#Angsty

[thelazyauthorsblog]

The other woman P1

Content: its only been a short amount of time since your split with the batboys and they've already moved on? Also this is part 2 of still rocking your hoodie P1.

Including: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne

Extra: so Bruce isn't in this part, as Damian is going to act as the driving force for P3 so sorry if that was a bad idea..

[cartoondrawer]

me when planter angst

[ikeromantic]

Parting

A Chevalier Michel fanfiction. Approx. 2000 words. This scene takes place in Chapter 23-24 of the romantic route and is told from Chevalier’s POV. Part 21 of a series.

Chapter List

Dawn crept slowly into the room, a slow and gradual shift from deep shadows to a lifeless gray, and finally the rose-gold of morning sun. Chevalier watched the light grace Emma's sleeping face. She was so beautiful. He kissed the edge of her jaw and saw her lips curl into a slight smile. 

He wanted to make love to her again. To hold her and let himself fall asleep here, together. But that was a fantasy for fools. Chevalier carefully extricated himself from bed and dressed. He moved quietly, not waking the exhausted Belle. She only stirred when the door closed behind him. 

His room waited for him. The space felt more empty, somehow, though it held the usual assortment of his things. Chevalier laid down, still in his clothes from the day before, and tried to sleep. He was still tossing and turning when Clavis turned up at noon with his breakfast. 

"You can't mope in bed all day," his brother said cheerfully, jerking the sheets off Chev and tossing them to the floor. "You've got work to do. Or would you like to abdicate now and make this easier on everyone?"

"Abdicate?" Chevalier's tired mind took only a heartbeat to catch up. Emma had chosen him as King that morning then, and must have signed the proclamation with Sariel for his brother to know about it. He sat up, frowning. Her choice was expected, but the rapidity was a surprise. He's assumed his precious simpleton would take another few days to state her choice and say her goodbyes. "Where is she?"

"She?" Clavis blinked at him as if confused. "Sariel is waiting for you. He's sent three servants to wake you but no one was brave enough to get you out of bed. No one but me." He grinned, his look more feral than amused.

"Four-Eyes can keep waiting. Where is the Belle?" He stood and grabbed his tea from the tray.

Clavis' smile turned sly. "The Belle can have no contact with the King once she's appointed her choice. You know that."

The icy look Chevalier turned his way would have sent most men into a panic. Not Clavis. He was used to murderous glares. 

"Anyway, Sariel got her moved out within an hour of her signing. So you won't have to put up with her foolish face again. That's what you wanted, right?" Clavis continued to needle him, looking for a reaction. 

Chevalier refused to give him the satisfaction. He sat down at the table and ate his breakfast, book in one hand. Clavis paced the room the whole time, unable to sit still. The nervous energy was palpable. Chev ignored him, his thoughts turned inward. 

There would be so much to do. Announcements of the King's death, the succession, coronation planning. Diplomats would need to be sent to their allies and neutral trade partners. Four-Eyes would handle most of it, but nothing could proceed without Chevalier's agreement. The Belle was gone. Chev ignored the errant thought. He was no fool to be distracted by love. He would put it aside, as he must. 

Clavis accompanied him to meet with Four-Eyes. Sariel had a mountain of documents to review with him, which took up the rest of the day. Chevalier shut down his emotions and focused on what needed to be done. The only remaining distractions were his brothers, popping in one after another to congratulate and comment. 

Nokto gave a bright grin when he stopped in. "Never thought you'd adopt my tactic. But all's fair in love and war, hm? And succession too. Seduce the judge, win the contest."

Clavis laughed and even Sariel smirked, but Chev was not amused. "Are you insinuating that the Belle's selection did not come from her pure heart?" His voice was cold enough to freeze the blood. 

Nokto stepped back, surprised. "N-no! Of course not. Just that we didn't . . . I didn't think . . ."

"Fools rarely do." Chevalier turned his attention back to the paperwork and reports, and Nokto slunk away.

Sariel exchanged a look with Clavis that Chev didn't like, but he let it be. Calling out the behavior would only increase their ridiculous opinions and give more fodder to the circulating rumors. 

When he left Sariel's office, he meant to go to the library. He needed a book to distract him. A story of doomed love that he could mock. But his steps took him back to her room. Maids were busy there already, stripping the sheets and preparing the furniture for storage. Every last sign of Emma would be gone. 

"Stop." The order passed his lips before he'd finished his thought.

The maids turned, surprised to see him there. They fell into deep curtsies, heads bowed. "M-majesty? We were ordered to clean this room," one squeaked.

This was the logical course of action. Guest rooms were only prepared when a guest was expected. But to Chevalier, this wasn't a guest room. It was Emma's room. Her ghost haunted every corner of it. He could almost see her sitting in her favorite spot near the window, book open on her lap. "Keep it exactly as it is. Do not defy me."

"Y-yes, your Majesty." The maids dipped even lower, though he didn't miss the confused looks they exchanged. 

Next, Chevalier went to the library. He pulled down the book Emma had loved so, and skimmed the pages. The scenes were as vibrant in his memories as if he'd read it only yesterday. The trembling commoner, confessing her love. The soft-hearted prince doing all in his power to keep her by his side until he finally realized neither of them could be happy if they were together. 

He set the book beside him at the small writing desk and glared at it as if the book was to blame for his confused heart. It ached in his chest, a throbbing bruise as bad as any he ever took in sword practice or battle. The story was a good reminder of what should happen, not that he needed to read it. Perhaps the former Belle would though.

Chevalier decided to send it to her as a parting gift. He pulled out a clean page of paper and some ink to write the last message he would ever send to his beloved.

This is a parting gift. You said you cried over this book many times, so I thought you may want to have it. In the story, the prince and his common lover say goodbye and wish each other happiness. Even if they aren't together, they just wish for the happiness of the person they love. If you want to call that sentiment love. I wish for your happiness. I may never see you again, but the truth is that I do love you. Even if just for a moment.

After you return home, marry someone else. Have a family. A life. I want someone to be there for you. Someone who can make you smile, and wipe the tears from your eyes when you cry over silly stories. I'll never be able to do that for you. Find a man who is gentle, and be happy. After all, nothing is more foolish than pining for someone beyond your reach. 

And in case it's not clear, this is an order from the King. It's absolute.

He signed his name, and tucked the letter into the book. 

"What are you doing? You look as if you've bitten into a lemon." Clavis' teasing voice came from the doorway. 

Chev hadn't heard him approach, but since he was here, he could be useful. "Make sure the former Belle receives this." He held the book out to his brother.

Clavis didn't take the book. "Why should I? You give it to her."

"That's an order. Failure to comply will be met with a death sentence." 

His brother laughed. "That's the Chev I know. For a while there, I thought you might stop threatening to kill people completely. She really changed you."

Chevalier frowned. "I haven't changed." 

"No? I must be mistaken then." Clavis took the book and turned to leave. "Oh!" He paused. "There's a delegation of miners that want to speak with you about working conditions."

Chevalier's frown deepened. "Why are you telling me this? Have Four-Eyes add them to the schedule."

Clavis only laughed and left, leaving Chevalier alone again with his thoughts. 

For the next several days, Chevalier's days were full. Briefings, fittings, all of the requirements for the ceremony. It was a pointless custom, but Chev knew the value of ritual. If he discarded coronation, there would be doubt and unrest among the commoners. His mind flashed to the Belle. Emma, smiling that vapid, sweet smile of hers. The one that shouted joy and contentment. He missed her. Had she returned to the bookshop?

"Majesty, what bookshop?" His tailor looked up from where he was pinning the coat Chevalier would wear for the coronation, confused. 

Chevalier felt a spike of irritation at himself. He hadn't meant to speak aloud. "Focus on your work, fool." While the chastened tailor continued the fitting, Chev worked out a plan to keep an eye on the Belle without rousing suspicion as to the subject of his concern. It would need to be undertaken with care, of course. If his interest in her well-being was too obvious, she would be a target, and a liability. 

That evening, he penned a letter and sent it out by courier. He had only to wait a few hours before the recipient arrived at the palace gardens to speak with him. Chevalier would have preferred to meet in town, but it was difficult for him to be inconspicuous there. The Dog, on the other hand, had no problem slipping into the palace unnoticed. 

"Your Majesty." Rio gave an exacting bow, just deep enough to be appropriate. "You said Emma was in danger?"

Chevalier gave a curt nod. "Don't play stupid, Dog. You know as well as I do that some people will make the connection between the woman they saw at my side and the girl in her bookshop. Simply leaving the palace does not ensure she is out of danger."

"Bossman said -"

"I didn't summon you to waste my time with reassurance from Four-Eyes." Chevalier felt a spike of annoyance.

"Then what do you want?" Rio wasn't cowed in Chevalier's presence. He seemed at ease, something even Chev's brothers struggled with at times. 

Chevalier allowed a thin smile to rise on his lips. "You are resourceful. I want you to keep an eye on her. Ensure she comes to no harm. And -"

"You want me to spy on her." Rio's brows rose, his expression challenging.

Chev shook his head. "No. I don't want to know about her daily activities. Only tell me how she is. Or if something serious occurs." 

Rio crossed his arms. "Did you send Prince Clavis to check on her too?"

"Clavis?" Chevalier felt a flicker of surprise, a rare occurrence. "No." He didn't know what his brother's specific goal was, but to be sure it was something disruptive. "That would be something I want you to report. Do you understand?"

Silence stretched between the two men for longer than courtesy allowed. Finally, Rio nodded. "I'll write to you if anything happens. But only because I love Emma and I want her to be safe."

"Don't tell me what I already know, Dog." Chevalier snorted. 

Rio gave him a look as imperious as any prince. "In time, she will forget you and find her happiness with someone else."

Chevalier nodded. "You continue to state the obvious." He kept his expression still, but Rio's words stung the raw wound of his heart. "Now go, and do not allow yourself to be seen. I don't think I need to tell you what will happen if you reveal this arrangement to anyone."

"You don't need to threaten me. I'm doing this for Emma." Rio didn't bow before he left, only slipped away into the shadows. 

The King stayed there in the garden for awhile longer, breathing the rose-scented night air. Memories stirred within him, recalled in painfully perfect detail. 

[creativepromptsforwriting]

The angstiest masterpost

angsty.

Angsty family/platonic dialogue

Angsty question prompts #1

Angsty question prompts #2

Angsty question prompts #3

Angsty/fighting dialogue

Concerned/angsty question prompts 

Angsty starters

Angst prompts

Angsty sentence starters #1

Angsty sentence starters #2

Angsty sentence starters #3

Angsty sentence starters #4

Leaving dialogue

Reunion dialogue reactions

Unwilling goodbye + love confession prompts

Trying to make them stay dialogue

Sacrificing dialogue

Sacrificing prompts

Amnesia prompts

Amnesia dialogue

Bad luck prompts

Lover being hurt prompts

Break-up dialogue #1

Break-up dialogue #2

Unwanted attention dialogue

Unrequited love dialogue

Drama starting points

Conflict for couples #1

Conflict for couples #2

Conflict for couples #3

Betrayal dialogue

Hiding from horror dialogue

Finding out the truth dialogue

"I'm sorry…" apology starters

Saying I'm sorry…

Apologizing for emotional neglect

"I can't…"

Talking it out ideas

Keeping loved ones apart

Ending an argument

If you like my blog and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee or become a member! And check out my Instagram! 🥰

[antivoiid]

not a lot of people talk about the guilt dust probably feels working for nightmare . killing everyone in your own timeline for them is one thing , but killing people *outside* of it for your aus personal gain ? that is a different selfish .

i wanted the comic to go in a different direction but got lazy does this count as angst

the watcher is also here i guess ( belongs to @beaboep )

[urfriendlywriter]

Angsty Prompts

(feel free to use, tag me when yall write!!! mwah xoxo)

"You're okay, look at me--yes, my love, you're okay. I'm here now."

tight hugs, their hands cradling you and your heart close to theirs.

Their heart shattering with every ragged breath u take and every sob that escapes your lips

"Do u know.. it's incredibly brave of you to.." They pause, gently rubbing the tears stains off your cheeks, "Be vulnerable with me? It's my honor, to protect you, and be a safe place for you."

being hospitalized, and waking up to find them curled at the foot of your bed, holding onto ur hand.

Voice breaking as they whisper, their hand tightening around yours, "I-I thought I lost you.."

pressing your lips their forehead, as they break apart in your arms, clinging onto you. eyes full of pain, tears and rare vulnerability that bares open their entire being to you

^ caressing their face, unable to know what to say or do but whispering, "Let me hold you through this all. It's okay to cry, my love.." and they completely shatter.

Them curling up into ur chest, needing comfort, security and strength

"I'm so sorry--" "No, no, no. You did ur best, my soul, i---i am the one sorry."

[celestialwrites]

angsty (romantic + platonic) dialogue prompts

@celestialwrites for more!!

♡ "it took you almost 4 years to fully trust me, and it took you all of one minute to stop."

♡ "do not waste your breath with lies, for once tell me the damned truth."

♡ "i have always wanted the good, the bad, and the ugly from you! i never wanted you to hide."

♡ "do you not get it? we don't ever get a happy ending, we don't ever go home!"

♡ "tell me you didn't, i do not care if it's a lie, just tell me you didn't."

♡ "you are a part of me and i cannot stand it."

♡ "don't waste away a life that was never yours. it was always hers."

♡ "every second i spend in pain without (s/o) is better than any day i spent not knowing them."

♡ "your tears will not bring him back." "fuck you."

♡ "that may just happen to be your gravest mistake, you thought you could fix her."

♡ "look me in the eye and say it. say it! say they're dead!"

♡ "i will be the greatest loss of your life."

REBLOG TO SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL WRITERS<3

[myradicora]

I can't believe that Shadow Milk Cookie x Bill Cipher yaoi is what got me to 10.6k followers on Twitter

In the Theraprism....

Anyways here's a serious moment with Shadow Milk there during therapy✌️

@0zmodeus gives me the ideas and I draw them ⬇️

Hope you enjoyed the angst :p

[drunk-werewolf]

[kruegerspillow]

childhood friend! reader who'd been (coincidentally) assigned to the same task force as simon after months of no contact. he didn't believe that it was you before connecting the dots. you talk the same, smell the same and behave the same from years ago.

childhood friend! reader who makes the same jokes around simon and helps make him feel... alive.

childhood friend! reader who's the only person that's allowed to be touchy feely around simon.

childhood friend! reader who tries very hard to keep the banter between them and simon alive, though, failing miserably when they nearly shot simon after he sneaked up behind them.

childhood friend! reader who realized that simon didn't have anyone to tap him out, so, being the nice friend they are, they tapped simon out with a smile on their face.

childhood friend! reader who doesn't notice the way simon's gaze lingers around their figure, taking in every curve and edges with a piercing gaze.

childhood friend! reader who flirts with random guys every time they get tipsy— while simon watches from the corner of the room— knowing that he won't be able to do anything about it.

childhood friend! reader who doesn't notice the way simon's behaviour shifts everytime they get close with other blokes. he's no longer relaxed, his brows furrowed and muscles tensing. your drunken giggle made his stomach flip, becoming nothing but a painful reminder of what he couldn't have.

childhood friend! reader who gets driven home by simon after finishing their drinks. his grip on the steering wheel was tight, his thoughts a tangled mess, fixating on the bitter truth that you were never his.

childhood friend! reader who thinks that everything simon does for them is casual, when it is, in fact, not-so-casual. after all, that desperate kiss you gave him before he left for the military was not-so-casual too, wasn't it?

kruegerspillow © 2024 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[hoe4hotchner]

I have an idea for a Hotch story. What about its Hotch x wife!reader where jack is about 6 months old but she’s still constantly checking his breathing at naps and bedtime and waking up all the time she check him and is super conscious. Hotch thought at first it’s just a new mom thing but now you’re losing sleep and worried all the time so he brings it up one night and she just breaks down and says “I never know if you’re coming home to me so I need to make sure jack is ok so I always have a piece of you with me”

Safe and Sound | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x wife!Reader | WC: 0.7k | CW: Could probably be qualified as post partum, anxiety, lack of sleep.

A/N: I tried my hardest to write this with Jack as the baby, but ultimately I had to make it into a new baby unrelated to Jack, cause my brain couldn't wrap around reader having given birth to Jack. Otherwise it follows the prompt…. Hope it's okay <3

The soft glow of the nightlight bathed the nursery in a warm amber hue as you hovered over the crib. The rhythmic sound of the baby monitor buzzed faintly in the background, but it wasn’t enough to ease your mind. Your hand rested lightly on your son’s tiny chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall from his breathing. Six months in, and every nap, every bedtime, still filled you with a quiet kind of dread.

What if the monitor failed? What if something happened while you weren’t watching? The what-ifs buzzed louder than the monitor, it was a relentless echo that kept you tethered to the edge of fear no matter how safe or serene he looked in his sleep.

The creak of the nursery door broke your focus, pulling your gaze away from your son’s chest. Aaron’s silhouette filled the doorway, his broad shoulders casting a shadow into the softly lit room. He was only wearing a plain white t-shirt and a pair of boxers, the casualness of his attire contrasting with his usual suit and tie. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, and his dark eyes softened as they took you in, concern etching faint lines across his face. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, not in irritation but in worry.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, careful not to wake the baby. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered back, brushing your fingertips over your son’s soft, silky hair. You lingered, reluctant to leave. “I just needed to check.”

Aaron stepped into the room, his feet silent against the carpet. “You’ve checked three times in the past hour,” he said gently, his hand finding the small of your back. “Come back to bed.”

You sighed, looking down at your baby boy one last time before letting Aaron guide you out of the nursery. The two of you walked in silence to your bedroom, his hand never leaving you as if to anchor you to him so you wouldn't run back to the nursery. When you climbed into bed, Aaron slid in beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to face you.

“This isn’t just a new mom thing, is it?” he asked, his voice low and careful, treading lightly as he spoke. “You’ve barely been sleeping. You’re running yourself into the ground.”

You froze, staring at the ceiling as tears burned behind your eyes. He was right — he always was. But admitting it felt like opening a floodgate you weren’t sure you could close.

“I just…” Your voice cracked, and Aaron shifted closer. “I need to make sure he’s okay.”

“He is okay,” Aaron said, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “He’s perfect. And you’re an amazing mom.”

The dam broke. The tears spilled over as a sob escaped your lips. “I never know if you’re coming home to me,” you choked out, your hands gripping his t-shirt as though he might disappear. “So I need to make sure the baby is okay. I need to know I’ll always have a piece of you with me.”

Aaron’s breath hitched, his face falling as your words sank in. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest as he kissed the top of your head. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m so sorry you feel like that.”

You clung to him, his steady heartbeat soothing some of the ache in your chest. “I can’t lose you, Aaron. Or him. I wouldn’t survive it.”

“You won’t lose us,” he promised, his lips brushing your temple. “I’ll do everything I can to come home to you, every time. And I’ll make sure you’re never carrying this alone.”

For a long time, he just held you. As your sobs quieted, he eased you back down onto the pillows, still holding your hand.

“Tomorrow, we’ll figure this out,” Aaron said softly. “We’ll talk to someone and find ways to help you rest. But tonight, let me watch over him so you can sleep. Okay?”

You nodded, your exhaustion finally catching up to you as his words and touch began to pull you under. “Okay,” you whispered.

And as you drifted off in Aaron’s arms, for the first time in months, you felt the weight begin to lift — getting help was not such a bad idea after all.

[theonottsbxtch]

I LOVED YOU FIRST | FC43

an: guys i’m so sorry for the atrocities i’m about to cause by posting this, i’m especially tagging @obxstiles to make sure they don’t miss it and that they cry muahaha there MAY be a part two to this

summary: for as long as she’s remembered she’s loved franco, wether those feelings were ever reciprocated she doesn’t know.

wc: 4.4k

She remembered the sound of wheels against gravel. Even as a kid, Franco was fast—kicking up dust and stones as he went, all edges and adrenaline. They grew up on the same street, a road that was more dust than pavement, cutting through a small town nobody had ever heard of, deep in the countryside of Argentina. Back then, he raced down that road on a beat-up go-kart that rattled and threatened to fall apart with every turn. But he didn’t care. Even at eight years old, Franco could talk of nothing but cars and speed and the shimmering, impossible promise of a life far from here.

She was the one who stood at the end of the road, cheering him on as he came barreling toward her, heart in her throat every time he cut it too close. She told herself that’s just what friends did—waited around to see the other one make it back in one piece. But there was more to it, even then. She’d never told him, of course. Franco had always been too focused on the next race, the next finish line, to notice much about her that wasn’t familiar. It was easier that way. They were friends. That was enough.

Years passed, and with them, his childhood kart became a racing simulator, then an actual car, then a series of wins that only proved what she’d always known—that Franco was going somewhere.

Last year, his parents sold their house so he could go further, could reach another level she couldn’t quite see. He moved in with her and her family when he wasn’t racing, and for a few months, it was as if they were kids again, laughing late at night, plotting his future as he spilled out every dream he’d ever had. That was the year she started imagining he might finally see her the way she saw him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Franco saw everything she wasn’t: the girl from another world, polished and magnetic, with a face and laugh that gleamed like the trophies he’d already started to collect. She caught him, snared him in a way that didn’t even seem real.

It was this girl—her name slipped off his tongue so easily when he let it—who went to the big events with him, who stood beside him when photographers crowded around after his races, a reminder that he’d already begun to belong somewhere else. She wanted to hate her, this stranger who was everything she wasn’t, but what good would it do?

It was easy to tell herself she was Franco’s friend. His best friend. The one who’d been there since the beginning, the one who stayed up with him on those late nights when all his dreams felt heavy enough to drown him. She’d learned to wear it like armour—the friend, the constant, the steady hand on his shoulder when his voice cracked and his confidence faltered.

No one else knew the small things about him, the things that made him human. Like how he had a superstition about not putting on his helmet until the very last second before a race. Or that his favorite thing in the world was the sound of tires on wet pavement, a soft hiss of rain and speed. Or that he used to dream of buying back the house his parents sold and giving them something better.

The nights she couldn’t sleep, she’d replay those memories to herself, like scenes from a film she’d seen too many times. They were pieces of a person she’d built up in her mind so completely, so painstakingly, that she sometimes forgot he wasn’t hers. Not really.

Now, Franco was leaving again, but this time it was different. The call had come last night, and she’d been there when he answered it, watching the way his face shifted, lit up with something she hadn’t seen since they were kids. He’d been invited to join a Formula 1 team—a chance to race against the best, a dream finally realised.

And she’d been the first person he told. “I’m in,” Franco had whispered to her after he hung up, his voice hoarse with disbelief. “I’m actually in.”

He’d pulled her into a hug, and for a fleeting moment, she let herself believe this moment was for her too—that she was a part of the dream. But when he finally let go, she could already feel him slipping away, his mind racing miles ahead, far beyond anything she could reach.

And now here they were, standing on the same dusty road they’d grown up on, only this time the road was empty. She could almost see his silhouette against the horizon, an outline that belonged to no one, not even her.

“So… this is it, huh?” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady, her hands stuffed deep into her jacket pockets. She knew this was her job now: to be strong, supportive, even as she felt her chest tightening with everything she’d left unsaid.

Franco glanced over at her and smiled, that careless, easy grin she’d fallen in love with a thousand times. “Yeah. This is it.”

There was a part of her that wanted to say something, to tell him what it felt like to lose him, to have spent all these years beside him only to watch him walk away. But she didn’t, couldn’t. Because he needed her to be his friend, his rock. And that’s exactly what she would be, until the moment he disappeared from sight.

“You’ll be amazing out there,” she said softly, swallowing hard against the ache in her throat.

“Thanks,” Franco replied, his gaze drifting to the horizon, to whatever was waiting for him. He didn’t see her watching him, didn’t notice the way she tried to memorise every detail of his face, the way she gripped the fabric of her jacket so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Because that’s what she was: the person who stayed behind, the person who would cheer for him no matter how far he went, even if it took him far beyond her reach.

His first race was in Monza.

And Franco had made sure she’d be there.

The roar of engines echoed across Monza, the air thick with the metallic scent of fuel and adrenaline. She stood just outside the paddock, watching the mechanics scurry between cars, drivers in their fireproof suits weaving through a sea of engineers and cameras. It was Franco’s first Formula 1 race, the one he’d been chasing since the days they’d spent on that dusty street back home. He’d called her a week ago, saying he’d arranged for her ticket, that she had to be there, that it wouldn’t feel right without her.

She glanced down at her pass, fumbling with it between her fingers, her eyes darting over the crowds, wondering if she’d see him. But instead, she saw her—Franco’s girlfriend, standing just a few paces away, a beacon in the busy paddock with her polished, perfect smile.

She thought about turning around, slipping into the crowd where she could cheer Franco on from a distance, as she’d always done. But then Franco’s girlfriend caught her eye, waved her over with an easy, welcoming smile, and suddenly it was too late.

“Hi! You’re Franco’s best friend, no?” she said brightly, as if she’d been waiting for this meeting. “Franco’s told me all about you.”

She managed a smile, trying not to let her surprise show. “Nice to meet you,” she replied, her voice steady but her heart churning. This girl looked so effortlessly perfect—too perfect, really. She wanted to find something in her to resent, a crack, a flaw, some hint that would make her presence easier to bear. But the girl’s smile was warm, even gentle, and there wasn’t a hint of cruelty behind her eyes.

“You know,” she continued, turning to look at the track where the cars were being readied. “Franco always talks about how you’ve been there from the start. He says he wouldn’t be here without you.”

It was a sentiment she’d waited years to hear, but hearing it now, coming from someone else, made it feel empty, hollow. She nodded politely. “He’s worked so hard for this. I just… wanted to support him however I could.”

The girl looked at her, a spark of admiration in her eyes. “That’s really special. I think it means a lot to him, having someone who’s known him for so long.” She hesitated, her fingers twisting a ring on her hand. “I think he’s planning to introduce me to his family soon.”

A prickle of something sharp and painful settled in her chest. She managed to keep her face composed, even as the words sank in. “That’s great,” she said, injecting her voice with encouragement. “That sounds really important to him.”

The girl smiled, her gaze drifting as if she could see the future taking shape right in front of her. “Yeah… he said he wanted to wait until we’d been together for a year. He’s so thoughtful like that, you know? He really wants things to be right before introducing me to his family.” She looked at her, a touch of gratitude in her expression. “I think he got that from you—from seeing how much his family means to you.”

It was a kind thing to say, too kind. She wanted to hate her for it, but she couldn’t. There was nothing false about the way this girl looked at her, no jealousy or possessiveness. She was just… nice. The kind of nice that made her ache with the unfairness of it all, because it made it impossible to hate her, even though she desperately wanted to.

“Well, his family will love you,” she said, meaning it even as the words felt like they were tearing something fragile inside her. “He deserves to be happy.”

The girl gave her a soft, almost sympathetic smile, a smile that made her wonder if maybe she already knew—if she could see right through her, if she understood the look in her eyes, the one she tried so hard to hide.

As the engines started up in the distance, the girl reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you,” she said, her voice warm. “For being there for him, for being his friend. I can tell he’s lucky to have you in his life.”

She returned the smile, feeling a heaviness settle deep within her. Franco was lucky, that was true—but not in the way she’d once dreamed he might be. He had everything now: the career, the future, the love of a woman who deserved him in ways she never could.

And as the cars roared to life on the track, she stood there beside his girlfriend, feeling like a silent ghost on the edges of his new world. She would cheer for him, just as she always had, but now she knew exactly where she stood—at a distance, a quiet fixture in his past, cheering him on from the shadows as he sped toward a future that had no place for her.

The race had ended hours ago, and the hotel was hushed, the lights dimmed in the halls. She was alone in her room, her suitcase half-packed, clothes folded neatly on the bed. She’d changed her flight back to Argentina; she would be gone by morning.

The evening had been a whirlwind—Franco finishing in P12 on his debut race, his crew and his girlfriend embracing him, his face beaming in a way she’d only ever dreamed of seeing up close. She’d stood in the background, clapping politely, just another face in the crowd, happy for him but feeling her heart splinter with each cheer.

A quiet knock broke her thoughts. She looked up, heart catching in her throat. Franco was standing in the doorway, his face lit with a warm smile.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside, his hands in his pockets. “I was hoping you’d still be up.”

“Yeah, just… packing,” she murmured, glancing at the clothes on her bed. “I’ve got an early flight back.”

He frowned, like he hadn’t expected her to be leaving so soon. “I thought you’d stay a bit longer,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “It meant a lot to me that you were here, you know. I’m not sure I could have done it without you.”

She swallowed, trying to muster up a smile. “I’m proud of you, Fran. Really. You deserve all of this.”

He gave a modest shrug, his usual humility shining through. “It’s crazy, right? Like, it still doesn’t feel real.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say next, her hands clenching as she watched him, the words fighting to break free. But before she could speak, he went on, his face lighting up with excitement.

“Oh—and I wanted to tell you. Over the summer break, I’m planning to bring my girlfriend—” he gestured to the wall, where his girlfriend was probably just sitting in their shared room—“back to Argentina. She’s going to meet my family. I think they’ll love her.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She felt herself unraveling, her heart breaking open. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Why her?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Franco blinked, looking at her, startled. “What do you mean?”

“Why her, Franco?” She repeated, her voice trembling, louder this time. “Why not me? What is it about me that you don’t find appealing? Am I too loud? Too… different? Do I not fit into your world somehow?” Her voice cracked, the weight of her words finally spilling out. “What is it about me that you don’t love, that you love about her?”

For a moment, he just stared, taken aback, as if he was seeing her for the first time, really seeing her. But his eyes were filled with confusion, like he was trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“Wait—” he started, his voice halting, uncertain. “I… I didn’t know you felt—”

She cut him off, her voice fierce, raw. “I loved you first, Franco.”

He went silent, the words settling between them like stones in water, sinking deeper and deeper.

“What?” he whispered, his voice almost as quiet as hers had been.

“I loved you first,” she repeated, her voice shaking. She could feel the tears gathering, but she didn’t want to cry, not now, not here. “Since we were kids, since you were that crazy kid racing down dirt roads, I loved you. I’ve been there every step, every race, every victory, every failure. I was the one who held your dreams when they felt too heavy to carry. I loved you first.”

She watched him, waiting, hoping for some sign of understanding, some glimmer of the love she’d imagined so many times. But his eyes were wide with shock, his face torn between pity and discomfort.

He shook his head slowly, the words seeming to catch in his throat before he finally managed to say them. “But… I love her.”

The words were a knife, sharp and relentless, cutting through the last fragments of hope she’d held on to.

She let out a hollow, broken laugh, her vision blurring as she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “I know,” she whispered. “I know you do.” She took a shaky breath, her voice trembling with a rawness she couldn’t contain. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of years pressing down between them. She could see the guilt etched into his expression, his mouth opening as if he wanted to say something to make it better. But there was nothing he could say—nothing that could change the reality that he had chosen someone else, someone who wasn’t her.

“I never meant to… I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, reaching out as if to comfort her, but she stepped back, her arms wrapping around herself protectively.

“It’s fine,” she said, forcing the words out, feeling them scrape against her throat. “I… I just needed you to know. I needed you to know that I was here, that I’ve always been here. But now…” She trailed off, her voice breaking, the words she’d held for so long finally running dry.

She looked at him one last time, memorising the shape of his face, the boy she had loved and lost long before he ever realised. Then sat back down on the floor and continued packing, folding each piece of clothing and putting it away in silence, each one a silent goodbye.

When she noticed he still hadn’t left, that he was just watching him, she looked up at him. “I hope she makes you happy, Franco,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Really. I hope she gives you everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

She looked back down not wanting to catch Franco’s look of pity and closed her suitcase as he walked out of her room.

Walking out of her life for what felt like forever.

It was the peak of summer, the air heavy with heat and the scents of wildflowers and sun-baked earth drifting through the open kitchen window. She was sitting at the table, picking absently at a bowl of sliced fruit, half-listening as her mother hummed while tidying up, when her mother paused and gave her a look she couldn’t quite decipher.

“I almost forgot to mention,” her mother said, wiping her hands on a towel, “Franco’s coming back to town soon. Said he’ll be here next week with his girlfriend, so they can meet his family.”

She looked down, letting the words sink in, feeling a familiar tightness bloom in her chest. She hadn’t spoken to Franco in weeks. Not since that night in Monza. Not since she’d finally let herself say all the things she’d bottled up for years, only to walk away feeling like she’d left a part of herself behind.

“Oh,” she murmured, keeping her tone as light as she could. “That’s… that’s good. His parents will be thrilled to meet her.”

Her mother looked at her carefully, her gaze soft but probing, as if she could sense the ache that lingered beneath her daughter’s casual words. “I thought maybe you’d be excited too,” her mother ventured, her voice gentle. “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him.”

She forced a small smile, looking down at her hands as she fiddled with her napkin. “Actually, I was thinking about going to Buenos Aires for a bit. Just a week or two with Tía Blanca. I’ve been meaning to go see her.”

Her mother tilted her head, her expression somewhere between sympathy and exasperation. “You can’t keep running from this, mi amor,” she said, her voice tender but firm.

Her shoulders tensed, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She knew her mother was right; every time she thought about seeing Franco, the old wound seemed to ache again, still raw, still fresh, no matter how many miles or weeks lay between them. But she wasn’t ready to face him yet. Not when the sight of him with someone else would only reopen everything she’d been trying so hard to let go of.

“I know I can’t keep running,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. “But I can now. And I can cope with that.”

Her mother sighed softly, reaching out to place a warm hand over hers. “Mi amor, one day, you’re going to have to stop protecting yourself from the things that hurt you. It’s the only way to truly move forward.”

She nodded, her throat tight, unable to meet her mother’s eyes. She knew her mother was right. But all she could think of was that moment in Monza, the echo of Franco’s words—But I love her. Words that still stung like salt on an open wound, even now.

“Maybe one day,” she whispered, more to herself than to her mother. But for now, Buenos Aires felt like the safest place to be—far from the memories, far from the impossible hope she still carried in her heart.

Her mother squeezed her hand gently before letting go, her silence filled with understanding. “Then go,” she said, with a small, knowing smile. “But you’ll know when it’s time to come home.”

And as she sat there, her heart heavy with everything she couldn’t say, she only hoped her mother was right.

A few days later, everything was sorted and she was ready to go to her aunt’s place.

She swung her bag over her shoulder, taking a deep breath as she stepped out of the house, the warm morning sun casting long shadows across the familiar dirt road. She was just two steps away from the car when she spotted it—Franco’s car, parked at the edge of the drive.

Her heart lurched, her mind scrambling, and she muttered under her breath, “No, no, no… please, not now.” She moved quickly toward her own car, fumbling for her keys as if speed alone could make her invisible. But before she could open the door, she heard his voice behind her.

“Oye, there you are!” he called, a wide, relieved smile on his face as he jogged over, his voice bright with the kind of joy she hadn’t heard from him in years. “I was hoping I’d run into you before you left. It’s been too long.”

She barely managed to keep her face neutral, clutching her bag as if it could shield her. “Yeah, well, I’ve got to get on the road. Don’t want to get stuck in traffic,” she said, opening the boot to toss her bag inside. She avoided looking at him, focusing on the small tasks—closing the boot, brushing off her hands, reaching for the door.

He took a step closer, his hand resting on the car door as if to keep her from leaving. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his tone softening. “You… you didn’t answer my calls after Monza. I didn’t know if… I just wanted to see you.”

She swallowed hard, glancing away as she forced herself to stay calm, the last words she wanted to hear sitting heavy between them. “That’s great, Franco,” she said, barely meeting his gaze, her words quick and mechanical. “But I really should get going.”

“Wait—” He looked at her, his expression slipping from surprise to concern. “Can we talk? Please?”

But she was already climbing into the car, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she turned the ignition. She couldn’t bear to stay, couldn’t bear to let him see her break again. “Take care, Franco,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she closed the door.

Before he could say another word, she pulled out, the tires kicking up dust as she drove away. In the rearview mirror, she saw him standing in the drive, watching her go, his face a mix of confusion and something close to sadness. She looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat as she focused on the road ahead.

But the further she drove, the harder it became to ignore the weight of all the memories tied to each familiar street and turn. Every signpost, every curve of the road reminded her of him—their childhood spent racing bikes and kicking up dust, lazy afternoons wandering these streets, dreaming of the future he was now living.

Tears blurred her vision as she drove, the memories rushing in like floodwaters, filling her mind with images she’d tried so hard to push aside: Franco at fourteen, laughing as he beat her in yet another race down the hill; Franco, younger still, sharing a quiet moment in the field just beyond town, his eyes bright with the dreams they’d both carried.

She wiped at her eyes, her heart aching as each memory pulled her further into the past, a past where they’d been inseparable, a past where she hadn’t yet realised what loving him truly meant. She could almost hear his laughter, feel his presence beside her, as if he were still the boy she’d known, before life had pulled them down different paths.

By the time she reached her aunt’s building in Buenos Aires, the weight of the drive had started to lift, the city’s pulse a welcome distraction from the quiet countryside. She parked and took a moment to gather herself, feeling the ache from earlier settle into something softer, something that no longer felt as urgent or raw.

Just as she opened the car door, a familiar voice called out.

“¡Mira! Is that really you?”

She looked up, startled, and felt her heart lift slightly. Standing by the curb was Angelo, an old friend from summers in the city. He had the same easy smile, his hair a little longer, his build a little broader, but his presence felt exactly as she remembered—warm and solid.

“Angelo!” She smiled, the weight on her shoulders easing just a little more.

He walked over, giving her a friendly hug before reaching into the car to help with her bag. “Let me help. You’re here for a visit?”

“Just two weeks,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady as she glanced up at the familiar apartment building, a place that held a lifetime of summers, laughter, and memories untouched by the pain she’d left behind.

“Well, then,” he said, grinning as he hefted her bag easily, “we’ve got time to catch up.” His tone was light, but there was something else in his eyes, a quiet warmth that made her feel unexpectedly hopeful.

She followed him up the steps, comforted by his familiarity and the steady, unhurried way he moved, like he knew every corner of this building as well as she did. As they reached her aunt’s door, she felt her pulse slow, steadied by his presence.

The door opened before they could knock, her aunt’s familiar face breaking into a radiant smile. “There you are, mi niña!” She hugged her tightly, then turned to Angelo with a knowing smile. “And look who brought you all the way to the door! Angelo, you’re a sweetheart.”

He grinned, shrugging. “Anything for your family, señora.”

They all laughed, and for the first time in months, she felt a genuine ease settle over her, as if she’d left more than just a town behind—she’d left the weight of everything she’d been carrying.

As she glanced between her aunt and Angelo, the ache that had gripped her chest all day faded. The streets of Buenos Aires were bright outside the door, warm and humming with life. She breathed it in, feeling herself begin to let go of everything that had haunted her on that long drive.

Because maybe now that she was here, she could forget Franco.

to be continued…?

[thelazyauthorsblog]

All that she wants is another baby:

Content: Y/n and their beloved is ready to have another child.

TW: talks of infertility in suguru's and miscarriage is hinted at in Nanami's part.

Including: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna.

[promptedwordsmith]

Hi hiiiii!!

I LOVED the valentine based piece you did!

If you're still taking requests, can I ask for angst-comfort this time where the guys forgot mc's birthday? I'm excited to see your take on this especially for Caleb!

Thank you and I'll be on the lookout for more of your work 💕💕💕

THANK YOU <3 <3 <3

I had SO. MUCH. FUN. writing this it was crazy!

Hopefully its OK!

Caleb

Caleb had been so busy. More than usual. It was one thing to have patrols through the Deep Space Tunnel, endless reports, meetings with higher-ups who never seemed satisfied, but on top of that, he had taken it upon himself to organize an important dinner party.

Or so he thought.

The truth—the awful truth—hit him like a physical blow when he unrolled the custom banner that had just arrived.

"Happy Birthday, [Your Name]!"

The world seemed to tilt. His grip on the fabric tightened, knuckles turning white as his violet eyes darted across the bold, celebratory letters. His mind, exhausted and running on autopilot for weeks, scrambled through his memory, piecing together the moments he had lost. The meticulous planning. The decorations. The food. He had arranged everything… for a party that had already passed.

Your birthday.

It had come and gone, and he—he—had completely missed it.

For a full five seconds, Caleb didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. The weight of realization pressed against his chest, drowning out every thought except one:

I forgot your birthday.

The sickening guilt settled deep in his stomach, twisting, tightening. You had waited for him that day. He could picture it—your hopeful glances, the way you had likely told yourself, he’s just busy, he’ll remember soon. But he hadn’t. You must have gone to bed that night thinking he didn’t care, thinking that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as important to him as you truly were.

The very idea of it made him feel like the worst kind of man.

He didn’t waste another second. He abandoned everything—work, reports, the dinner he had been planning for the higher-ups—none of it mattered now. The only thing that mattered was you.

By the time he reached your home, it was already evening. His uniform was slightly disheveled, his hair tousled from running his hands through it in frustration, but the guilt was what weighed on him the most.

You answered the door, and for a moment, there was only silence.

Caleb searched your face, looking for signs of anger, sadness—hurt. And when he found them, faint but undeniably there, the guilt doubled.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. "I messed up." His voice was low, raw, as if saying it out loud made the weight of it even heavier.

You crossed your arms, raising a brow. "You think?"

Your words weren’t angry, but the tired disappointment in them was somehow worse. You had already processed it, already come to terms with the fact that he had forgotten, and that made his chest ache.

Caleb was never one to stumble over words, but right now, he struggled. "I didn’t mean to forget. I was planning something. I was—" He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That’s not an excuse. It’s just…" He let out a dry, humorless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was so damn exhausted, I forgot what I was even planning for."

You blinked. "Wait, what?"

He let out a slow breath. "I was planning your party. That’s what I’ve been doing for weeks." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident. "But I worked myself into the ground so much that when your birthday came, I just—" His jaw clenched. "I thought I was planning a dinner for the higher-ups. It didn’t even register."

You stared at him, processing. He watched you carefully, waiting, hoping for anything that would tell him how to fix this.

Finally, you sighed. "You’re an idiot."

Something in his chest loosened at that—because you weren’t shutting him out, weren’t furious.

"Yeah," he admitted without hesitation. "The worst one."

Caleb wasn’t the type to grovel, but when it came to you, he would do whatever it took.

He spent the entire night making it up to you. He didn’t just say sorry—he showed you.

First, he insisted on taking you out to eat, somewhere special, somewhere you liked. He wouldn’t let you brush him off, wouldn’t let you say, It’s fine, it’s over now. No, it wasn’t fine, and he wouldn’t let it be until he saw that light in your eyes again.

Then, after dinner, he walked with you through the quiet streets, hand in yours, holding on like he had something to prove. He was quieter than usual, more thoughtful, stealing glances at you every few seconds like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Finally, when you arrived home, he pulled you into his arms, pressing you close, his chin resting against your head.

"I swear to you," he murmured against your hair, voice rough with sincerity, "I will never forget again. Not in this life, not in the next, not ever."

And you believed him.

Because Caleb may have made mistakes, but when it came to you, he would always make it right.

Rafayel

Rafayel had been locked in his studio for days, unreachable. Your calls went unanswered, your texts ignored. Even when you showed up at his door, knocking, waiting, hoping, there was nothing. Just silence, just the knowledge that somewhere beyond those walls, he was lost in his art again.

And still, despite it all, you held out hope.

Hope that, even in the middle of his artistic madness, he would remember.

But the day had passed.

By the time three days had gone by, your hope had shrunk into something small and fragile. Maybe it was foolish of you to think this year would be different. Maybe you should have expected this. Rafayel loved intensely—when he loved, he loved with everything he had—but sometimes he got lost in his own world, and that love, no matter how deep, could feel far away.

Then, out of nowhere, your phone rang.

"Come over!" Rafayel's voice practically crackled with excitement, as if he hadn’t been a ghost for the last few days. "I finally finished it! You have to see it first!"

"Raf—"

"Ah, don’t say anything yet! Just come. Hurry!"

And then he hung up.

No apology for vanishing. No recognition of the days he had missed.

And certainly, no acknowledgment of your day.

You trudged through the cold toward his home, trying to ignore the sting in your chest. Maybe he had remembered and wanted to surprise you. Maybe this was his way of making up for it.

But deep down, a part of you knew better.

Inside his studio, Rafayel was frozen.

The moment he checked his calendar to see when his next exhibition was, the date jumped out at him like a slap to the face. The realization slammed into him so hard that he nearly knocked over a jar of brushes.

Your birthday.

It had come and gone.

The guilt hit him like a tidal wave, drowning out every other thought.

How could he forget?

He tore through his studio, hands shaking. A gift—he needed something, anything—! His eyes darted across the room, landing on a pile of canvases shoved into a forgotten corner.

His secret.

Bunches and bunches of paintings of you.

Sketches of you laughing, paintings of you gazing out at the sea, studies of your hands, your lips, the way your hair caught the light. He had never shown them to anyone, not even you. They were too raw, too personal, too embarrassing.

But now…

Before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed them all. He turned out all the lights, lit every candle he could find, and placed the paintings around the room. The atmosphere had to be perfect. When he was done, he shut the door, smoothing his hair, taking a deep breath.

He had a plan.

Just pretend everything was normal. Show you his newest painting, make you smile, then lead you to the hidden room to surprise you. Yes. That would work.

And maybe—just maybe—it would make up for everything.

When you arrived, Rafayel greeted you with his usual playful grin, grabbing your wrist and dragging you inside before you could even get a word in.

"Look," he said, presenting the canvas like it was the greatest treasure in the world. "What do you think?"

It was beautiful—of course it was. Rafayel’s art always was. The strokes, the colors, the emotion captured in every detail. It was a masterpiece.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not today.

He was watching you closely, waiting for your reaction.

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. "It’s… incredible, Raf."

The way your voice wavered, the way you didn’t meet his eyes—it was subtle, but he noticed.

And suddenly, the guilt became unbearable.

Without a word, he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the hidden room.

"Wait—Raf, where are we—?"

The door creaked open, and the glow of candlelight washed over you. Your breath caught in your throat.

Paintings.

Of you.

Dozens of them, covering every wall. Each one full of emotion, of devotion, of him. Some were unfinished, others so detailed they looked like they could breathe. It was overwhelming.

You turned to him, eyes wide.

"You…?"

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual bravado gone. His cheeks were tinged pink, the tips of his ears burning red.

"I—" He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "I forgot your birthday."

Your stomach twisted. So he had forgotten.

"I was painting," he went on, words rushed. "I lost track of time, and I—damn it—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. "I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to."

You turned back to the paintings, something warm pressing at your chest.

"You made all of these?" you asked quietly.

His hands clenched at his sides. "Yeah."

"For how long?"

A beat of silence. Then—

"Years."

The confession hung between you.

He had been painting you for years.

Slowly, you turned to face him. The usual mischief in his eyes was gone, replaced with something raw, something vulnerable.

"I’m sorry," he murmured. "I don’t know how I forgot something so important. You mean too much to me for that. I—I just…" He sighed, rubbing his temple. "I got lost in making something for you, and I ended up missing the thing that mattered most—you."

The anger, the disappointment, the hurt—they all melted away. Because here he was, standing before you, baring himself in a way he rarely ever did.

You stepped forward, hesitating for only a moment before wrapping your arms around him.

His breath hitched.

"You’re an idiot," you whispered.

A shaky laugh. "Yeah. I know."

"But…" You looked up at him, a soft smile playing at your lips. "This is the best apology I’ve ever seen."

Relief flooded his features. "So you forgive me?"

You pretended to think about it. "Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe if you make me a cake."

He scoffed. "I’m a painter, not a baker."

"Then take me out for cake."

He smirked, his confidence slipping back into place. "Anything for my muse."

And as he pulled you in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, you knew—

Even when he forgot the days on a calendar, Rafayel would never really forget you.

Sylus

Sylus prided himself on many things. His sharp mind, his strategic brilliance, his ability to anticipate every move before it happened. He was the kind of man who didn’t forget things—especially not something as important as your birthday.

Which was why, when he saw the disappointed look on your face as you pelted him with soft plushies, something deep in his chest twisted—an unfamiliar, unsettling sensation that almost felt like panic.

Almost.

But Sylus didn’t panic.

Instead, he stood there, one plushie bouncing harmlessly off his shoulder, another smacking his chest before falling to the floor. His crimson eyes flickered between you and the growing pile of soft toys you had weaponized against him.

“You forgot,” you accused, arms crossed, hurt flashing in your gaze.

He opened his mouth to deny it. To tell you he’d never forget something so important. But the realization hit him like a slow, creeping dread. He had forgotten.

The meticulously planned dinners. The gifts he had meant to have delivered. The subtle reminders he had given his men—Kieran, Luke, even Mephisto—to ensure he never let today slip his mind.

And yet, here you were.

Disappointed.

Angry.

Hurt.

It was a sight that unsettled him more than any rival, more than any enemy who had ever dared to challenge him. He could handle a hundred assassination attempts, negotiate the bloodiest of deals, and walk into a war zone without breaking a sweat.

But the idea that he had been the one to hurt you? That he had been the reason your smile had faded today?

Unacceptable.

He took a step forward, but you threw another plushie at his face before he could speak. This time, he caught it mid-air, fingers tightening around the soft fabric as he exhaled through his nose.

“I’ll fix it,” he said, voice calm, steady.

You huffed, turning your head away. “Too late.”

His jaw clenched. Too late? No. Nothing was ever too late when it came to you.

Sylus wasn’t the type to apologize with empty words. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d simply say “sorry” and expect you to accept it. He had to show you.

And he would.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and left.

You had expected him to brush it off. To smirk, tease you, tell you that you were cute when you were mad. Maybe even promise to make it up to you later in a way that would leave you breathless.

But Sylus had left.

Just walked out without an explanation.

That made you angrier.

You flopped onto the couch, hugging one of the plushies to your chest, your pout deepening. He had forgotten, and now he was leaving?

Your thoughts swirled in frustration until a knock sounded at your door—not the sharp, precise kind that his men would give, but a slow, deliberate rhythm you recognized instantly.

Sylus.

You hesitated for only a moment before getting up and opening the door.

And what you saw left you speechless.

He stood there, slightly out of breath, his silver hair a bit messier than usual, his blazer discarded, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. In his hands? A massive bouquet—roses, lilies, your favorite flowers all woven together in a way that looked too beautiful to have been bought last-minute.

And then there were the gifts.

Not one. Not two. But an entire armful—beautifully wrapped boxes, all stacked precariously as he balanced them with ease.

Your lips parted in shock.

Sylus? The man who was always cool, calculated, in control? Looking just a little bit frazzled as he stood in your doorway with gifts clearly gathered in a rushed effort to make up for his mistake?

You should have stayed mad.

But instead, your heart clenched.

“I had everything planned,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, controlled but tinged with something you almost wanted to call regret. “Dinners. Gifts. Things meant to arrive today.”

He stepped forward, pressing the bouquet into your arms as his crimson eyes locked onto yours.

“I forgot,” he admitted, as if the words physically pained him to say. “And I don’t forget things.”

You swallowed, staring at him. This was Sylus. The man who could tear down entire organizations with a single whisper. Who could predict a person’s every move before they even knew they would make it.

And yet, he had forgotten.

Because, for once, he had been too wrapped up in things that weren’t you.

You should have made him suffer more.

But then he did something unexpected.

He lowered himself to one knee, not in a proposal, but in something equally as disarming.

A genuine apology.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness,” he said, eyes unwavering. “I don’t need it. But you deserve better than today, and I’ll make sure you get it.”

His hand reached for yours, fingers brushing over your wrist in a touch so uncharacteristically soft that your breath hitched.

You weren’t used to seeing him like this.

Vulnerable.

But maybe that was the point.

Sylus didn’t grovel. He didn’t beg. He didn’t need to.

And yet, here he was, choosing to show you a side of himself no one else would ever see.

“I…” Your throat felt tight as you looked at him, then at the bouquet, then at the ridiculous number of gifts he had somehow managed to gather in an hour.

His lips curled into a small smirk, sensing the shift in your demeanor. “Still mad?”

You should be.

But instead, you sighed dramatically, stepping back to let him inside.

“I’ll think about forgiving you,” you muttered, clutching the flowers to your chest.

His smirk widened as he straightened, stepping closer, hands finding your waist as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

“I can be very persuasive,” he murmured.

You shivered, pressing your lips together to keep from smiling. He knew you too well.

And he had forgotten.

But he had also gone through all this effort to make it right.

Maybe you would forgive him.

Eventually.

But first? You were going to make him work for it.

Xavier

Xavier wakes up the next morning with the unsettling feeling that he’s forgotten something important. It lingers in his chest, creeping up his spine as he runs through the previous day in his mind. Work had gone as usual, no missions went sideways, nothing seemed off—so why does he feel like he’s made a terrible mistake?

And then, it hits him.

Your birthday.

Xavier sits up so fast that he actually gets lightheaded. He forgot. He forgot.

The realization settles into his bones like a cold weight, making his usual grogginess disappear instantly. He’s already moving before he can even fully process it, running a hand through his silver hair in frustration. How could he have let this happen? He knows he’s forgetful sometimes—distracted, too caught up in missions or losing track of time—but your birthday? Of all the things to forget, he had forgotten the one day that should have been about you.

His mind races with every possible reaction you might have had. Were you upset? Had you been waiting all day for him to say something? Did you pretend it was fine, even though it wasn’t? That thought hurts. It hurts worse than any injury he’s ever sustained in battle. He imagines you spending the day holding out hope, maybe even giving him chances to remember, only for him to say nothing.

He feels sick.

Xavier doesn’t hesitate. He throws on his jacket, grabs his keys, and heads straight to find you. If you’re at home, he knocks—firmer than usual, as if he’s trying to physically knock away his mistake. If you’re out, he searches, guided by instinct and urgency.

The moment he sees you, his sharp blue eyes search your face for signs of how you’re feeling. Are you angry? Disappointed? Trying to act like it doesn’t matter? He hates that he has to guess. He should have been there. He should have remembered.

"…I forgot, didn’t I?" His voice is softer than usual, lacking its usual teasing edge. There’s no excuse, no attempt to dodge the truth. Just quiet guilt.

Xavier isn’t the type to panic openly, but his regret is undeniable. He rubs the back of his neck—a rare show of uncertainty from him—and steps closer, as if trying to physically close the distance that his mistake has created.

"I don’t have an excuse. I just—" He exhales, frustration at himself bleeding into his voice. "I don’t know how I forgot. I should have been there, should have made the day special for you. But I didn’t. And that’s on me."

His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he deserves to. He hates the idea of you feeling unimportant because of him. The thought alone makes something tighten in his chest.

"Tell me how to make it up to you," he says, looking at you with the kind of intensity that makes it impossible to doubt his sincerity. "Because I will. However you want. Just say the word."

But that’s not enough. Not for him. He’s not just going to fix this with a single apology. He wants to show you.

Xavier doesn’t waste time. Once he knows where he stands with you—whether you need space, reassurance, or a little payback in the form of making him work for your forgiveness—he immediately starts making things right.

He doesn’t just buy you a last-minute gift to try and make up for it. No, that’s not personal enough. Instead, he recreates your birthday, a day late but no less meaningful.

Maybe he takes you somewhere quiet but special, a place that reminds him of you. Maybe he sets up a stargazing spot on a rooftop, bringing blankets and snacks, telling you it’s because he wanted to give you something that feels like forever.

Maybe he cooks for you—badly, because Xavier and the kitchen are a dangerous combination, but the effort is so heartfelt that you can’t be mad. He’d get flour on his face, burn something slightly, and still look at you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world.

Or maybe he brings you a gift—not something extravagant, but something thoughtful. A tiny, carefully chosen charm. A book that reminded him of you. A star-shaped pendant, because you always joked that he had a habit of falling asleep under the stars. He wouldn’t say much about it, just press it into your hands and murmur, "Didn’t want you to think I don’t pay attention."

He watches you carefully the whole time, making sure you feel loved, valued. He doesn’t over-explain or beg for forgiveness—he just shows you.

And when the night winds down, and he pulls you into his arms, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head, he whispers:

"I won’t forget again."

And you know, in the quiet certainty of his voice, that he means it.

Zayne

Zayne was exhausted.

The hospital had been relentless, a blur of critical patients, rapid decisions, and near misses. There had been moments he thought he might not even make it home tonight—almost being quarantined had only been the cherry on top of the chaos. His body ached in a way he had learned to ignore, but as he finally stepped out into the cold night air, his thoughts were blank, his mind running on autopilot.

That was, until he saw you.

Sitting on the doorstep of his home, your figure illuminated under the soft yellow glow of the streetlight. A glittering dress hugged your form, shimmering faintly even in the dim light, and a sash lay diagonally across your body, its edges slightly crinkled from the way your arms had been folded over yourself. Your head rested in your hands, your posture slumped—not just from the cold, but from something else entirely.

Something in his chest clenched.

He stopped in his tracks, the weight of his coat sliding off his arm. It landed on the pavement with a quiet thud, the sound breaking the silence of the night. You startled at the noise, lifting your head to see him standing there, his expression unreadable.

Then, as if some unseen force wrenched his gaze downward, his eyes flicked to his watch.

2:04 AM.

The date had changed.

It hit him all at once. The cogs in his mind, sluggish from exhaustion, clicked into place, and his stomach twisted with the weight of the realization.

Your birthday.

His breath left him in a slow, silent exhale.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just stared at him, and for the first time in a long time, Zayne felt a crushing, unfamiliar sense of guilt settle over him. He had let the day slip through his fingers, consumed by the chaos of work, and now—now, here you were, alone, in a dress you had probably worn in hopes of celebrating. And he had missed it.

Completely.

He took a slow step toward you, lowering himself to sit beside you on the step. The cold from the pavement seeped through his slacks, but he ignored it.

“You should’ve called me.” His voice was quiet, steady, but there was a tightness beneath it.

You let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “I did.”

His jaw tensed. He had no memory of that. The hospital had been chaos—his phone likely left in his office, forgotten in the madness. That didn’t make it better.

For a long moment, there was only silence. The city around you was quiet at this hour, the world asleep while the two of you sat in the aftermath of his mistake.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

“I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t an excuse. It wasn’t a rushed, meaningless apology. It was slow, deliberate—weighted with sincerity.

You turned to look at him, and for the first time that night, he allowed himself to truly see you. The way your makeup had smudged slightly, the way your lips pressed together as if fighting back something you didn’t want to say.

You weren’t just disappointed.

You were hurt.

His fingers curled into his slacks, his mind searching for the right thing to do, the right thing to say.

Then, as if making a decision, he reached for you. His hands—steady, careful hands that had saved lives and stitched wounds—found yours, his fingertips brushing against the chill of your skin before enclosing them completely.

“Let me fix this.”

You blinked. “It’s already tomorrow, Zayne.”

“Then we’ll start over.” His voice was firm, resolute. “Right now.”

Before you could argue, he was already standing, tugging you gently up with him. The world may have declared your birthday over, but he refused to accept that.

Without hesitation, he shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders, his fingers lingering at the lapels for just a second before he pulled away. Then, taking your hand in his, he gave the faintest tug, silently urging you to follow him.

You furrowed your brows. “Where are we going?”

His lips quirked—just slightly. “To get cake.”

You stared at him. “Zayne, it’s two in the morning.”

“And you still haven’t had a proper birthday.”

His voice was so matter-of-fact, so Zayne, that you almost wanted to laugh. Almost.

But there was something about the way he was holding your hand, something about the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly, as if grounding himself in your presence. Something about the way he had taken one look at you and immediately decided that no, the day wasn’t over, not until he made it right.

So you followed him.

The city at 2 AM was eerily quiet, but Zayne led you with the same certainty he carried in the operating room, his hand never leaving yours as he walked with purpose. Eventually, you ended up at a small convenience store—the only place still open at this hour.

Zayne scanned the shelves with a critical eye, and you watched, bemused, as this brilliant, award-winning surgeon carefully inspected pre-packaged slices of cake as if they were surgical instruments.

Finally, he picked one. A simple chocolate slice. He held it up to you in silent question.

You sighed, shaking your head, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “That’ll do.”

Minutes later, you found yourselves outside again, sitting on a bench beneath the glow of a streetlamp, the city stretching empty and quiet around you.

Zayne pulled out a pair of disposable chopsticks from his pocket, breaking them apart with practiced ease before handing them to you.

You gave him a look. “Of course you have chopsticks on you.”

He merely raised a brow. “You forgot utensils last time.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh at that—softer this time, real. And when he caught the sound of it, the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

The two of you sat in silence, sharing the slice of cake, the quiet hum of the city your only companion.

At one point, he glanced down at you, his expression unreadable. Then, with the utmost care, he reached out, brushing a thumb across your cheek, wiping away the last remnants of smudged mascara.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

It was late. Too late. The moment had passed. But somehow, as you sat there, eating cake in the early hours of the morning with Zayne by your side, it didn’t seem to matter.

And when he finally leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there for just a second longer than necessary.

[tvgals]

gojo can’t bring himself to look at his daughter.

everything about her reminds him of you. her eyes, her beautiful curly hair, how she yawns when she’s tired, her hate for loud noises, everything. he hates how he can’t bond with his daughter without being able to feel resentment. she’s never had to worry when mommy was coming home, if at all. she’s never going to wonder what her mom did for a living, satoru will never tell her, his heart being burdened with what could’ve been.

he hates looking at her eyes, one brown, the other brown and blue, only a fraction of gojo being able to shine through your beautiful features she’s stolen from your face. it’s as if his genes didn’t even try, how he wishes they did. he’s so angry you left him. how selfish can you be? you have the nerve to die on him? how could you? leaving him to fend for himself and you two’s daughter.

how could you?…