imfor3v3rh33re

[imfor3v3rh33re]

Cracked Porcelain

Riddle Rosehearts x Floyd Leech / Angst to Fluff 👍

TW: None

Riddle Rosehearts had always been perfect. The embodiment of order, discipline, and absolute precision. His life had been ruled by strict lines drawn by his mother, lines that he never dared cross. But Floyd Leech? He was chaos incarnate—a tide that ebbed and flowed wherever he pleased, unbound by rules, deadlines, or structure.

It was perhaps inevitable that the two would clash, like oil and water.

Riddle found Floyd infuriating. His obnoxious laughter, his lazy smirk, the way he did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. But more than that, what truly got under his skin was Floyd’s unshakable interest in him.

It began as harmless teasing—Floyd calling him “Goldfishie” with that ever-present grin, poking and prodding at his boundaries like it was a game. Riddle dismissed it, brushed it off, and told himself that Floyd’s antics didn’t affect him. He told himself that over and over until the words had lost all meaning.

But then there were those moments when Floyd would get too close. His fingers brushing against Riddle’s, lingering longer than necessary. That smug look fading into something darker, something that made Riddle’s chest tighten in ways he couldn’t explain.

Riddle slammed his book shut one evening, his patience finally wearing thin. “Floyd, do you have nothing better to do than pester me?”

Floyd, lounging upside down on one of the Heartslabyul couches, simply blinked at him, upside-down grin never faltering. “Nah. You’re more fun.”

Riddle bristled, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’m not here for your entertainment!”

“Mmm, you sure about that? ’Cause you look real cute when you’re mad, Goldfishie.”

Riddle’s face flushed bright red, anger swirling in his chest, but underneath it, something else stirred—something he refused to acknowledge. “You are insufferable!” he snapped, storming toward the door.

But before he could leave, Floyd was suddenly in front of him, moving with the grace and speed of a predator. His long fingers curled around Riddle’s wrist, not enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop him. Riddle’s breath hitched, and for a second, all his carefully crafted walls began to crack.

“Where ya goin’?” Floyd’s voice was low, his grin now softer, yet still dangerous. “I wasn’t done talkin’.”

“I have… duties,” Riddle said stiffly, his voice betraying the slight tremble he fought to suppress. “Let go of me, Floyd.”

Floyd’s grip tightened, just enough for Riddle to feel the pulse of something more—something that terrified him. “Duties, huh? Always the perfect little soldier, right?” He leaned in, his breath ghosting over Riddle’s ear. “Bet it gets real tiring, huh? Bein’ perfect all the time.”

Riddle’s heart pounded in his chest. “I… I am not tired,” he bit out, but the words rang hollow, even to his own ears.

Floyd’s eyes gleamed, the smugness fading as something deeper settled there. “Liar.”

That one word cut through Riddle like a blade. His perfect mask cracked, just a little, as memories of his mother’s constant expectations and harsh punishments flooded back. But he couldn’t fall apart now. Not here. Not in front of him.

“I’m fine,” Riddle insisted, jerking his wrist free and taking a step back. He hated how his voice wavered, hated how Floyd seemed to see through him so easily.

“Yeah? Then why do ya look like you’re about to break?” Floyd’s voice was strangely soft now, no trace of his usual teasing. He tilted his head, watching Riddle with an intensity that made him feel exposed.

“I’m not—” Riddle’s words caught in his throat, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His chest tightened, and before he could stop himself, the weight of everything crashed down on him.

The room spun. He stumbled back, barely catching himself on the edge of a chair as his breath came in ragged gasps. “I-I’m not… I’m not perfect,” he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, there was silence. Then Floyd stepped closer, his usual smirk gone, replaced by something gentler. He knelt beside Riddle, his large hand resting on the back of his neck, not forcing him but grounding him. “No one’s askin’ ya to be, Goldfishie.”

Riddle blinked, his vision blurring with tears he hadn’t realized were there. “My mother…” His voice broke, and he bit down hard on his lip, refusing to let the floodgates open. He hated how vulnerable he felt, hated that Floyd of all people was seeing him like this.

But Floyd didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock him or throw Riddle’s weakness back in his face. Instead, he just stayed there, quietly waiting, his hand warm against Riddle’s skin.

“I… I can’t,” Riddle whispered, his voice barely audible. “I can’t fail. If I do, I—”

Floyd’s thumb brushed against the back of his neck, and Riddle’s words faltered. “You’re not gonna fail,” Floyd murmured. “But even if ya do… who cares? You’re still you.”

Riddle swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell Floyd that it wasn’t that simple, that he had to be perfect. But the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was stare at Floyd, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him.

And for the first time, he let himself lean into it.

He slumped forward, just slightly, but enough for Floyd to notice. The eel’s arm moved to support him, pulling him close in a way that was surprisingly gentle. Riddle buried his face in Floyd’s shoulder, his hands clenching the fabric of his shirt as he finally let the tears fall.

Floyd didn’t say anything, didn’t make any smart comments. He just held Riddle, his grip steady, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

After what felt like an eternity, Riddle’s sobs quieted, and he pulled back, wiping at his tear-streaked face with trembling hands. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Floyd’s gaze.

“Feel better?” Floyd asked, his tone casual, but there was an underlying softness to it.

Riddle nodded, still unable to speak. He hated that he’d broken down like that. Hated that he’d let Floyd see him at his weakest.

But at the same time, there was a strange sense of relief. Like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry it all alone.

Floyd stood up, offering Riddle a hand. “C’mon, Goldfishie. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Riddle hesitated for a moment, then took Floyd’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. As they left the room together, Riddle’s heart still felt heavy, but it was a little less suffocating now.

Maybe chaos wasn’t so bad after all.

(Blessing yall with a picture I saw on Pinterest!: @gukouaili349)

[imfor3v3rh33re]

INTRODUCTION!!

I’m 22, but please nothing freaky 😭

Any pronouns

I’m a pagan!!

I only write fluff, angst, romance, and platonic 😅

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Fandoms:

Twisted wonderland

Genshin Impact

Obey me! Nightbringer

FNAF

MHA

DDLC

Yandere Simulator

Monster High

Creepypasta

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DNI:

Proshippers

Comshippers

Darkshippers

Homophobes

Ablists

People who hate other religions

Racism

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Extra:

I will take requests of writing fanfics

I write for every fandom I listed

I’ll most likely most my oc’s on here

I’m a simple person 😌

[imfor3v3rh33re]

Malleus x Leona fanfic / fluff <3

“Leona,” Malleus begins, his voice softer than the lion beastman expects, “You’ve been on my mind more than I care to admit.”

Leona raises a brow, crossing his arms. “If you’re trying to start somethin’, you should know better than to drag me out here for a chat.”

Malleus chuckles, the sound rich like a dragon’s purr. “Not everything is a battle, though I must say, your spirit is… captivating.”

The moonlight reflects in Malleus’s eyes, glowing softly, while Leona feels an odd tug in his chest. He’s used to competing, to challenges, but this? This feels like a game of a different kind. One he’s not sure he’s willing to admit he might like.

Malleus steps closer, the scent of magic and old stories around him, and for the first time, Leona feels something shift between them. Not rivalry, not battle—something more.

“I’ve always been curious, Leona,” Malleus murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. “What it would be like… if we stopped fighting.”

Leona doesn’t back down. He never does. Instead, he leans in, his smirk matching the dragon’s intensity. “You might not like what you find, Draconia.”

“Or perhaps,” Malleus whispers, “I will.”

[imfor3v3rh33re]

Perfect Imperfection

The moonlight cascaded through the tall windows of Pomefiore’s dormitory, casting cold silver streaks across Vil’s room. It was quiet—too quiet for Rook, who stood near the door, his eyes never leaving the figure before him. Vil, immaculate as always, was perched on a plush chair, gazing into the mirror with an expression as cold and sharp as the glass he scrutinized.

“Vil…?” Rook’s voice was soft, but the tension hung between them like a heavy shroud.

Vil didn’t turn to face him. His violet eyes were locked on his reflection, searching, always searching for imperfections that didn’t exist to anyone but himself.

“Do you know what it’s like, Rook?” Vil finally spoke, voice low and tight, “To live under the constant pressure of perfection? To feel that every flaw—every slight mistake—is a blemish on everything I’ve worked for?”

Rook stepped forward cautiously, his own heart heavy with the weight of Vil’s words. He admired Vil, adored him beyond reason, but even admiration couldn’t bridge the chasm that had begun to form between them.

“Mon Roi,” Rook began, his voice a tender whisper, “You are more than perfection. You are beauty, even in your flaws. It is what makes you… human.”

Vil’s jaw tightened. “I am not allowed to be human, Rook. Not when the world expects a perfect performance. Always.”

Rook reached out, hesitating just for a moment, before his fingers lightly brushed Vil’s shoulder. The contact was brief but full of meaning. “You don’t have to be perfect for me. I see you, every part of you. And I… I love you as you are.”

For the first time that night, Vil’s gaze broke from the mirror, meeting Rook’s earnest eyes. There was a flicker of vulnerability—rare and fleeting—before it disappeared behind a well-practiced mask.

“You don’t understand,” Vil whispered, and Rook’s heart ached at the hollow look in Vil’s eyes. “You’ve always admired me from afar, but what you see is an illusion. I can never let you see the real me—because if you did, you wouldn’t love what’s left.”

Rook’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. “Vil, you underestimate me,” he said, a crack in his usually playful voice. “I see you, even when you think you’re hiding. I love you, not because you’re perfect, but because you’re Vil. I would follow you into your darkest moments.”

Vil’s lips quivered—just for a moment—before he turned back to the mirror, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“But Rook,” Vil whispered, “How can you love me, when I can’t even love myself?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Rook stood behind Vil, his chest tightening as he watched the man he admired most slip further into the shadows of his own doubt.

And in that moment, Rook realized that no matter how much he loved Vil, there were some battles Vil had to face alone.