave then?”

mingyu swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “i thought i was doing the right thing. i thought it would be easier if i just let you go. i thought maybe you’d be happier without me.”

“you’re a fool,” you whispered, tears brimming in your eyes. “you broke me, mingyu.”

he felt the sharp sting of those words deep in his chest. “i know. i know i did, and i hate myself for it.”

“so why now?” you asked, voice breaking. “why did you reach out now, after all this time?”

mingyu’s eyes softened. “because i couldn’t stay away. seeing you again—it felt like a sign. a chance to fix the mess i made.”

“but i don’t know if i can trust you again.” you wiped away a tear, turning your face away.

his heart cracked at the sight. “i wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t. i wouldn’t blame you if you hated me for what i did.”

“i don’t hate you,” you said quietly, voice almost a whisper.

mingyu took a step closer, hesitating before he reached out and gently cupped your cheek. “then why do you look like you’re about to cry every time you look at me?”

you met his gaze, eyes glossy with emotion. “because i still care about you, mingyu. i still miss you. i never stopped loving missing you.”

he let out a breath, the weight of your words settling on him like a heavy burden. he had been a fool. “i didn’t want to hurt you. i swear to god, i didn’t. but i couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“so, what now?” you asked, looking at him through a haze of tears. “what do we do now?”

mingyu could feel the answer in his bones. he’d never been more certain of anything in his life.

“we try again,” he said, his voice firm, resolute. “we start over. i’ll do whatever it takes to prove to you that i can be the person you deserve.”

your eyes searched his, doubt lingering behind your gaze. “you mean it?”

“i wouldn’t say it if i didn’t,” he said softly, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “i’ve never meant anything more.”

you stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to figure out if he was telling the truth. finally, you let out a shaky breath and nodded. “okay,” you whispered. “but don’t mess this up, mingyu. i can’t go through this again.”

“i won’t,” he promised, leaning in and gently pressing his forehead to yours. “i swear to you, i won’t mess it up this time.”

he didn’t need words to tell you how much he meant it. his lips found yours in a soft, hesitant kiss. the world outside faded, and for the first time in a long time, mingyu felt like he was home.

[zaczenemiji]

Tabito Karasu Headcannons

where reader is a hyper-independent eldest daughter of an Asian household who also happens to be the student council president

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

These HCs are based on my 5-chapter-long Tabito Karasu x Reader on AO3. I highly recommend reading that too as it contains all the emotions, details, and the full story.

✧ "What can I say? I've got a talent for winning,” he says whenever someone asks how he scored the student council president.

✧ After training, he’d go back to school to fetch you whenever you stay behind to finish your student council duties.

✧ Always insists on helping you—he doesn’t stop at the polite offer or the half-hearted “Let me know if you need anything.”

✧ He simply did things for you, without question, without hesitation, and without making you feel like you owed him anything in return.

✧ Brings you food at the student council room whenever you’re so caught up in work that you didn’t notice it was well past lunch.

✧ Then he would sit across from you as if it were the most natural thing in the world to keep you company.

✧ The list goes on: Karasu helps you review for exams, reminding you to take breaks when you were clearly overworking yourself, or simply showing up when you least expected it.

✧ He would take on tasks you stubbornly refused to delegate, even if it meant showing up early or staying late himself.

✧ But he doesn’t try to take over or do things for you that you could handle yourself. He simply… supported you.

✧ Hates seeing you put everyone else’s needs above your own. And he hates how no one seemed to notice—how no one insisted you take care of yourself.

✧ Wants to be the one you relied on—the one you turned to when the world felt heavy.

✧ He cares for you in ways no one else ever had—quietly steps in when you needed it most, without taking away the independence you valued so deeply.

✧ Karasu always finds excuses to stay with you a little longer together.

✧ NEVER lets you walk home alone. He listens to you talk about your day as carries your bag without asking.

✧ 24/7 tells you you’re beautiful—all the time, followed by a kiss—on your forehead, cheeks, lips, anywhere his lips could touch you.

✧ Whenever he hugs you, he’d hold you tight as if to make the moment last forever.

✧ To say that your family loves him is an understatement. He quickly became a part of it in ways that surprised even you.

✧ He’d play soccer with your younger brother and would lift your little sister onto his shoulders and swing her around until she was giggling uncontrollably.

✧ Sometimes when your schedule gets hectic, he’d offer to be the one to fetch your younger siblings on your behalf and they would end up picking you up instead.

✧ Always brags about you in front of his family. So when you first came over to his house, you were referred to as the girl he can’t stop talking about.

✧ He’s definitely a girlfriend’s boy—“Sorry, I’ve got plans with my girlfriend,” he’d say, unapologetic to his friends, choosing to spend his free time with you.

✧ His possessiveness came out in subtle ways—a hand on your back, an arm slung over your shoulder, or fingers intertwined with yours. He wanted everyone to know you were his.

✧ “Let them stare,” he’d say, smirking.

✧ Loves you so much—you are everything to him.

✧ So if he loses at soccer, if he doesn’t become the greatest striker in the world—it’s fine. Because he has you.

✧ That was his real goal. You were his greatest win.

@mianbaobaoo @thetwinkims @arlecchinoftl @karasuglazer @axjisai @egoistlino

[tokkiwrites]

𝚄𝚗𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚄𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙼𝚢 𝚂𝚔𝚒𝚗. (5)

mom's fiancé! joel miller x f! reader • series masterlist.

Summary: Your mom's new fiancé, Joel Miller, is the kind of man you could never shake out of your mind—rugged, rough, and embodiment of your long-buried fantasies. He's been your next-door neighbor for years, and the crush you harbored through your teenage years never really faded. Now, he's with your mom, and they're planning to get married. You should want her to be happy, but you can't ignore the tension growing between you and Joel. It's something that was never meant to happen. But as you uncover Joel's true motives for being with your mom, you realize maybe your feelings weren't one-sided after all. And maybe, despite everything, you’re the one he really wants. Tags: stepcest kind of, age gap (reader is in her mid 20s and joel in his mid 40s), forbidden romance, emotional conflict, complicated family dynamics, heartbreak, ANGST, cheating, infidelity, betrayal, talk about divorce, no one owning up to what they really do, main characters get their happy ending... OR DO THEY?! >:) /ᐠ - ˕ -マ⁩ authors note 𑁯 ✿ im baaack !! last part baby!!! kind of. you'll see >:) until then enjoy this mumbled mess of 4.63k words bunnies! thank you for the immense support on this series. excuse any grammatical errors <//3

Her words hit you like a tidal wave, leaving you gasping for air. You watched as she paced the room, trembling with the weight of her anger and heartbreak. “You don’t know what love is!” she snapped, her voice breaking. “Love isn’t sneaking around, tearing apart the people who trust you the most. Love isn’t ruining your family because you can’t control yourself.”

Your chest tightened, the sting of her words cutting deep. “I didn’t plan for this to happen,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “It wasn’t like I set out to hurt you—”

“But you did,” she interrupted, her voice cracking. “You hurt me in the worst way possible. You betrayed me with the one person who was supposed to be on my side. How am I supposed to live with this? How am I supposed to look at you and not see… this?”

Her words crushed you, the weight of her disappointment pressing down like an anchor. You took a step toward her, desperate to bridge the chasm growing between you. “Mom, please—”

“Don’t,” she said, holding up a hand to stop you. Her tears shimmered in the dim light, her face a portrait of devastation. “I need you to leave. Just… go.”

You froze, your heart shattering at the finality in her tone. “Mom…”

“Go!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

The silence that followed was deafening. You turned and stumbled toward the door, the walls of the house you’d grown up in suddenly feeling foreign and cold. As you stepped outside, the chill of the night air bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache inside your chest.

The slam of the door still echoed in your ears as you trudged through the dark streets, clutching your jacket tight against the biting wind. Your mind was spinning, replaying the scene over and over again—the raised voice, the look of disgust on her face, the words that burned like acid.

"You’re a liar. I don’t even know who you are anymore."

Your mother had always been sharp, but you hadn’t expected her to be cruel. Not like that.

She hadn’t even let you explain. Not really. Once she figured it out—once you admitted you were in love with Joel—it was like she couldn’t even look at you. Not forever, maybe. But you knew that in this moment, there was no going back.

You wiped at your face, but it was no use. Tears streaked your cheeks, hot and endless, cutting through the cold. You barely noticed when you reached Joel’s building. Your feet carried you up the stairs, and your fists pounded on his door before you even thought about what you’d say.

It wasn’t long before the door swung open. Joel stood there, his face tight with worry that immediately shifted into something darker when he saw you. “You told her,” he said, his voice low and heavy. You froze, your breath catching. Of course, he already knew. “I had to,” you whispered, stepping inside uninvited. “She—she guessed. She cornered me, Joel, I couldn’t—” You decided to lie. You tried to protect him from all of this. Maybe it wasn't your job or your role to do so, but this was the way to show him that it's real. that you are real, and so are all the feelings you have for him.

“You could’ve,” Joel snapped, cutting you off. He shut the door with more force than necessary. “You could’ve waited. You could’ve called me. But instead, you decided to do this on your own.” His words hit like a punch, and you stumbled over your response. “I didn’t have time—”

“That’s bullshit,” he growled, his voice rising. He took a step closer, his eyes boring into yours. “You didn’t want to wait for me. You wanted to handle it yourself, like you always do.”

“That’s not fair,” you shot back, anger bubbling up to meet his. “I didn’t plan this, Joel! She came at me, and I panicked! What was I supposed to do? Lie to her?”

“Yes!” Joel shouted, throwing his hands up. “You should’ve lied, or stalled, or done anything other than blow this whole thing wide open without me. You think this is just about you? It’s not. This affects both of us.” Your stomach twisted at his words. “You think I don’t know that?” you said, your voice trembling. “Do you think I don’t feel sick about what this means for you? For us? Joel, she kicked me out!"

He froze, his jaw tightening. “She what?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “She told me to leave. Said she doesn’t even recognize me anymore. I—” Your voice broke, and you covered your face with your hands. Joel’s anger seemed to deflate all at once, replaced by something softer, though no less pained. He reached for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing your arm.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his tone rough but gentler now. “C’mere.”

You let him pull you into his arms, and the floodgates opened. You sobbed into his chest, your fists clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. For a while, he just held you, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back. "I got you, babygirl... 'm right here." But the tension in his body hadn’t gone away, and you could feel the weight of everything left unsaid hanging between you. When your sobs finally quieted, Joel pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was etched with exhaustion and something else—something almost like regret.

“This can’t keep happening,” he said softly. “You can’t just… go off and make decisions like this without me. We’re supposed to be in this together.”

“I know,” you whispered, your voice raw. “I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.” Joel sighed, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “We always do.”

But before you could respond, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You hesitated, then pulled it out, your heart sinking when you saw the name on the screen. Marjorie. Of course. Joel noticed your hesitation. “Who is it?”

“Marjorie,” you said quietly. He frowned, but said nothing as you swiped to open the message. "You should’ve thought this through", it read.

•Your mom’s already told half the town about what you’ve done. If you’d just shared a little, you wouldn’t be in this mess now. At least they'll know what a homewrecking whore you are.

The room seemed to spin, and you had to sit down before your legs gave out. Joel knelt beside you, his hand gripping yours tightly. “What is it?” he asked, his voice low and steady. You showed him the message, your hands shaking. His jaw tightened as he read it, a muscle in his cheek jumping.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “She’s trying to twist the knife.”

“She’s right, though,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I—I did this to myself. To us.”

“Hey,” Joel said firmly, cupping your face in his hands. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this. You hear me, sweet girl? This isn’t on you. It’s on them. On her.” You wanted to believe him. But the weight of everything—the fallout with your mom, the shame, the fear of what came next—it was too much.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” you whispered, tears welling up again. "Maybe it don't need fixin'.." Joel’s expression softened, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We’ll figure it out,” he said again. “One step at a time. But you’ve got to let me in. No more shutting me out.”

The road ahead felt impossibly long, the cracks in your relationship with Joel deep and jagged. But as he held you close, his arms steady and sure, you let yourself hope.

the nigh faded as your lids finally closed, the soft whispers of Joel a blanket over your tensed body. Finally, you fall asleep, escaping this day, hoping that when you wake up It'll all turn out to be a bad dream.

But as the night fell upon, you so did the day.

Joel stood on the doorstep, fists clenched at his sides. The brisk wind carried the faint scent of pine from the trees lining the street. He stared at the door in front of him, steeling himself for what he knew was coming. When your mother opened the door, her face immediately twisted into a scowl. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” she spat. Joel held her gaze, his jaw tight. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, we do?” she snapped, stepping onto the porch and crossing her arms. “You’ve said enough, Joel. Or maybe not—seems like you were too busy seducing my daughter to give me the full picture.” Joel winced, but he didn’t look away. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“Then what do you want?” she shot back, her voice rising. “To explain yourself? To justify this—this shit?”

“I want to make things right,” Joel said, his tone measured. “For her. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“Don’t you dare pretend this is about her,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “This is about you. About your selfishness, your inability to think about anyone but yourself.” Joel’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but he forced himself to stay calm. “I know you’re angry—”

“Angry?” Her voice grew louder, trembling with indignation. “Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it! Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Joel? My daughter—your stepdaughter. Do you even hear yourself?” Joel’s shoulders sagged slightly, but his resolve didn’t falter. “It’s not what you think—”

“Oh, really?” she interrupted, her laugh sharp and bitter. “Then explain it to me, Joel. Enlighten me, because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been fucking her this whole time.” His head snapped up, and his voice took on a dangerous edge. “That’s not what happened.”

“Then what?” she demanded, stepping closer. “You ‘accidentally’ fell for her? And so did your dick inside of her? Was this why you got so close to her? Why you were so ‘supportive’ all of a sudden? Because you wanted her?” Joel’s chest rose and fell heavily. “I didn’t plan this,” he said, his voice low but firm. “It just happened. She’s not a child, and this wasn’t some sick—”

“Don’t you dare try to justify this!” she hissed, cutting him off again. “You’re supposed to be her father. You were supposed to protect her—not—” Her voice cracked, and she had to look away, blinking rapidly. "Oh my god."

Joel stepped forward, his voice softening. “I never meant to hurt anyone.” She glared at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You think that makes it better? That it wasn’t ‘on purpose’? My God, Joel—this is why you married me, isn’t it?”

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, he looked genuinely taken aback. “What?” She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “It makes sense now. You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You saw an opportunity, and you—” Her voice broke again, and she turned away, her hand pressed to her mouth. “That’s not true,” Joel said firmly, his voice rising just slightly. “I loved you. I cared about this family. I—”

“You used this family,” she snapped, spinning back around to face him. “And don’t you dare pretend otherwise. You’ve destroyed everything, Joel. Do you understand that? Everything. And for what?”

Joel’s expression hardened, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “For love,” he said, his voice rough. “I love her. And you can hate me for it all you want, but that’s the truth.” Her mouth fell open slightly, disbelief etched across her face. For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees.

“You’re disgusting,” she finally said, her voice quiet but laced with venom. “Do you know what people are saying? What they’re going to say? You’ve ruined her, Joel. You’ve ruined her life, and you don't even understand."

Joel’s throat tightened, and his heart sank with every word that came from her mouth. “I never meant to hurt her,” he said again, his voice thick with emotion. He took a step forward, desperate to make her understand. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I love her, but I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I never wanted to destroy this family.” The words seemed to hit her like a slap. She blinked rapidly, as though trying to keep the tears at bay, but they came anyway—one by one, streaming down her face. “You already have, Joel,” she whispered.

There was a heavy silence between them. The weight of everything that had happened hung in the air like an oppressive cloud. Joel wanted to reach out, to comfort her somehow, but he knew he couldn’t. Not now.

Her eyes narrowed, and her voice was cold, almost venomous. “You’re not going to get away with this. I’ll make sure of it. I’m telling everyone. I’ve already told people, Joel. You don’t get to just pretend this didn’t happen, that it’s all okay. I will make sure everyone knows what you’ve done.”

His blood ran cold. “You can’t—”

“I will,” she spat. Joel stood there. He wanted to scream, to argue, but the truth hung there. He had screwed up. And he knew that.

“I didn’t want this to happen. You have to believe me,” he said hoarsely, voice cracking. “I was trying to be there for her. I—I never wanted to hurt her or you. It just—it just happened. And I don’t know what to do, but I swear, I never meant for it to go this far.” She crossed her arms tightly, her eyes flashing with anger and hurt. “You never meant it, Joel? Then why did you let it happen? Why didn’t you stop? You could’ve stopped. You could’ve walked away.

His throat felt tight, constricted with guilt, but he refused to back down. “Because I couldn’t.” Her lip trembled, but she quickly bit it, hiding the emotion that flickered there. She took a deep breath, then looked him square in the eyes. “I want you to leave. Now.”

The command was sharp, final. Joel hesitated, his gaze lingering on her, and then he nodded—slowly. He wasn’t sure what else to say. There were no more words that could fix this, not right now. He turned, heading for the door, the weight of everything pressing down on him with each step.

He felt sick.

With one final glance at the door he’d just walked away from, he turned and walked down the street, away from the house, away from everything. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts, but none of them made sense.

He had destroyed everything.

And now, there was no going back.

Joel had just come back from a supply run, the door clicking shut behind him. You glanced up from the couch, where you’d been sitting in silence, staring blankly at a book you weren’t really reading. He dropped the grocery bag on the counter, pausing before he looked at you.

“You’ve barely eaten,” he said, his voice rough but laced with concern. You shrugged, hugging your knees to your chest. “Not hungry.” He let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, baby. I know it’s hard, but we’re in this together. You know that, don’t you?”

You looked at him then, searching his face for something—reassurance, maybe, or a sense that he really believed what he was saying. “Together,” you echoed, the word feeling hollow. “We might be together, but everything else is ruined, Joel. My mom hates me. She hates you... And everyone else knows now too."

Running away now sounds about right.

Joel crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the couch. “Your mom’s angry. She’s hurt. But she’ll come around. And whatever others say... Fuck 'em.” You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes. “She won’t, Joel. Not after what she said. Not after what we did.”

“She doesn’t get to judge us,” he said firmly, his voice low. “She can be angry all she wants, but we didn’t do this to hurt her. We didn’t plan for any of this.” You flinched at his words. “That doesn’t make it okay. We still—Joel, we still had an affair. We lied to her. I lied to her... and I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Joel reached out, his hand brushing against yours. “You’re the same person you’ve always been...My sweet 'n smart girl. And you’re not alone in this. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

You looked at him, his eyes filled with determination and tears. He meant it—every word. But that didn’t erase the reality of what had happened. It didn’t change the fact that you’d hurt someone you both cared about, even if that love had long since soured.

“Do you regret it?” you asked suddenly, the words spilling out before you could stop them. Your voice trembled, barely audible. “Do you regret... us?” Joel froze, his hand tightening around yours. For a moment, you thought he might say yes—that he’d take it all back if he could. But then he shook his head, his voice resolute.

“No,” he said. “I don’t regret loving you. I can’t. But I hate how it happened. I hate what it’s done to you—to us.” Tears slipped down your cheeks, and he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly. You buried your face in his chest, letting yourself cry for everything you’d lost—for the family you’d broken and the love that had brought you here. “I’m scared, Joel,” you whispered. “What if it’s not enough? What if we’re not enough?” His arms tightened around you, his voice soft but unwavering. “We’ll figure it out. One day at a time, baby.”

You wait for the moon to rise and hug you.

Tonight, as the moonlight filtered through the thin curtains in his bedroom, you realized you couldn’t stay here anymore. Not in this town. Not surrounded by the memories of everything you’d lost.

Joel was beside you, his breathing steady but shallow. He’d fallen asleep sitting against the headboard, a book forgotten in his lap. His brow was furrowed, even in rest. You stared at him for a long moment before gently nudging his shoulder. “Joel,” you whispered. He stirred, his eyes fluttering open. For a second, he looked confused, but then his gaze softened when he saw you. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”

You nodded but didn’t answer right away. Instead, you sat up, crossing your legs and pulling the blanket over them. Joel straightened, too, setting the book aside and giving you his full attention.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” you started. Joel tilted his head slightly. “What’s that?”

You took a deep breath, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess yourself. “Why don’t we leave? Just... pack up and go somewhere else. Start over. There’s nothing keeping me here, Joel. Not anymore. We could move, get away from all this, and just... be us. We could have a life, a family of our own. Isn’t that what we’ve always wanted?”

Joel’s eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. You could see the wheels turning in his mind, the way he was trying to process what you’d just said. “You want to leave?” he asked finally, his voice low.

You nodded. “I can’t stay here, Joel. Not after everything. Everyone knows. They’re all talking about us, judging us. I can’t go anywhere without feeling their eyes on me. And my mom... She’s made it clear I’m not welcome. But we don’t have to stay. We could go somewhere no one knows us. Start fresh.”

Joel rubbed a hand over his face, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know, darlin’. Moving... It’s a big decision. And what about you? Your work, your friends?”

“They’re not my friends anymore,” you said bitterly, the sting of betrayal still fresh. “If they ever were, they’re sure not now. And work... I can find something else. None of that matters, Joel. All that matters is us. If we stay here, this will follow us forever. But if we leave, we can leave all this behind.” His shoulders slumped slightly, and he looked at you; sadness and longing. “You really think running away’s the answer?”

“It’s not running away,” you argued gently. “It’s starting over. Joel, you said we’d figure this out together. This is how we do it! We can’t change what happened, but we can choose what happens next. And I choose you.”

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. Joel’s gaze locked on yours, and you could see the battle raging inside him. He wanted what you were offering—a chance to leave this mess behind, to build a life with you. But he was also scared of the unknown and the risks that came with it.

Finally, he reached out, his hand covering yours. “If this is what you want,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “then we’ll do it. We’ll leave. Wherever you wanna go, I’ll follow.”

Relief flooded through you, and a tear slipped down your cheek as you threw your arms around him. “Thank you,” you murmured against his shoulder. “Thank you..." He held you tightly, his lips brushing the top of your head. “You’re all I’ve got, darlin’. I’d go anywhere for you.”

That was enough. It had to be.

The hum of the apartment felt suffocating, but there was a strange comfort in it, too. You’d been in the same place for so long, yet now, every little sound—the refrigerator humming, the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall—felt like a reminder of everything that had fallen apart. The town that had been home for so many years now felt like a prison, a place where the whispers never stopped, and the eyes of judgment followed you wherever you went.

But you weren’t staying here. You couldn’t stay here. You were both looking for a way out. Maybe you more than him.

Joel had been working overtime, pushing through his job, despite the whispers about him at work—the rumors that now tainted his every conversation. His job, the stares, the small-town gossip— it all got to him. to both of you.

As for you, you had quit yours. There wasn’t any point in pretending anymore. Your coworkers had given you that look— the one that said they knew but couldn’t talk about it openly. You didn’t need that anymore. You didn’t need to keep hiding in a job that felt more like a cage than an opportunity.

What you needed was space. You needed to leave. To escape. To start somewhere far away from here.

You stood by the counter, stirring a pot of vegetable soup as the familiar sounds of the apartment surrounded you. You were tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of fighting for something that had no resolve. It should’ve been an easy answer. You knew this would happen, how it would end up. And you could see it in Joel’s eyes, too. But every time you thought about leaving, about getting out of this town where everyone knew too much, there was a brief moment of hope. A spark. What if this was the first step toward something real? Toward a life that was just yours? Was it that horrible you wanted to he happy despite what you had done?

You let out a deep breath, your thoughts interrupted as Joel stepped into the kitchen, his tired eyes locking onto yours.

"Hi, baby." he murmured, his voice a little rough from the long day. You turned to him, a smile tugging at your lips despite the exhaustion that had been weighing on you. “Hi,” you said softly, and before you could say anything more, he closed the space between you. Joel’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then your temple. “Missed you,” he said, his lips brushing against your skin. “Every damn minute I was at work, all I could think about was gettin' home to you.”

You laughed quietly, resting your hands on his chest. “You’re such a sap,” you teased, but there was no bite in your words—just warmth, just the comfort of knowing he was here. “Only for you,” Joel replied, a smirk playing on his lips as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed over your cheek, and his expression softened. “You’re my whole world, baby. Don’t you know that by now?”

Your chest tightened, but in the best way. You nodded, leaning into his touch. “I think I do,” you whispered. Joel’s smile grew, and he leaned down to kiss you—slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that made the rest of the world falter away. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his hands stayed firm on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“We’re really doing this..?” you said. “We’re leaving. Packing up and going to a whole new place..."

“Damn right we are,” his voice was steady. “We got that apartment a few towns over...with the balcony and all that sunlight you love so much, could maybe get a puppy too, who knows? It’s ours now. We’re making this happen.”

"Or a kitty." you giggle. "Whatever you want, angel. anything you want." You nodded, a smile breaking across your face. Your future home. Yours and Joel's. For how unreal it sounded, it felt like a lifeline. It was small but perfect, tucked away in a quiet area where no one would know your names. It was far enough from here that the whispers, the judgment, and the past couldn’t follow. It was everything you both needed. “I still can’t believe they approved us,” you said, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. “It feels too good to be true.” Joel chuckled, pulling you tighter against him. “Believe it, baby. It’s happening. And I can’t wait to see you in it. Can’t wait to start a real life with you..." he trails off, palm settling on your lower belly and, oh, butterflies bloom into your stomach. His words made your chest ache. He leaned down to kiss you again, his hands moving up to cradle your face. The kiss was longer this time, deeper, like he was trying to pour everything he felt for you into it. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were shining. “We’ll start packing this weekend,” he said, his tone laced with excitement. “I’ve already started thinking about how to load the truck. Gonna make sure all your stuff’s safe, no scratches or anythin'.” You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re so practical.”

“Hey, someone’s gotta be,” he teased, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “But seriously, I want you to feel at home there. I want it to be everything you’ve ever wanted. Hell, I don’t care if we’re in a shoebox as long as it’s with you.” Your throat tightened at his words, and you buried your face in his chest, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I love you,” you said softly. Joel’s hand came up to tangle in your hair, and he pressed his lips to the top of your head. “I love you, baby. More than anything.” it seemed real enough for you.

For a while, the two of you just stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, letting the warmth of the moment settle around you. You weren’t just running from something anymore, or someone. You were running toward something— together. And it was wrong, yes, and maybe karma will eventually make it's way to you, but until then this was your chance to be happy.

taglist ⭐️ ㅡ @eviispunk @joeldjarin @whimsiwitchy @guelyury @untamedheart81 @dollyxzy @mybvalentine @am-3-thyst @cuteanimalmama @corinnedollete @lovely-vamp-princess

[scrollonso]

Ghost — Strollonso (ft. Nikola)

@boxboxluckybird saw it first + an add-on to First Kiss

The night was quiet, except for the soft hum of the wind brushing against the windows. Fernando sat at the kitchen table, staring at a half-empty glass of whiskey he wasn’t sure he wanted to finish. The divorce had left his house emptier than it had ever been, the silence suffocating, a constant reminder of everything that had gone wrong. Fourteen years Fernando had spent married to Lance. Seventeen years they'd had a son together. All for nothing.

The sound of footsteps broke the stillness, tentative at first, then more deliberate. Fernando looked up to see Nikola standing in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed and glistening with tears. Fernando’s heart clenched. He knew that look. It was the same one Lance had whenever the world felt like it was crumbling around him — whenever the world was crumbling around him.

“Nik?” Fernando’s voice was softer than he expected, his usual sharpness dulled by concern. “What’s wrong, mijo?”

Nikola didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped into the room, his arms wrapped tightly around himself like he was trying to hold himself together — trying to hold the closest thing he had to Lance. His lower lip trembled, and when he finally spoke, his voice was raw and cracked.

“Do I look like him?”

Fernando blinked, startled by the question. “What?”

“Do I look like him?” Nikola repeated, his voice breaking. He stepped closer, his movements shaky, like he was being pulled forward by some invisible force. “Is that why you… why you treat me like this? Why you barely look at me? Because I remind you of him?”

“Nikola, mi amor, that’s not—” Fernando started, but Nikola cut him off with a sudden, anguished outburst.

“¡Ya basta! Don’t lie to me, Papa!” Nikola’s voice rose, thick with emotion. “You can’t stand to look at me, can you? Because I look like the one person in the world who loved you unconditionally, and you bailed on him. You left him because you were fucking scared!”

Fernando’s breath caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Scared of this,” Nikola continued, tears streaming down his cheeks as he motioned towards himself, convinced he was the one that drove his fathers apart. “Of having a family. Of having me. Having me with a man. You were so scared that you ran away from the best thing that ever happened to you, and now… now I’m here, and you can’t even look at me without seeing him, without remembering what you lost.”

“Nikola Díaz. Stop—” Fernando tried again, but Nikola wouldn’t let him.

��Are you ashamed of me?” Nikola asked, his voice trembling, every word cutting deeper than the last. “Is that it? Am I the reminder of everything you couldn’t handle? Everything you didn’t want? Do you hate me because of him? Because I'm a Stroll?”

Fernando stood abruptly, the metal of the chair beneath him scraping harshly against the floor. “Nikola, stop it!” he snapped, his voice cracking under the weight of his own guilt.

But Nikola didn’t flinch. He just stood there, shaking, his eyes locked on his father’s, pleading for an answer. “Do you love me? Did you love him?” he whispered. “Because it doesn’t feel like it, Papa."

Fernando felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. He took a step toward his son, then hesitated, his hands trembling at his sides. How could he explain the storm of emotions that had consumed him since the divorce? The shame, the regret, the unbearable weight of knowing he’d failed the two people he’d loved most in the world?

“You look like him,” Fernando finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Nikola flinched as though struck, but Fernando kept going, his words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to bridge the growing chasm between them. “You look like him, and it kills me every single day because I can’t look at you without thinking about how much I screwed up. How much I hurt him. How much I hurt you.”

Nikola’s breath hitched, but he didn’t say anything, his eyes wide and shining with fresh tears.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Fernando continued, his voice thick with emotion. “I could never be ashamed of you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Nikola. But every time I see you, I see him. I see the man I loved more than anything, the man I let down because I was too scared to face what we had, what we could’ve been.”

Tears spilled down Fernando’s cheeks now, his composure cracking under the weight of his confession. “I was scared, yes. Scared of being a father. Scared of being with a man. Scared of failing you both. And in the end, that fear made me do exactly what I was afraid of. I failed. I failed him, and I failed you.”

Nikola’s lips quivered, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring at his father. Then, with a sob, he rushed forward, throwing his arms around Fernando and burying his face in his chest. Fernando froze for half a second before wrapping his arms tightly around his son, holding him like he was afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” Fernando choked out, his voice muffled against Nikola’s hair. “I’m so sorry, hijo. For everything. For hurting you. For not being there. For making you feel like you weren’t enough. You are enough. You’ve always been enough.”

Nikola clung to him, his sobs wracking his small frame, and for the first time in years, Fernando let himself cry too. They stood there in the kitchen, father and son, broken but holding onto each other, trying to piece together the fragments of what had been shattered.

They stayed locked in the embrace, their shared grief filling the space that silence had once suffocated. Fernando’s grip on Nikola tightened, as if by holding on to his son, he could make up for all the lost time, all the mistakes that had created this chasm between them. The warmth of Nikola’s trembling body in his arms was a reminder that despite everything, he was still here, still his son, and still someone Fernando had a chance to fight for.

After a long moment, Nikola’s sobs began to subside, his breathing slowing into uneven hiccups. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at his father with tear-streaked cheeks and swollen eyes. “Do you think he hates you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Fernando’s heart twisted painfully. The question hit him harder than any of Nikola’s earlier accusations because it was the one he had been asking himself for years. He sighed, brushing a hand over Nikola’s hair, smoothing down the wild curls that reminded him so much of Lance.

“I don’t know,” he admitted honestly, his voice heavy with regret. “I hope not. I hope… I hope he knows how much I loved him — how much I love him — even if I didn’t show it the way I should have. Even if I messed everything up.”

Nikola searched his father’s face, his expression a mixture of sorrow and something Fernando couldn’t quite place. “I don’t think he hates you,” Nikola said after a moment, his voice fragile but sincere. “He never talked badly about you. Even when things were bad, even after the divorce, he always said you loved me. That you loved us.”

Fernando swallowed hard, his throat tightening. “He said that?”

Nikola nodded. “He never wanted me to think you didn’t care. Even when I was mad at you, he… he always defended you.”

Fernando closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of Nikola’s words. Lance’s forgiveness, his enduring belief in Fernando’s love, was more than he felt he deserved. And yet, it was the lifeline he didn’t know he’d been waiting for.

“I wish I could fix it,” Fernando whispered, his voice breaking again. “I wish I could take it all back and do it right. For him. For you.”

Nikola’s lip trembled, but he reached out, placing his hand over Fernando’s. “Maybe you can’t fix the past,” he said softly, “but you can still fix us.”

Fernando looked at his son, his chest aching with a mixture of pain and hope. He saw Lance in Nikola’s eyes, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like a curse. It felt like a second chance. A chance to love his son the way Lance would have wanted. The way they both deserved.

“I’ll try,” Fernando promised, his voice steady despite the tears still clinging to his lashes. “I’ll do everything I can to make it better, Nik. I swear to you, mijo.”

Nikola nodded, his fingers tightening around his father’s hand. “That’s all I wanted, Papa. For you to try.”

They stood in the kitchen for what felt like an eternity, the hum of the wind outside now a soft lullaby to their shared pain and tentative healing. When Nikola finally let go, his movements hesitant but lighter, he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Can I stay here tonight?” he asked quietly, his voice small, like he was afraid Fernando might say no.

Fernando’s heart broke all over again at the thought of Nikola feeling like he had to ask. “Of course,” he said firmly. “This is your home, Nik. It always will be.”

Nikola gave him a weak smile, the first hint of light Fernando had seen in his son’s eyes all night. Without another word, he turned and headed toward the living room, curling up on the couch the way he used to when he was little and afraid of the dark.

Fernando watched him go, his heart heavy but filled with a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in years. He grabbed a blanket from the hallway closet and draped it over Nikola, pressing a kiss to his son’s temple as he whispered, “Te amo, mijo. Always.”

Nikola murmured something in return, his voice slurred with exhaustion, and Fernando smiled faintly as he returned to the kitchen. The whiskey sat untouched on the table, but this time, Fernando didn’t pick it up. Instead, he poured it down the sink and stood there for a moment, staring out into the night.

The wind brushed against the windows again, but this time it didn’t feel so suffocating. It felt like a reminder that life was still moving, still offering chances to make things right. And for the first time in a long time, Fernando felt like he was ready to take it.

[bisexualbellamyblake]

a quiet undoing

buddie - post-808 coda - read on ao3

“Eddie’s moving to Texas.”

Maddie blinks at Buck, processing his words. It’s barely a second before her head tilts, and her eyebrows draw in, and she’s looking at him like he’s six again, like he’s fallen from his bike and all she wants to do is patch him up.

Protect him from the world.

“Oh, Buck,” she says, soft like she’s worried he’s fragile, like he might break, and maybe he will, because he doesn’t even remember it, driving to her house.

It’s all a blur.

Going to Eddie’s with a basket of baked goods.

Using his key and feeling that quiet thrill in his chest at the click of the front door unlocking.

Teasing Eddie about whatever he was looking at.

And then, being hit with something that Buck never imagined he would be. The prospect of Eddie leaving LA.

Of leaving him.

“I don’t — I’m not sure why I’m here,” Buck says, voice feeling tight with a fresh wave of tears. The first lot came when he was sitting on Eddie’s couch, when Eddie was no longer watching him and he allowed himself a moment not to pretend. They’re harder to swallow down this time. “I just got in my car and somehow ended up here.”

“That’s okay,” Maddie says, reaching out to put a hand on his arm, coaxing him inside. “I’m glad you came.”

She leads them to her couch, and Buck sits down, trying not to think about Eddie’s couch.

How many times has he sat there with Eddie? With Chris?

How many times has he slept there?

How many of Buck’s memories have been born on Eddie’s couch?

And now, he’s just spent an hour there on a call with a real estate agent, trying not to be anything but supportive as Eddie asked about different properties in fucking Texas.

Because how could he be?

Eddie misses Chris more than anything in the world.

He needs to be with him.

Buck understands, even if it feels like his own heart has been carved out of his chest.

“He wants to be with Chris,” Buck says, he’s not sure how long later. Time doesn’t feel like it’s moving quite like normal. “He’s looking at houses. I don’t understand why he doesn’t just fly there and bring him home. This is his home, Maddie, not Texas.”

“Buck…”

“I know, I’m not — I would never say this to him, don’t worry. I’ll let him go, even if it kills me. Even if I…”

The words get caught in his throat, and god, it’s love that’s strangling him right now, he knows it.

Another thing he can always associate with Eddie’s couch.

His eyes burn, and his chest feels cracked open, and it’s as Maddie’s pulling him in for a hug that he finally breaks. Tears hot on his cheeks, half-formed breaths shuddering out of him, his entire being — body and soul — aching with grief.

He’s always been an easy crier, always felt things too hard, too much, but he can’t recall the last time it felt this overwhelming.

Not when Tommy broke up with him.

Not when he was coming to terms with his own death — three minutes and seventeen seconds.

Not even when Maddie left, as much as it killed him.

It was probably when Eddie was shot. When Buck broke down in front of Chris.

Now, it’s Maddie who holds onto him as he sobs, murmuring soft words he can’t quite process as his body shakes with sorrow, as he tries to come to terms with the reality of yet another person he loves leaving him.

It’s minutes, or maybe hours, until he’s wrung dry, until the tears have stopped and his face feels tight and sticky and his heart continues its confused, worried beat within his chest: how will we go on?

Buck doesn’t know.

But he wipes at his eyes, and takes a slow breath, and this is what he does know:

He’s in love with Eddie.

And it’s because of that love, that he’ll let him go.

[viaviavie]

I keep coming back to your profile to reread your fics because I immediately fell in love with how you write them.

The ones for Jamil? Immaculate. Absolutely amazing. I can clearly imagine how Yuu walks up to Riddle and Leona after winter break and apologized to them without giving them any context as to why they are sorry.

And „A painted white rose“? I feel so conflicted about that open ending. Not because I have any problems with it, I absolutely love it, but I just wish I could read more about it. I just enjoy reading about the conflicts that arise within that Au.

So thank you for you hard work in providing your readers with such amazing content. Can’t wait for what else you have in store. <3

UWAAA THANK YOU FOR YOUR PRAISE ;-;

Poor prefect, they feel so bad about the things they said, even if it was just for pretend. I do think that they ended up apologizing without context, cue some puzzled expressions from the two housewardens. Riddle's just "???", and will receive no context whatsoever... unless Floyd decides to blab about it in a fit of laughter, but there's nothing to worry about there. Prefect had to establish a little deal with Azul to ensure that Riddle hears nothing of that defamation incident in Scarabia.

Leona, on the other hand, does end up hearing about it one way or another. He does get momentarily annoyed for a good moment, at least until he realizes that Jamil fell for that stupid trick. It might even send Leona into a laughing fit when he finds out you practically seduced Jamil and succeeded. What a clever prefect you are. So much for a cunning housewarden, toppled down by the harmless magicless student. You bet that Leona doesn't let Jamil hear the end of it when Book 6 happens.

Regarding Painted White Rose, I actually do plan to post more blurbs/drabbles based on it. I really loved the idea of a Time Loop AU with Ace, and there was just so much potential for it! There was actually a few things that I removed from the original copy, like this:

Deuce does not understand why Ace awoke with tears in his eyes, gripping his blankets and hiding his face away like the prideful boy that he was. Suddenly, he found himself being dragged out of his own bed, following the panicked murmurs about the prefect going missing. Deuce does not understand why Ace struggled with his dreams, or why he finds himself waiting with him at the playing field, looking at the sky that day. And yet, nothing ever makes sense. The housewardens have never left, Ramshackle dorm was never destroyed, and you remained in one piece.

There was meant to be a small part dedicated to the events in Book 6, but I didn't wanna oversaturate that fic with flashbacks. However, let's consider Deuce for a hot second here.

He is probably the next person who has been consistently close to Ace through all timelines. Not to mention that Deuce is practically his neighbor, he was definitely witness to Ace waking up from those dreams. While Ace does look super crazy in those moments, Deuce was also willing to hitch a ride to NRC during the Scarabia fiasco. He would likely believe Ace if his friend was honest about what he was seeing.

Another deleted passage regarding the prefect's fate in the Book 7 bad ending!

Frozen in the crook of your shoulder, Ace mumbled against the cold fabric of your jacket. “How far did we get?” His heart was numb as he felt you shook your head against his dripping cheek. “We didn’t even get the chance to escape to the ocean before we all succumbed to Malleus’ magic.”

Kinda felt like it would have been better to let the readers imagine how Book 7, but this was my downer ending. Perhaps this was why Ace barely resists at the end of the fic. I mean, how could he possibly stand against the strongest student on campus? It's a futile attempt to fight back. But for what it was worth, his act of holding you close was the best he can do to piss off Malleus.

Speaking of Malleus and Book 7, one thing I never mentioned was that Ace would have been getting more bad dreams about Book 7. (Now that I thought about it more, I had opportunities to keep adding in glimpses of Malleus but never saw it. Massive L for me ;-;). Ace's view on Malleus shifts from one of indifference to absolute suspicion and anger. Ace doesn't like it when the prefect hangs out with Malleus, hence why he stayed with them at nights to stop those interactions. By a certain point, Ace does villainize Malleus to a degree because of how often he dreams of the prefect succumbing to sleep because of him. I do wanna explore this shift in relationships soon!

Thank you for sending in that ask! I love rambling and yapping about the stuff I write, so thank you for enabling me :)))

[tasbcl]

oh god imagine Connor with a very shy girl (not projecting at all), that never felt so loved and appreciated in her life before him, and now she’s being a pouty in his arms mewling and gasping, still trying to hide her face while he’s fucking her so nicely and gently taking her hands off her face to kiss her <33 I’m sorry of this is not perfect, but it’s just allll of my thoughts lately

HE WOULD ABSOLUTELY MAKE YOU FEEL LIKE THE ONLY GIRL IN THE WORLD.

god, in the beginning of knowing each other connor would’ve probably been complimenting you all the time. when you greet each other, it’s ‘I like the hairstyle you have today!’ or ‘your outfit is pretty’ or just straight up ‘you’re pretty’. gets you all flushed and embarrassed, because not only does it warm your heart to hear things you’ve never thought about yourself before, but because he probably only says it just to be kind. right?

it’s embarrassing how quickly he realises you don’t really feel confident in yourself, you always let others talk over you and you’d rather disappear into the crowd than have the spotlight on you. he doesn’t remember assigning himself it, but suddenly a new mission objective is prioritised over the thing he was built for— to make you feel appreciated.

when you fuck for the first time, connor is just so eager and strangely needy, not realising these new feelings he’d been bottling up for you all this time until he gets you in bed and suddenly his hands are tugging at your clothes and caressing your skin. your cheeks are flushed pink, almost red, and you can’t help but instinctively hide yourself from his view. another strong emotion comes along in his chassis, frustration, because that just won’t do. his hard, cold hands aren’t rough, but aren’t soft when he pulls away your own hands that try to hide your soft, intimate flesh he so craves to see.

a kiss to your cheek, then the other, and then your lips before he murmurs to you, “don’t hide yourself from me.” it’s enough to get you wet (well, wetter) at his order. you obey, not without some reluctance, and he rewards you greatly.

his mission was easier to accomplish than expected, because by the start of it, the embarrassment and anxiety are all but kissed away by him and you’re keening and moaning for more, just like he wanted. his lips had been all over your body, your chest, your stomach, your legs. worshipping you, forcing you to understand how important and perfect you were. he’d had you dangling on the edge for ages, begging for him to just take you. when he did, he wasn’t gentle. he knew just what you needed, exactly what would have you breaking so he could piece you back together afterwards. his thrusts are slow but deep, his eyes are constantly roving over your body and face, to the point you had to literally hide your eyes from him out of how heavy his gaze felt. of course he doesn’t appreciate it. but he doesn’t try and punish you, because he knows you, so he takes your fingers off of your face and intwines his own with them, pinning them down to the bed while he fucks into you slowly. his lips find yours again to reassure you, then trail down your jaw, your neck… yeah