#he deserves someone who can commit and all

[hel7l7]

Good news! I made art yesterday. Still gonna scan it and queue it on here. But there’s stuff coming :)

[carebooks]

makes me sad that most obx fics on wattpad are just blatantly boring, copying the script word for word, barely give the oc a personality or a chance to mess with the plot or with characters, just 1/10 for originality

[dustandthought]

Did Charles commit suicide?

What if he didn’t go north... What if he left for good? (A soul-crushing headcanon about Charles Smith)

What if Charles took his own life? Yes, yes, just like that — what if he left, not north, but FOR GOOD. I keep thinking about this more and more. Because so much about him screams — “I can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone says: he went to Canada. Oh sure, sure. But maybe it’s time to stop repeating that comforting bedtime story. Canada was mentioned once, barely, like a breath. But in another dialogue — he says he wants to go to INDOCHINA. Can you imagine? Indochina! Where is that, and where’s Canada, and where is he? He’s lost. He’s torn. He doesn’t know where to go. Because he feels at home NOWHERE. And all of this — it’s not a plan. It’s emptiness. It’s pain wrapped in scraps of fantasy.

And when he tells John: “What does your family need an old gunslinger for?” — that��s NOT A JOKE. That’s a scream. A plea. A wound masked as a smile. Because he’s the outsider among friends. He’s the extra. He’s just... there. But he’s not part of it. And he knows that. Feels it in his bones. In his heart.

He doesn’t even sleep in the house. Doesn’t sleep on the property. Wanders into the woods. Into the dark. Into solitude. Some would say — it’s just habit, right? He’s used to the wild. Used to isolation. Bullshit. It’s not habit. It’s escape. Because being close — hurts. Watching Abigail, watching John, watching their child — it’s like a blade across the soul. Their dream came true. And him? Who is he? He’s — no one. Once, he was an outcast among outcasts. Now he’s just... the only one left. Alone among the joyful.

And the doubts he voices to John — “Will this life be enough for you?” — that’s not about John. That’s about himself. He’s asking himself. He doesn’t believe happiness is possible for him. That he deserves it. That he’s even capable of feeling something other than this tight, choking loneliness.

And that talk about going north, starting a family, finding a woman... I DON’T BELIEVE IT. NOT A SINGLE WORD. It sounds like a script. A rehearsed line. A mask. A way to say something so they’ll stop asking. He has no plan. No place. No direction. He says it himself. “I don’t know where.”

Not Canada. Not Wapiti. He could’ve gone back there a hundred times. In eight years. But he didn’t. Because he never saw it as home. It was something lost, something nostalgic — not a place he was needed.

And just finding a woman? Really? This is Charles. A man who lets NO ONE in. He’s built like a fortress. In his mind. In his soul. In his silence. And if he lets someone in — it’s forever. And if he doesn’t — no one gets close. This isn’t about “settling down.” This is about finding a soul that moves him. And those are rare. Maybe one. Maybe none.

He says: “These last eight years, I’ve come to accept the things I can’t change.” Is that supposed to be hope? It’s not acceptance. It’s surrender. That’s not light at the end of the tunnel — it’s the tunnel closing in. It’s numbness. It’s emptiness.

And John, dear John… tells him: “You’re the strongest man I know.” I HATE THAT PHRASE. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT HIM. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT ME. It’s NOT strength. It’s survival. It’s when life beats you so hard, all you learn is not to fall. It’s not a choice. It’s endurance. He’s not strong. He’s exhausted. He’s shattered. He’s lonely, he’s silent, and he’s so, so tired.

Even if he met “the one” — would she love him? The real him? The broken one? The quiet one? The distant one? Or would she fall for the mask — for the “I’ve made peace with the past” lie? And if she never sees the real Charles — how could he ever be happy with her? He doesn’t do halfway. Not him.

Abigail and John are different. She knew his pain. All of it. His monsters. His sorrow. She accepted it. Who would accept Charles? Who even knows who he became?

And in that last ride... he says: “I’m heading north.” Turns down Sadie’s offer to work together. Says it’s time to move on. But what if he wasn’t moving forward. What if he was moving toward the end.

(Another powerful and unwavering argument for me: we all remember how Charles and John ride out to save Uncle in the epilogue — and how Charles, with a chilling steadiness, says that if the uncle’s wounds are too severe, the only mercy left would be to help him cross over. He speaks of killing — not driven by hatred, not poisoned by cruelty — but as a final act of love, a broken, desperate kindness to release a soul from agony. And I ask: was it only uncle’s suffering Charles wished to end? Or was he, too, reaching for a way to quiet his own howling grief? I believe he was. I believe he desperately was.)

What if that was his way of saying goodbye. Softly. Quietly. Not “farewell.” Just — gone. So they could keep living, believing he’s somewhere out there. Alive. Just... far. But in truth — he had already made peace. He had written his ending.

Not to the north. Not to Wapiti. Not to a woman. But to the place where nothing hurts anymore.

And if that’s what happened... if he really left...

...maybe, finally, he found peace.

[sjyuns]

SOFT SPOT ┆ A PARK JONGSEONG ONESHOT

SYNOPSIS! love is a crazy thing, and you’d always been absorbed in the idea of it, 100% committed as your school’s cupid but cupid deserves love too, right?

GENRE! strangers to lovers, basketballer!jay (there’s barely any basketball in this), mutual pining, simp!jay, high school au

WARNINGS! some sexual innuendos, drinking, partying, mentions of cheating and abortion

WORD COUNT! 9OOO+

MIKAELA’S! inspired by some book i read i think… this is from my old blog eumpapas, i’m not copying anyone please… also happy mega birthday to the man who made me start watching iland🙏🏻 DNA jay this one is for you.

BEING cupid isn’t easy, and it’s definitely not a task for the weak. Carrying around a heavy basket of heart shaped tipped arrows and a bow slung behind you as you matchmake, aim, and shoot, injecting pink that knits into a person’s bones.

Many people applaud you — for so intelligently pairing up matches together. But what they don’t realise is the immense effort it takes. Cupid may be an icon of love, but you barely have one of your own. And you wish, that there is another cupid out there aiming their love tipped arrow at you.

i. ugh, men

The piece of paper in your hands rubs against your palms as you take yet another glance at the capitalised name written in neon pink before looking back up at the blond hair boy in front of you.

“Jay? I mean- not discriminating or anything but you want me to link you up with Park Jongseong?” You furrow your brows, looking at Jake with pure curiosity.

His eyes widen as he realises what this might have seemed like. “No, no,” he furiously shakes his head, “he’s my bro, what are you even talking about.”

You tilt your head as you scan the nervous footballer who’s too busy fidgeting in his seat to realise, and you think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him so nervous — even more than before a crucial game, and you wonder what’s come over him.

“Jake, the neon pink sparkly pen? If you’re not in love with your best friend, what puts you in such a lovesick mood?” You ask, flapping the crumpled piece of paper at him as he sighs.

“Firstly, it’s a smiggle pink scented pen, get it right. And secondly, it’s not really about matchmaking, I just need your help with something.” He groans at the accusations you’ve pasted on him. 

You purse your lips, “Jake, you know I don’t do anything other than matchmaking. I would really like to help, but I’ve been a little tight on time recently.”

Before you can grab your bag from the small round coffee table, he swiftly brings his hands up, stopping you from leaving. His eyes held such desperation that your body seemed to move back down by itself.

“Look, this is kind of like matchmaking, think of it as helping a blossoming couple out. Please.” His plea of desperation squeezing your heart ever so slightly.

“Has this blossoming couple got something to do with you and that pretty best friend of yours?” You raise your eyebrows, as you shoot a knowing look at him. It wasn’t rocket science, and it didn’t take a genius to know that Jake was deeply in love, fully head over heels: entranced with his best friend. And as Cupid, no doubt you had such information at the back of your hand.

Jake holds back a smile by biting his lips, eyes darting away in fear of professing his love, “look, Jay’s just been such a cockblock recently, they’ve been friends for a while but nowadays they’ve been hanging out together a lot more. Alone. Do you understand how big of a crisis this is? All I need you to do is watch him, maybe use those matchmaking skills of yours to match him up with someone?”

You look at the pitiful state of the boy in front of you, with his hands constantly moving to brush his hair back in his withered stressful state. And you can’t help it — as someone who’s all about love, you find yourself agreeing to help him, even if you were already swarmed with four other couples to matchmake.

You find the list in your head getting longer as you ask Jake about Jay, the tiny book in your head that’s filled with possible matches seeming a little empty at Jake’s description of Jay’s ideal type, likes, and dislikes.

It wasn’t the first time you’ve heard about Jay, in fact it was probably about the nth time with the amount of girls who come swarming to you with bleak hope that you’d be able to matchmake them with him. And of course, you couldn’t deny the fact that he was attractive — with his coveted status as the vice captain of the basketball team, and not to forget his matte black Porsche he drives to school everyday, it would be weird if he wasn’t popular.

But what’s all that when Park Jay had a dick for a personality. Well, at least that’s what the rumours say.

And you’re about to confirm it right here right now as you stand outside the sports hall, the squeaking of court shoes piercing through your ears as you stall by rechecking Jake’s text.

Jay’s at basketball practice till nine, maybe you can catch him there.

The time on your phone blares a bright ‘0925’, and you curse yourself for not having the guts to say no to Jake — because as much as you are Cupid, you’re also weak hearted, and you don’t know how to handle a devilishly handsome boy who’s said to have a bad attitude.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding, getting ready to push the door until it swings open from the other side and the vision in front of you turns from the freshly painted navy blue doors to a tall, lean boy with a number 99 plastered on the front of his jersey.

Holy shit, you think, and you wish you could duck around quickly and scurry away, yet your feet remain firmly planted to the ground as your eyes linger on the face in front of you.

“Something wrong, Cupid?” 

You open your mouth only to close it yet again. Because despite the harsh tone or recognition his voice held, you were mesmerised. You’ve only ever seen Jay from afar and now up close, he looks like a collection of violet-tinted heartbreak and soft silver snow — as the ferocious intensity he emits settles itself in the sharp dip of his cupid’s bow. His beauty is devastating, and your task is forgotten for a moment as you take in his black hair damp with sweat and the slender set of collarbones revealed by his jersey.

The boy looks like an angel and siren all at once, and fuck it if he isn’t the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. Even prettier than Lee Heeseung, the attractive basketballer you’ve known since middle school (who you had a tiny crush on back then.)

It takes you forty two seconds and Jay bending down to snap you out of your gaze. And you find yourself not being able to do anything but shift back as the boy smoothly ties your shoelaces which you must have left undone in a rush to reach here on time.

“Thanks,” you say honestly, voice too breathy as your veins pump with embarrassment. 

He smiles softly, “don’t mention it, wouldn’t want you to trip and fall, right?”

You pause, and you hate how awkward you are during unplanned encounters. “Right,” you say, stumbling over your own words, “I mean- uhm, yeah! Thanks, but- I could have tied them myself.”

Jay laughs, and it’s a little husky as you capture the sound. “Right. You’re cute when you ramble.”

Right now, you wished you possessed the charm you usually carried when talking to other targets — bold and feminine. But with a mere sentence, Jay had the ability to reduce you to a young girl talking to an infatuation for the first time. And you think the rumours are false, because the boy in front of you seemed nothing like the playboy you’ve heard about: barely seeming to have an ounce of smooth confidence in his bones.

“You’re here for me, aren’t you Cupid? Did someone want you to matchmake me with them? Or are you on some sort of mission?” His sudden change of tone throws you off, arrogance radiating off him as the look in his eyes change. Bolder, sharper.

You think that you’re an idiot, for falling for his innocent façade, for believing those rumours were fake. Because now Jay looks like he’s playing god, with a devil’s smirk etched onto his face. 

“Does the name Jake Sim ring a bell?” It amazes you how blunt he sounds, mouth tense and one corner slightly tilted down. And it pisses you off, how handsome he still seemed.

“He’s the captain of the soccer team,” you try, avoiding the question all together, “who doesn’t know him.”

The boy in front of you seems unsatisfied, “not what I was asking and you know it,” he declines, a borderline genius glinting in his eyes. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He smirks, brushing his hair back, “you’re telling me that my best friend didn’t hand you a note with my name on it, asking you to keep an eye on me?”

Fuck. How does he know?

You send him a cool grin — and thank goodness your usual calm and composed exterior is back — as you slowly walk towards him, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Not everything in life is about you Jay, so get lost.” You pause. “Please.”

A part of his tenacity amazes you when he fails to keep his mouth shut, and you feel annoyed at his stubborn persistence. “Everyone knows your little love business, Y/n,” Jay elaborates, making you grit your teeth. His voice is like liquid mercury, toxic yet smooth. “There’s always talk about a new happy couple and a pretty pretty girl who set them up.”

And as if on instinct, your hands move up to twirl the ends of your hair, “what about it, Park?”

“You’re telling me that Jake Sim didn’t meet you today? Look me in the eyes and say it.” 

You stare into the eyes of the boy who looks like he could be a model, heart betraying you as it escalates. “I didn’t meet Jake Sim at Starbucks today. Quit bothering me, alright?”

“I didn’t say it was Starbucks,” Jay states brazenly, his head tilting in princely arrogance as you watch a small smirk settle on the crook of his mouth. “I thought good girls like you never lie.”

“Fucking hell,” you breathe in sharply, “get lost.”

Jay tucks one hand into his pocket, tugging his lips into a small smile, “You go first, I’ll follow you.”

Your cheeks heat a dark shade of red as you dread to have to tell Jake that Jay knew of your deal.

“Wait,” he says as you turn, gently grabbing your wrists. He might seem a bit rough on the outside, with arrogance lining his collarbones, but when he touches you, it’s surprisingly soft. “Don’t tell him I know. All I’ve been doing is giving her advice about approaching Jake and I don’t want to ruin any surprise she might have planned.”

You nod slowly, pieces coming together in your head. “So you want me to be your double agent?”

Jay smiles, and if you were honest, it might have been the most genuine you’ve seen him today. “Why not? Not like you’d take the chances of spoiling a couple’s confession. Live a little.”

You roll your eyes at his comment, “I live a lot, Park, maybe more than you’ve ever lived.” You pause, “ and if you want me to, you should fix that attitude of yours. God knows how you bag girls acting like a dick.”

Jay presses his hands to his chest in mock pain. “Your words hurt, Cupid,” he pouts, eyes glistening, “so are you in?”

“Depends,” you admit, “maybe if you take me on a ride in that cool car of yours.”

He thinks for a moment. “Fine.”

A smile blooms on your lips, and you’re too triumphant to notice the way Jay’s breath hitches as he takes a small step backwards, as if your aura was too potent, too powerful for him to breathe in.

“Deal.”

ii. a short guide on handling a crazy heart

The last place you’d ever think of telling your best friend, Yunjin, about your encounter with a certain vice captain was in the bathroom of a stranger’s house, with the latest hits blaring into your eardrums. “He’s got a dick for a personality,’ you scream over the music as she fixes her hair in the mirror, “he’s arrogant, infuriating, and he doesn’t know when to stop.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” she replies, giving you a knowing look through the mirror, and you roll your eyes at her comment. “So what exactly did Jay want you to do again?” Yunjin’s eyebrows raise as she asks her question for the fifth time this week, and you think if your friend wasn’t so pretty, you would have purposefully messed up her hair in annoyance.

You sigh, “he wants me to be a double agent of some sort, he doesn’t want to ruin his hard work of giving advice,” you admit, “I’m practically sandwiched between two best friends.”

“Aw, you guys are like a pair of cupids,” Yunjin says thoughtfully, “you and Jay. And I guess it brings no harm. Though you might be pissed with his personality, someone has to get under that thick skin of yours. He might just be the one to do it.”

You shoot her the finger accompanied by a glare as the two of you finally exit the bathroom to the bustling scene of the party, with sweaty bodies swaying to the rhythm of music blasting from the speakers.

“Y/n!” A golden voice calls out, making you turn over your shoulder, to find Jake waving you over excitedly, with a tall boy dressed in all black beside him, leaning against the wall coolly as he gazes at you with hooded eyes.

There’s an ineffable feeling that crawls into your stomach when you see Jay, as if he held all the power in the world to crush you with a glance. “Come play beer pong with us, we need two more people.” Jake's voice goes through your ears before leaving through the other side as you nod aimlessly, eyes trained on Jay’s figure — lean back muscles that were visible through the shirt that hugged his figure, as you and Yunjin follow them into another room.

“Me and Jay against the two of you,” Jake grins as he nudges you by the shoulder to the other side of the ping pong table, a few familiar faces surrounding the area.

“I’m out, ask Heeseung to play instead,” Jay mutters under his breath, but you catch it despite the loud chatter amongst the crowd. And it dims the small excited flame burning in your heart.

You watch as Jake sighs, “come on bro, don’t be a party pooper. First Sunghoon ditches to go god knows where with that neighbour of his, and now you?” Jay moves to comb through his slicked back black hair, eyebrows furrowing as he calls Heeeung over.

Looking at Heeseung, you realise that Jay and him were two completely different kinds of beautiful: Heeseung had a sharp jawline and soft curves; Jay, on the other hand, had a kind of edge and arrogance constantly lining the corners of his mouth, and it’s unconventional. To say the least. Everything about him was to you.

“Come on Park, don’t spoil the fun,” you pitch into the conversation, as the three heads turn towards you, “or are you scared you’re going to get trashed by two girls?”

Jay mutters a chain of words under his breath as he steps out of the tiny circle they’ve made, towards you, his gaze centred on you. And it suddenly feels silent as Jay’s eyes start at the tips of your toes, sliding across the smooth expanse of your legs and past your torso, lingering on the slight curvature of your neck before landing on your lips. Your swallow is embarrassingly audible in the unusual quietness, but you soon clear your throat.

He’s so handsome it makes you want to scream. You hate how good he looks; you hate how he looks at you, like you’re something of his affections. And you hate yourself for actually liking the attention, because even though you always state that you hate him, you know it’s not true.

Jay just gets on your nerves.

“Fancy seeing you here, Cupid. Who knew you could ever look so stunning?” And just like that, the moment’s over.

“Shut the hell up, Park. All you have to do is throw a ball into a cup, or are your basketball skills that bad?” You challenge him, and Jay lets out a laugh: a real laugh that you want to hear again and again and again, because it sounds like silver music and he’s beautiful.

And you hate yourself and your feelings.

“If that's what you think,” he breathes, as he stares into your eyes, “let’s make a bet then. If I win, you have to come to a basketball game of mine — because you’ve clearly not been to one, wearing my jersey, cheering for me. And if you magically happen to win, I’ll do anything you want me to.”

Maybe his car, maybe you could ask him to give you his car, you think as you set your mind on winning. Not one ounce of doubt that you’d be able to beat Jay, because despite not having attended one basketball game, you think that you had sufficient skill to win. He can’t be that good, right?

And once again Jay proves you wrong as he effortlessly scores cup after cup, and you’re buzzed, barely able to comprehend your surroundings as the crowd cheers his and Jake’s name. The only words you hear clearly is Jake’s extremely loud cry of excitement as Jay throws yet another ping pong ball into the last cup on your side of the table.

“See how it’s done, angel? I’m not vice captain for no reason,” he smirks as he rounds the table to your side. Though you’re half gone, you’re suddenly grateful for the dim lighting because you’d be caught dead by the boy next to you if he sees your flushed cheeks at the new nickname he’d just given you.

“Anyone told you not to randomly call strangers angel?” You hiss, as he gently wraps an arm around your waist, steadying your wobbling figure. Jay shrugs, and you huff out a breath, “it does something to them, okay?”

The boy looks down at you, thumb brushing over your cheeks — and you tell your weak heart to calm down, “what does it do, angel? Tell me,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s too close to you, because you can feel the weight of his words sink into your body as the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

“It hurts me, them, right here,” you reply, closing your eyes to tame the nauseating feeling in your brain, as your finger points to your heart, “makes their heart go boom.”

You don’t see anything, but you can feel Jay’s hands wrapped carefully around the nape of your neck, fingers entangled in your hair, as the other cradles the smooth, glass-like skin of your jaw, thumbs once again brushing with a tantalising shimmer. His breath smells of sangria and mint, and the sensation is just warm as you’re cast unceremoniously under his addicting spell.

“Yeah?” He whispers, and you nod softly.

“Yeah,” you answer, “so stop it, whatever that was. It’s annoying.”

Your eyes open and you see Jay smirking in his trademark expression, and you click your tongue in annoyance, pretending as if your heart wasn’t about to jump out of your chest.

“But that’s what you are, aren’t you? Cupid - Angel, same thing.” He replies, and you’re about to answer, but decide not to as his words swirl around in your chest.

“What are you even doing here anyway?” you groan, changing to topic as you furrow your eyebrows, vision betraying you as Jay’s devilishly handsome face duplicates itself under intoxication. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to drink when you were such a lightweight.

“Don’t think too hard, angel,” Jay teases, “or else your head will start hurting.”

“Shut up asshole,” you roll your eyes, trying to concentrate on the boy in front of you instead of the pounding in both your head and chest.

Jay grins, and you can see a little bit of evilish impurity and jaded sleekness — like a trained jaguar waiting to pounce. “Shut me up then,” he murmurs, “kiss me, angel.”

“If I kissed you, you wouldn’t be able to handle it,” you announce, and you busk in this moment because you’re sure you’d forget it tomorrow morning.

“And if I kissed you, I probably wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Your vision goes black.

You wake up buzzing out your mind, surprisingly in your own bed, with not a hint of remembrance of last night’s drunken conversation.

“Just get out, get some fresh air, it’s good for hangovers,” Yunjin says, all dolled up and ready to patronise the new cafe she’s been raving about, while you sit at the edge of your bed, staring daggers at her with your hair all messed up and head still spinning.

You groan, “are you insane,” your hand moving up to rub your eyes furiously, “must feel good not to be a lightweight.”

Maybe it’s your friend’s persuasion skills or maybe it’s just the fact that you’re easily persuaded because after ten minutes, you find yourself decently dressed and walking into the small diner situated around the corner as the striking ring of the bell pierces into your head, making you wince.

“Jake, fancy see you here again,” Yunjin shouts across the diner to a small four person booth where you see said boy’s head popping out. 

“Yunjin, Yn,” Jake waves, as Yunjin pulls you yet again to Jake, exactly like how she did yesterday night. “You know my best friend,” Jake introduces, staring at her as she waves, a bright smile that could bring a boy to his knees.

“Cupid or yn, right?” She asks, with clear confidence exuding out of her, “Jay’s cupid.”

You cough at her words, eyes darting to Jake’s face as you tilt your head in question. “Jay’s told me or well me and Jake about you.” She clears up, moving your suspicions away from her best friend.

“Right,” Jake chimes in, “surprised you’re still alive after yesterday. You knocked out mid conversation with Jay and he drove you and Yunjin home.”

“Come again,” you turn to look at Yunjin, eyebrows furrowed as she gives you a guilty look. 

“He had a nice car, and he offered, what could i even do with you alone,” she murmurs under her breath and you slap her shoulder.

“Actually, Jay’s here if you want to talk to him,” Jake brings up, looking around for the boy. And your eyes widen at his words, tugging Yunjin’s sleeves as an indication to leave.

“Yn, Yunjin,” and you curse yourself because Jay sounds so good in the early hours of the morning, too good, with his slightly raspy and deep voice that you wished to hear over and over.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, knowing how you are when you’re drunk. Embarrassment swallowing you whole and spitting you out at the thoughts of what you might have done in your drunken state consuming you.

“You okay angel?” You turn around at the sound of the nickname that pinches at your heart, “after what happened last night, I thought you’d never see the light of day again.” The familiar devilish smirk is cued and you know you shouldn’t be trusting him yet you are as your cheeks heat up.

Jay chuckles at your abashed state as he gazes at you, wondering how you looked so good even in a plain white shirt and shorts. Like an angel, and he thinks the nickname he’s given you is spot on.

“Don’t remember? Then I’ll leave it to your imagination,” he says, leaning into you. As you freeze, eyes dart from his face to his lips for a second before looking back up. You don’t know what’s come over you because your usual calm demeanour has been flushed out, replaced with the resounding of your rapidly beating heart.

“Can’t believe you’d do such a thing to me, angel.”

Your imagination runs wild especially after you watch Jay walk out the diner with a winner’s smile on his face, head racing with embarrassing scenarios as he consumes your mind day and night.

iii. pink eyes, pink hearts, the whole world turns pink when i’m with you

When you meet Jake again at the same small rounded Starbucks table, you tell him Jay has no intentions of getting together with his girl. He smiles and tells you that there’s no longer a need for you to ever talk to Jay again, and for some reason it bugs the hell out of you.

You don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you can’t stop thinking about the golden confidence that surrounds his body like second skin, or the way he walks — like he’s it. Maybe it’s the way his hair still looks perfect after hours of sweat and playing basketball, or maybe it’s just because he knows exactly how to get you heated.

You hate thinking about him too much, because you’re afraid that your cheeks will flush a cherry red and you’ll start remembering how he bent down to tie your shoelaces or how his muscular arm wrapped gently around your waist as he entertained your drunk blabbering ( you cried for three days upon remembering this, cursing Yunjin for not helping you out ). So you don’t think about Jay, how he’s so so pretty and you certainly don’t think about the straightness of his nose, or the birthmark on his neck.

It’s a Friday night, and the campus is empty, students all gathered to watch the football game. And you feel an uneasy sensation settling at the bottom of your stomach. Something’s terribly off, you realise, as you look at your shadow and see another following you at an awfully close distance.

I fucking hate men, you conclude, as you clutch the pepper spray you keep in your jacket pocket, and you continue walking in the same direction like nothing’s wrong. You can’t call Yunjin, because she’s busy cheering her head off at the football game, you think as you try to strategise. And you silently curse as you watch the shadow get closer, it’s fine, you think, you’re strong and fast — and your trusty pepper spray never betrays you.

You turn around and spray the small can in the face of your follower, jumping back to see if the chemicals did the desired damage. But when the air clears, all you see is Jay’s gorgeous face crying profusely.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you repeat again and again, and he doesn’t say anything. “I’m so sorry, Jay. Are you crying?”

The boy in front of you doesn’t look at you, blinking through his red eyes and burning tears as he takes the tissue you’ve offered him. You watch his swollen, puffy eyes as tears roll down and collect at the corner of his chin.

It’s not the time to laugh, you think, maybe just a little. And you have a strong urge to whip out your phone from your back pocket and take a picture of the once in a lifetime view in front of you.

So you do. And Jay isn’t having it.

“You know,” he says, voice scratchy, “you’re the most difficult fucking person I’ve ever met in my life.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes at his obvious compliment, “how would I know that you weren’t some pedophilic stalker who’s come to kill me!” You look at his pitiable state and you stop, “I’m really sorry.” Your voice softens.

“Say it again.” And his commanding tone makes you feel not so apologetic anymore.

“Go to hell.”

Jay sighs in annoyance, “that’s cute,” he replies, and you ignore the way your heart skips a beat. “I just saw you and wanted to talk to you, and maybe give you my jersey, for our bet.” His voice reminds you of springtime love and dragonfruit hibiscus, of frenzied thrills and mysterious shadows.

“Oh, where is it?” You ask, as if the thought of wearing his jersey to watch your first ever basketball game didn’t excite you even a little bit. His fingers clasp around your wrist, pulling you to a carpark where he had parked.

He unlocks his car, one hand still pressing the piece of tissue against his eye as the other swiftly opens the boot of the car. “Here, it’s washed, don’t worry — since you seem like that kind of person.”

You give him a look, as you watch him remove the tissue from his eye. It’s turned a shade of pink now, less puffy and less glassy. “What exactly do you mean by that Park, and here I was thinking of treating you for ice cream in return for giving you a pink eye.”

He huffs a tired sigh, “with the way you’re tiring me out, you should treat me for ice cream.”

And you look at Jay, who’s glowing under the rim streetlights despite his obvious red eye ( kudos to you ). With cheekbones that cut like ice and eyes liquid scotch, Park Jay is an alcoholic beverage and he doesn’t even know it. You’re addicted, even if your mind disagrees with your heart.

Stars could gleam all throughout the night sky and yet you’d still prefer to watch them through his eyes. And you think that you’re fucked, because you’ve never really thought of anyone like that. Not even Lee Heeseung, you only liked him because he was the fastest runner in middle school, but Jay — Jay made you feel like treasured snow in a globe kept by a bedside, he makes you feel like a fever dream.

“If you drive me, I will,” you say and he grins, jogging over to open the passenger seat for you.

“I’ll take a pistachio ice cream,” he orders as he slides into the driver’s seat and you enjoy the cool, crisp air blowing at you.

You choke at his words, “pistachio?” as your head tilts in question, “who eats pistachio nowadays? Everyone eats mint chocolate chip.”

Jay’s face contorts into an expression of disgust as he scrunches his eyebrows, taking his eyes away from the road to face you. “Honestly expected more from you angel, but I’m not surprised, just disappointed.”

“And I expected more from you, Park.” You comment, “who the hell doesn’t like mint chocolate chip?”

He groans at your argument, “it’s fucking toothpaste on a cone, what is there to like?” 

You gasp, mouth wide open ready to fight back till he sighs, eyes rolling as he turns into the parking lot of Baskin Robbins, “fine, I’ll give mint chocolate chip another try if you try pistachio. We’ll try each other's ice cream, okay?”

Smiling, you nod, happy that you’d win the argument, even if it meant having to try some weird nutty flavour of ice cream. “I’ll go get it, wait for me.”

You jog into the store, excited to finally treat yourself to ice cream — and for Jay’s expression when he eats mint chocolate chip because you know his face would scrunch up ( and you wouldn’t miss the opportunity to take yet another picture ).

You come back out into the parking lot, and you see Jay, with another girl pressed up awfully close to him, and it feels like your throat is closing up, squeezing as you feel the urge to rip the two apart. It looks wrong — Jay and her, and you think it’s what your knowledge and years of being Cupid is saying ( or maybe it’s your heart ). You hate it, hate the way she’s looking at him as if he’s some fallen God from heaven, hate the way she shifts closer to him even when he’s trying to avoid touching her.

You move before you know it, and you expertly loop your arm around Jay’s waist after passing his cup of ice cream to him. Red hot satisfaction lighting up inside of you as Jay rests his arm around you — as if it’s his natural instinct, and his expression of annoyance morphs into one of a devilish smirk that you were now well acquainted with. 

“You’re back, angel,” Jay murmurs, as he kisses the top of your head, his voice reverberating in your temples. 

“Yeah,” you say, grinning sweetly at him before shooting the girl a glare: eyes turning into stilts as you give the clueless girl yet another warning sign. It doesn’t take long for the intruder to awkwardly excuse herself before you click your tongue in annoyance, turning around to face Jay who had a foreign expression on his face.

“Is my angel jealous?” He asks, raising an eyebrow, and your heart fawns at the small movement that was ridiculously attractive. He hums, smiling sharply as your breath catches.

You clear your throat and look away, well aware that your hand still lingers on his chest and you have no motivation to move it. “Shut up.” And you feel panic rising, bubbling. This is bad. This is too dangerous.

“I could shut you up instead,” Jay murmurs, stepping even closer and a thrill runs through your body. “Want me to?”

“You’re such an arrogant asshole,” you whisper, slapping his shoulders without any real force, “why would you ask me this kind of question.” Your heart is screaming a resounding yes.

“Because I’m a gentlemen,” Jay glares at you, and this tension between the both of you — like cold fire and hot ice, erupts in a lick of blue, crystallised flames. “So I’ll ask you another time,” he pulls you towards him, “can I kiss you, angel?”

You can’t take it anymore. “Stop talking and just do it.”

You pull him down by his collar and press your lips onto his, feeling your skin heat up as his lips move on yours. Holy shit, you think. He’s an expert kisser. And it might be ironic because it’s your first kiss ever, but you believe that nothing after can ever top this. 

His hands rest on your waist, then to your jaw, then to your neck — and you feel. Feel the tip of his tongue asking for entrance at the inner part of her bottom lip, feel the way he’s kissing you roughly but smoothly at the same time, hair brushing your forehead and breathing unsteady against yours. Jay tastes like a blessed curse, a collection of angelic alcohol on a summer evening, and you want to hold him and never let go.

Because you’re making out with Jay, and your heart is pounding as you rest your thumb on his pulse and feel it flaring wildly, recklessly. Oh my god, you think, as he squeezes your waist before breaking the kiss — eyes slightly hooded as he stares at you in adoration that sparkles under the midnight sky.

He will be the death of you.

iv. three ways to ruin park jongseong

Jay thinks that there’s three ways to ruin him.

One: The kid’s viking ride at amusement parks. It absolutely destroys him, and his hair that he works on for hours in the morning. His knees get weak and his brain thrown out of his body as he squeezes his eyes shut, begging heaven to let him live another day even before the ride starts. 

Two: Mint chocolate ice cream. Which was why he surprised himself when he agreed to give it another try for you. He absolutely distastes the flavour, as the creamy cavity inducing toothpaste taste coats the roof of his mouth, he winces in disgust. The only exception, he thinks, is when he kisses you and he tastes it. Instead of its usual nauseating effect, it instead tastes like love drunk cherry epidermises. 

Three: You. With his jersey hanging from your shoulders, and he can smell his cologne, as you brush past him, eyes forming crescents as you greet him. “Hey Jay, are you ready for the game?”

His heartstrings tug, quicker and quicker at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. And he might be a little foolish when it comes to love, but he thinks that this was the way his name was meant to be said. 

“Jay? What, cat got your tongue?” You laugh, smiling. And he thinks he’s fallen for your laugh — that’s utterly contagious, your smile — which made him giddy for no reason, and the way you weren’t scared to annoy the hell out of him. 

He doesn’t know if this feeling is normal, because despite the rumours, Jay’s never had a girlfriend, nor has he ever been with a girl; relationship or not, and it was all Heeseung who had girls around all the goddamn time. With them, he felt sick at the way they whined to touch his hair. But you, you ruin him the most, even more than the viking ship ride. And all his life, Jay’s been a pretty systematic person, but now he doesn’t know where to start, what to do about it.

“Come again angel, didn’t catch that,” he replies, eyes catching yours as he turns into the school car park, one arm slung over the back of your seat as he reverses into a lot. 

You groan, cheeks pink, and he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. “I said, are you scared the other team will trash you to pieces?”

Jay chuckles, at your sharp tongue and the way you skillfully tease him. “I’m not scared, why would I be? With an angel cheering for me, I literally have God on my side.” He gets out and rounds his car, moving over to open your side of the door as he watches you lick your honey lips in nervousness. Under the 7pm tinted red and orange skies of a Wednesday, Jay realises how blue he’d feel without you now that you’re here.

“Who,” you pause, as you try not to jumble up your words, “who said I’d cheer for you?” A lazy smirk painted on your face, as you praise yourself for not tripping over the nervous butterflies the boy in front of you gave your stomach.

“You’re here with me,” he says, eyes trained on you as you lean back onto the side of his car, “I drove you here, I will be walking in with you, the jersey you’re wearing has my name on it. And, I invited you to the game in front of half the school population at that party. You see the pattern here, angel? It’s us or nothing.”

The way his eyes hold your gaze as his hands graze over yours melts you. And you’re so drunk in him, you feel as if you could touch the clouds in the salmon sky.

“What if I exchange my jersey with another girl?” You say, eyes glinting with mischief as you fold your arms, testing him. “Or maybe I’ll sell it, I’ve heard that this jersey is a pretty coveted item here in Decelis.”

He clicks his tongue in annoyance and you grin, “girls like you are the bane of my existence.”

“Girls like me?” You raise an eyebrow, “love, I’m one of a kind.”

“Yeah, you are. You are the bane of my existence.” Jay nods in agreement, as he slings his bag over his shoulder, and wraps his fingers gently around your wrist, guiding you into the unfamiliar sports hall. He thinks he’s playing with something dangerous — because you’re tangerine dusts of fire, flames that warm his skin and he relishes your warmth as you intoxicate his brain, his mind, as the smoothness of your skin lingers on his fingertips.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to an empty spot he reserved for you. 

“I’m not your dog,” you retort, begrudgingly.

“Love of my life, light of my eyes, my all, would you please do me a kind favour and take a seat? I don’t want to tire those pretty legs of yours. Not like this.” 

Oh.

You laugh, and it’s so loud that you can feel the eyes of others on you. Yet you’re fully focused on the devilish man in front of you. And you think, if you were very brave or honest you would tell him — that you might have fallen for his charming ways, sly smile, and god-like features.

“That’s right,” you grin as he shakes his head at your bratty behaviour. 

“Anything for the princess,” he bows, and he doesn’t realise it but he’s smiling. Wide. And just like that you’re woven into his veins and he needs you like sin.

Jay makes up his mind that today’s match would be the best match he’s ever played. Not because you were here, sitting at the front row of the bleachers. Well, maybe, maybe it was because he wanted to hear you cheer his name, watch you grin in celebration as he scores hoop after hoop, and maybe because then — only then can he smoothly ask you to celebrate his win with him over dinner.

And that is exactly what he does. 

“You did so good, Jay, when you twirled around that dude and threw the ball into the ring,” You say, reenact Jay’s winning shot, the jingle of the bell of your favourite diner that you recommended Jay to go to ringing as you enter the small place.

Jay think’s it’s extremely endearing, the way you call the basketball hoop a ring, or how you explain his moves as if he was a dancer on stage — twirling, he thinks he could work with that.

Jay directs you to a booth to sit in and a waiter comes to take your orders. You request a double cheeseburger and so does Jay. And he notes down the way you toy with the salt and pepper shakers, rips up the edge of a napkin, and clinks silverware together in odd amusement; you don’t ever stop moving, it seems. And it’s adorable.

“Tell me about your business,” Jay prompts, elbow settled on the table as you grumble in protest.

You shake your head, pursing your lips in refusal, “It’s a little embarrassing.”

“No it’s not,” Jay huffs, “I think it’s interesting.”

And so you tell him. “People pay me to matchmake them with someone they’re attracted to,” you mumble, “and sometimes I get paid more when I get a request to play a certain role.”

“What kind of role?” Jay asks, full of curiosity.

“Well, on Saturday Yoo Jimin is paying me to act like an innocent girl who her boyfriend was two timing with — he cheats a lot you see, and she wants to finally dump him.” You elaborate, “I don’t accept all of these requests, I choose them. I get a whole lot of weird ones too so that's a big no.”

“Isn’t that cruel,” Jay comments, but a drop of pity found nowhere in his voice. And you laugh, tilting your head back. He watches, eyes following the curve of your throat.

“Maybe,” you say, “but cheaters deserve it. Especially when Jimin’s boyfriend has hooked up with multiple girls.”

“So you like to roleplay?” Your mouth drops open.

“Is that all you got out of my explanation? That I may like to roleplay?” You scoff as Jay grins, “sadly for you Jay, I don’t.”

He glares at you and you glare back at him even harder. “Right,” he snaps, “how could anyone ever put up with you to begin with? You’re impossible.”

“That’s mean,” you pout, eyes flickering to his as you rest your chin on the palm of your hands. “You’re mean, Jay. I really hate you.” False.

“And you’re a devil’s spawn.”

You gasp, “you wound me, Jay. I thought I was your angel.”

You are, he thinks as he stares at you. And Park Jongseong wants to kiss you — but only in the most connotative way possible, so that no dictionary definition would ever stand a chance to describe how your lungs could be filled with the sweetest air possible and yet you’d still be so breathless. Often, pictures the both of you holding hands, watching a movie, sitting on the beach hearing your laugh throughout the day, catching your smile and he hopes that at the very least you think of him when your eyes are closed.

Roseate cheekbones, pearlescent soft lips, and bickering emanates love as the both of you fill the quiet dinner with intimate chatter. 

And the night dies down all while Jay thinks about how you’re a vivid dream of lust and harmonies, euphoria reeking upon your entire figure, lips tainted with surreal giggles — and that the saliva in your throat is yet rather angel dust that converts into musical laughter, music he loved to hear as he watches you.

v. mascara stained cheeks, bruised skin, and a crumpled piece of paper.

“He must be really fucking into the cheating shit if he’s meeting his side chick an hour away from our school,” Jay grunts as he pulls over at the entrance of the restaurant Jimin sent you. 

Today, you’re donned in a different style — sweatpants and a random big sweatshirt you stole from Jay’s backseat. Your hair messed up and your mascara smudged. It wasn’t really part of the job to be dramatic, but you only live once, so what’s the point of living boringly?

Jay scans your face for the fifth time in an hour, “you look exceptionally pretty today, angel. You really live up to your pet name.”

You grin, eyes rolling as you shuffle through your bag to take out a positive pregnancy test, mind sifting through your checklist — mascara check, positive test check. “Jay, love, it’s called dedication. You obviously do not have such a quality.”

His heart spins when you call him love. And it’s crazy, because he’s staring at you — with makeup smudged all over your face, positive pregnancy test in your hand from God knows where, drowning in his oversized sweatshirt yet he thinks you’re pretty, too pretty. And if that wasn’t dedication, he doesn’t know what is.

“I’m dedicated,” he says. And you raise your eyebrows in question.

“To what Jay? And don’t say basketball cause everyone in the world knows that you’re in love with it. Honest to G-”

“You,” He cuts you off, as he watches sunlight seep through the windows of his car onto your cheekbones, softly portraying faint constellations of stars upon them. He watches as your orbs glimmer with fervour, lips parting slightly to expose a marvelled gasp, and he hopes that the hazed longing in his eyes has reached you.

You cough, eyes dodging his gaze as you shift. “Not now, Jay. Not when I look like this.” And it’s enough for Jay to start smiling. He’s amused, that all that mattered to you right now was how you looked when he was about to confess to you.

“Fine,” he laughs, “I’ll do it when you look prettier than you look now.” You hum as you appreciate the way his arms look under the sunlight through the windows. Before today, you’ve never associated attractiveness with driving, but the slight imprint of his veins along with his lean muscles turned your mouth drier than usual.

“Only you get me, love,” you say, as you mess your hair up a little bit more in the mirror. “How do I look?”

“Like a sex addict.” You slap him, hard across his chest. “What? You asked!”

“You can’t say things like that to a girl,” you tell him, hiding a secret smile. “Be a gentleman, say I look great and wish me luck.”

“You’d only be looking good when you’re going on a date with me, roleplaying or not.” He mutters under his breath as you shoot him yet another glare. “Fine,” Jay gives in, leaning over the control panel, and he’s dangerously close to you. “Good luck, angel.”

In front of you, everything is still. Jay, time, galaxies, constellations pause to dawn upon him and gaze at you, who’s clearly unaware of your beauty. “Happy?”

You nod and he smirks, “Why so quiet now angel?”

“Just shut up and get on with our act.”

He laughs before the two of you go over your plans again: Jay entering into the restaurant first, sitting at a table near Jimin’s to monitor the situation, and you entering five minutes later, causing the biggest break up ever. It’ll be fun, like drama club.

You look at yourself in the mirror once again, and you think you look like those prostitutes in those trashy american tv shows before you enter the building with the classy exterior. With crystal chandeliers hung and tablecloths made of white linen, you feel terribly out of place, but for what if not for money.

You immediately spot Jay, sitting there with his long legs spread out. And a few tables to your right sits Jimin and her boyfriend, who continuously toys with his phone under the tablecloth while she tries to keep the conversation going.

It’s showtime.

You storm up to their table, positive pregnancy test in one hand as you yell out, “How could you! How could you cheat on me!” Hands reaching out to grab the boy by his collar, tears welling up in your eyes as he fumbled to stand straight under your tiger grip.

“Who the fuck are you?” He asks, eyes wide as saucers as his hands move up to surrender. “Jimin, babe, I swear I don’t know this crazy woman.”

“Crazy? You said I was your everything, that we were bound by fate! I believed you and now I’m pregnant,” you scream, throwing the test into his face as his hands scramble to catch it.

“Just get it aborted for god’s sake, it’s not that fucking hard.” And you gasp, shocked by the sheer stupidness of the boy. You don’t really let your emotions get to you, but the boy in front of you with a grip that could bruise your wrist and a mentality of a crude alpha male disgusts you.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You have a girlfriend who was willing to listen to you and give you a second chance before, but you ruined it by being an arsehole.” You pinch his forearm and he yelps, “you’re pathetic, and you don’t deserve anyone in your life.”

You watch as Jimin packs her things and leaves, before you meet Jay in his car. And without a word, he puts the makeup remover you brought into a cotton pad, dabbing your face with it as his fingers softly brush over the bruise forming on your wrist.

“You’re insane,” he says, “so fucking insane.”

You grin, “you don’t mind,” you make up his mind for him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I don’t,” he says as he digs his pocket to retrieve a crumpled piece of paper, handing it to you. 

And you open it, reading the scrawny handwriting in black ink.

Matchmaking

Name : Park Jay / Park Jongseong

Match : This girl I call angel, I’m sure you know who I’m talking about

Extra : I think we’re a match made in heaven, so please, help me win her over

vi. an angel and her love

You push your clingy boyfriend Jay away from your body, and to no avail fail for the third time. “Jay, you’re going to be late,” you tell the boy whose arms wrap protectively around your waist, “that’s not very vice captain of you.”

“And it’s not very girlfriend of you to chase your boyfriend away,” he mutters into the crook of your neck, as he proceeds to tighten his grip around your waist.

You give up, which you should have done minutes ago, because you know your boyfriend isn’t one to listen to anyone — even you. But you wouldn’t have it any other way, especially not when you’re not an easy person either.

“Go, or I’ll ask Yunjin to put that photo of you with a pink eye on the jumbotron,” you tease, and it works because Jay immediately lets go of your waist, eyes turning into slits.

“Hate you,” he says, rolling his eyes as he pulls you in for a kiss.

It’s short and sweet. And a line invisible to the naked eye seemed to be drawn between the both of you, it’s scarlet and relatively thick in magnitude, as the feeling of being in heaven — a feeling you’re accustomed to whenever you’re with Jay enlightens your skin again.

“Kiss me again,” you complain.

“You always order me around,” he laughs.

“Kiss me.”

“Are you sure?” he mutters, lips curving into his signature smirk.

You grab the back of his head, yanking him down once more. And the silence around the both of you explodes and a world of colours appear before your closed eyes. Every thought in your brain erased and replaced by the thought of him, just him. His lips pressing against yours, his hands pulling you closer, running up and down your back, into your hair. The taste of his mouth and the heat of his breath cloud your mind.

And when you finally convince yourself to pull away, your brain fails to string any piece of thought together.

“I love you more,” you tell him, as you smile. 

And Jay looks, and he adores. He thinks (knows) he can watch you until the sun rises and the sun sets again, that he can watch you for days on end and never grow tired of you.

“Love you the most, angel.”

© SJYUNS

[nepenthendline]

the not-so-good parts about dating them

a/n: I am nothing if not a red flag lover

includes: midoriya, todokori, bakugo, shinsou, kirishima, kaminari, iida, hawks, aizawa

Midoriya -

Midoriya's priority list is '1. everyone' so, sometimes, it's difficult to feel special in his eyes. It's not that he doesn't see you as a top priority, he just often lets himself get caught up with other people and dealing with their problems so you don't get his undivided attention all that often. He doesn't mean to do it at all, but he has missed dates before because he was staying late at work to help his students or got stuck helping out a friend.

Bakugo -

🤨 Aside from his obvious anger issues, Bakugo often struggles to see you as a team and not just individuals. Whenever you argue, he often sees it as a 'me vs you' and not a 'us vs the problem', and he sometimes makes big decisions without talking to you first. He feels like he has to be better than you because he needs to be a provider and a protector, so he tackles issues on his own instead of talking to you and working things through as a team.

Todoroki -

Todokori has no reference to what a 'healthy' relationship looks like, and it terrifies him. All he knows is what, or who, he doesn't want to end up like, and it stops him from taking initiative in your relationship because he's scared of doing the wrong thing. He knows he's not like his father, but he still worries that he's going to end up like him anyway, as if it's fated. Because of this, things move incredibly slowly, and it can be hard to tell that he does love you since he doesn't often make moves or use words to show you. He knows he wants, and needs, to improve though, he just needs some guidance.

Kaminari -

Kaminari struggles with self-sabotage in your relationship - he convinces himself that he's not good enough for you or that he's making your life worse by being with you, and can push you away, cancel dates late minute or act like he doesn't need you. These actions never last long before he snaps out of it, and you're well aware by now of what's going on in his head when he starts acting like this, but he's always convinced he's going to fuck this up. And sometimes, he believes it so much that he does. The guilt eats away at him daily.

Kirishima -

(Absolutely nothing) Kirishima hates showing you when he's feeling down, weak, or 'unmanly'. He bottles up a lot of his negative emotions and thoughts away from you and they gnaw away at him. Its not that he feels like he can't talk to you, in fact sometimes he lets things slip because he feels so comfortable around you, but quickly tries to put a positive spin on his words so that you don't worry. It's more that he feels he shouldn't, and that you have enough things to deal with as it is. He wants to be a safe space for you, so dealing with his emotions is out of the question. He never blows up at you because things get too far though, you just wish he could rely on you more.

Iida -

For the first while in your relationship, it almost felt like you lost your friendship with Iida. The lines between being friends and being a partner were extremely defined to Iida for some time, and he felt that every interaction between the two of you had to be so formally-relationshipy - this meant things such as only spending time with you on pre-scheduled dates, affection felt like ticking boxes on what was 'meant' to come next in a relationship, or not letting you see his deeper, darker times. Things do get better after some time and conversations, but it kinda felt like the first year of your relationship didn't really count.

Shinsou -

Shinsou feels like being with you is the most selfish act someone has ever committed. Sometimes he even thinks that, somehow in a way he doesn't know, he's forcing you to be with him. He feels like you can do so much better than him, but he loves you too much to let you go (not that you would anyway). He thinks that he doesnt treat you as well as you deserve and so he goes overboard to 'make things up to you', when in reality he's the most caring, selfless person you've met. He often brings up the idea of you finding someone else, or that you can cheat on him and he'll stay if that makes you happy, and it breaks your heart every time.

Aizawa -

Aizawa feels like everyone he truly lets in, he has lost, and he is terrified that's going to happen to you. So, he tries to keep his feelings and thoughts for you as surface-level as possible. The problem is that he's terrible at doing that - he has such a big heart and he wants you in every way imaginable, which creates a lot of inner conflict for him. One minute he's telling you everything weighing on his mind and letting himself fall deeper into you, and the next he's keeping you at arms length. He's scared to admit that he relies on you or that he needs you, but he does it anyway and it tears him apart inside.

Hawks -

He lies to you more times that he would like to admit. Well, it's more that he's very good about skirting around a question or situation rather than telling you the truth. There's some things in his life, his past, or his thoughts that he feels are best not being part of your life, and so he will tell you little lies and make adjustments to the truth to fit a narrative that he prefers. He wants to protect you from any negativity or darkness that he can - he knows what going through that feels like and he does not want you to have to feel that too, but mostly, and most selfishly, he's terrified of you thinking he's a bad person because of some actions he's had to take. It can be almost impossible to tell when he's lying or telling the truth because he's extremely open and upfront with other topics.

[vampiiraaa]

all steve wants to do is wash eddie's hair. not because it's dirty or anything, even though it probably is, it's more of a tactile thing. before they made it official, it was what he often caught himself staring at. longing for. steve just wants to appreciate it so badly. run his fingers through it, tell its owner how badly he loves it. how badly he loves him. so a few months into their relationship he finally asks if he can just commit a night to 'eddie hair time'.

eddie would do just about anything for steve, and who's he to turn down a bath with the hottest guy in town? especially when he still spends a good amount of time shocked that steve actually is his boyfriend now. so one sunday they settle into steve's huge bathtub and make a moment of it. between steve's absolute obsession with setting eddie's curls correctly and eddie inevitably flipping his wet hair back into steve's face- it's actually pretty fun.

so eddie pretty quickly asks to do the same for steve. steve brushes him off at first, citing his commitment to his famous hair routine. to be honest, steve is a little scared by the idea. by how vulnerable it feels. to opening himself up to being cared for so delicately. of course, he could do that for eddie, but accepting it for himself was a different story. eddie was beautiful, he deserved to have someone worsip him. steve didn't really feel like he deserved that in return. but eddie wants his turn, loving his man, so he pouts a little until steve agrees.

steve is prepared for eddie to be absolutely ridiculous about it (and slightly worried eddie's gonna use his 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash). but eddie isn't quite what he expected. he never really has been after all. and when it comes to hairwashing, there isn't any stupid prank or shitty shampoo. instead, eddie perfectly executes steve's hair routine. he uses every product and every technique he's seen. he does it gently, too, taking every moment to care for steve the way he deserves. when steve asks how he knows every step of his routine, eddie's answer is straightforward.

'i always pay attention to you sunshine, y'know i could watch you do anything'

steve has never felt more loved.

from then on, once a month, they make time to wash each other's hair.

[solxamber]

Receiving Gifts on White Day with: Savanaclaw

go here for other dorms

Leona Kingscholar

Leona is leaning against your doorframe like he’s been there for hours—which, knowing him, means he probably showed up ten minutes ago and decided waiting was too much effort. He’s got a small, hastily wrapped box in one hand and the absolute laziest expression on his face.

“Tch. You’re finally awake,” he drawls, tilting his head as if he wasn’t the one who decided to show up at an ungodly hour. “Took you long enough.”

You rub the sleep from your eyes, glancing at the box. “You’re one to talk. Did you just roll out of bed and come straight here?”

Leona smirks, tossing the box at you with a careless flick of his wrist. “What do you think?”

You barely catch it in time, noting the messily tied ribbon and the clear signs of last-minute effort. “Wow. Such romance. Did you bite this?”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “I don’t see you complaining.”

Curious, you open the box—and immediately pause. Inside is an assortment of high-quality chocolates, but tucked beneath them is… his scarf. The one he wears all the time. The one that still smells exactly like him.

Your heart stutters. “Leona, is this—?”

“Just take it,” he grumbles, looking off to the side. “If you’re gonna get all sentimental, at least do it quietly.”

Oh, he’s so embarrassed. You grin, stepping closer and very deliberately wrapping his scarf around your neck. “Guess I’ll have to wear this all the time now.”

His ears twitch. His tail flicks. And then—before you can react—he yanks you forward by the scarf, leaning in until his lips are just by your ear.

“You better,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerously smooth.

….You’re not surviving this day.

Ruggie Bucchi

The moment you open the door, Ruggie is already eating one of the chocolates meant for you.

“‘Morning, sweetpea,” he greets around a mouthful, grinning like he hasn’t just committed high treason.

You stare at him. Stare at the half-empty box in his hands. Stare harder.

“Ruggie.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you eating my White Day chocolates?”

He gasps—actually gasps—like you just falsely accused him of a crime. “Hey, c��mon. Ours. These are ours.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re literally eating them right now.”

Ruggie snickers, popping another one into his mouth before handing over what’s left of the box. “I was just making sure they weren’t poisoned! ‘Cause I love you and all.”

You take the box, scanning the tragic remains of what was probably very expensive chocolate. “I swear, I’m putting a lock on my snacks.”

“Pfft, like that’s gonna stop me.” Then—before you can react—he leans in and nuzzles his nose against your cheek, grinning against your skin. “Besides, don’t I deserve a little boyfriend tax for all my hard work?”

“What hard work?”

“Being this charming.”

You stare at him. Contemplate throwing a chocolate at his face. Instead, you pop one into your mouth and deliberately hum in satisfaction.

Ruggie immediately pouts. “Oiii, c’mon, don’t be mean—”

“Partner tax,” you say smugly.

His ears flick back. Then, with a very exaggerated sigh, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in.

“…Guess I’ll just have to earn some extra payment, huh?”

….You walked right into that one.

Jack Howl

Jack stands at your door, gripping a small box like it’s a life-or-death mission. His ears twitch, tail swishing slightly, as he very seriously presents his offering.

“Here,” he says gruffly, shoving it forward with concerning force.

You take it before he accidentally crushes it. “Jack, relax. It’s just White Day.”

He immediately stiffens. “I am relaxed.”

You squint. “You look like you’re about to fight someone.”

Jack sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… wanted to get it right.”

Oh.

You open the box and find neatly arranged chocolates—clearly homemade, slightly uneven but very carefully decorated. Your chest tightens. You pop one into your mouth, savoring the rich, slightly bitter flavor.

“They’re perfect,” you say honestly, watching as Jack’s tail wags before he can stop it.

“…Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.” Then, on impulse, you grab his collar and pull him close, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

Immediate system shutdown.

Jack freezes. His cheek turn scarlet. His tail spasms like a broken antenna.

“I—You—”

You grin. “Happy White Day, Jack.”

He covers his face with both hands. He's never gonna recover from this.

You win.

Masterlist

[lovscb97]

tags: nerd!bang chan x cheerleader!fem!reader, inexperienced chan, experienced reader, kissing, slight corruption kink, kinda toxic relationship, oral sex (f. receiving), face-sitting, exhibitionism lowkey (they’re in a locker room), nicknames (channie, baby, pretty boy), angst kinda?, porn with some plot, etc

wc: 2.06k

add. notes: these previews kilt me. they Kilt Me. therefore i present to u face-sitting with nerd chan. it's not entirely pwp but enjoy anyways :3

nerd!chan pt. 2 / nerd!chan headcannons / drabble #1

. . . 

you’re not quite sure how you got here, honestly. one moment, you’re out at cheer practice with your girls, doing complicated stunts and diligently rehearsing the rigorous routines outlined for the upcoming game, all with your coach blowing her whistle every other minute of course. but the next? 

you’re in a stuffy locker room making out with the captain of the mathletes team as he pants against your mouth, begging you for more.

it started off with a simple favour— you needed somebody to help you get your grades up after missing one too many classes, and chan was the best in the year; naturally, you asked for his assistance. he’d gone wide in the eyes and red in the face when you’d walked up to him after your shared lecture, leaving you biting back a laugh at the way he stuttered over his words over the prospect of teaching you, even refusing at first. to your fortunate pleasure however, you convinced him to agree in the end, which is how you ended up at your first session in his house, crammed together on his childhood bed and eyeing the walls of his room littered with spelling bee awards and academic medals from various competitions. 

somehow down the line of those little sessions, you and chan grew closer, bonding over your shared love for movies and hidden local diners in your city, and the first time you hung out with him outside of the guise of studying at those very local diners, you found yourselves grinding against each other in the backseat of his beatdown car. you still remember the way he fumbled over himself, red ears burning and big doe eyes blinking up at you as you kissed him, albeit awkward with his lack of expertise but still sweet in the way he held you close to him. you suppose that’s where your little ‘sessions’ turned into a special type of studying, and where this charade began to unfold as your dirty secret.

which brings you back to now. 

“need.. need you.” chan huffs, pulling away momentarily from messily locking his lips with yours as you breathe heavily against him. you blink for a moment as if processing his words, and a cheeky smile spreads across your face slowly as you take in his disheveled hair and blown out features. “yeah? what do you need, pretty boy?” you tease, trailing a single finger across his pale skin to trace the outline of his collarbone, feeling him shiver under your touch as a low whine escapes his mouth. 

“need to taste you.” he mumbles shyly, and you coo at the way he hangs his head low as if he’s embarrassed to admit it, hooking a finger under his chin to get a look at his slightly teary eyes. when they finally make contact with yours, you can’t help but smile softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips that has your insides positively melting. 

sometimes you realise that despite his enthusiasm in engaging with you, chan is just a soft-spoken boy. he’s so untouched and pure that it makes you want to absolutely break him, to taint that perfect image he’s put on and quite literally corrupt him to become your toy. amidst that realisation, it also dawns on you that one day he’ll come to terms with the fact that this isn’t what he deserves, that this isn’t how he should be enjoying his firsts with someone who doesn’t even have the nerve to commit to him and how he’ll move on sooner or later to find somebody better that can give him what he wants without needing to hide it. the mere thought of it always leaves your stomach swirling in bitterness and disgust, but you swallow the lump it creates at the back of your throat because those are feelings you’re yet not ready to confront, and for now, if this is what you can have, then this is what you’ll take.

“and how do you want me?” you ask lowly, taking chan’s hand in yours and placing it on your waist, feeling the way he bunches up the fabric of your cheer outfit in his palm. “tell me.” you murmur. “tell me and i’ll give it all to you.”

“want you to sit my face.” he gasps out, hooded eyes staring at you as the words leave his mouth, and suddenly all your self restraint is snapping in half. before you know it, you’re yanking him by the collar of his brown jacket, smashing your lips together once more and swallowing the squeak of surprise that leaves him. the kiss is desperate, and wet, and sloppy, but neither of you care about it or the fact that anyone could walk in and see you both, far too lost in each other to give much of a damn. 

“get on the bench.” you demand once you’ve retracted yourself from him, chan’s wide pupils searching yours to see if you’re serious. when you don’t say anything or move, he’s immediately scrambling for his balance and toppling back onto the wooden structure, drawing a small giggle from you that has his insides tightening and jeans straining. 

“wait!” he blurts out as you move to hook your fingers into your skirt, swallowing when you raise an eyebrow at him. “keep it on.” he whispers, and you swear your heart stops beating right then and there. you nod slowly after a while in understanding, because that’s all you fear you can manage without actually jumping his bones in that moment. 

“lay on your back.” you quietly instruct, and chan eagerly follows like a puppy taking orders from its owner. he yelps when his snapback falls off his head at the angle he’s at, but you’re quick to catch it, pushing it back onto his curls with a wink as you straddle his face. “keep it on.” you mimic his words from earlier, chuckling at the way his cheeks flush pink at your response because by god, he was far too cute for his own good. 

“wait a minute,” chan’s eyes widen when he at last focuses his attention on you and gets a glimpse of your drenched core. “were you.. were you not wearing anything under your skirt?” he questions cautiously, nearly choking when you merely shrug. “i like easy access.” a devious smirk journeys across your face when you answer him, and chan has to bite back a moan at the idea of you parading around commando all day. his imagination doesn’t get the chance to run too wild, because by the time he can even register what’s happening, you’re already lowering yourself onto his awaiting mouth, groans leaving the two of you at the fact that you’re both finally, finally getting what you’ve been waiting for all day.

“fuck,” chan curses into you, and you hiss at the way his words rumble deep in his chest and travel through your core. “fuck, fuck, fuck.” he breathes out once more, swiping through your folds hysterically as your taste invades his senses. you’re everywhere, in his mind, his mouth, even his soul, especially from the way you begin to slowly rock yourself back and forth on his wet muscle. he swears he might die a happy man today when he feels your thighs smothering him on each side, hands moving up to grip the plush of them before he’s sticking his tongue out and letting you ride it.

“how are you so good at this?” you laugh to yourself in disbelief, biting your lip at the way his nose bumps against your clit perfectly each time he lets you move yourself against him. chan merely grunts in response, too engrossed in eating you out to even answer, and when he pulls you down to suck on your swollen bundle of nerves, you swear you see stars. the only thing heard in the isolated locker room you’re currently going at it in by now are the lewd slurps coming from his mouth along with your whimpers, which only get higher in pitch the more he continues to eat at you.

“so damn good.” chan keens. “so fucking wet, and sweet too.” his words only spur you on further, and before you know it, the telltale signs of your orgasm are creeping up on you. chan shows no signs of stopping though, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises and pulling you impossibly further down on his mouth to the point you feel like you actually might suffocate him. he doesn’t care, of course, he’d die a happy man to be smothered by your perfect cunt.

“channie, baby, wait.” you cry out softly when he envelops your engorged nub in his mouth and laves his tongue over it repeatedly, moaning obscenely against your pussy. “‘m gonna cum if you do that, wait, wait.” chan in fact does not wait, only speeding up his movements and continuing to lick at you until you’re shaking through the familiar waves of pleasure, a silent scream falling from your lips as you spray warm and wet on his tongue. it drips down his chin and your inner thighs, but neither of you care with you buzzing in overstimulation from the way chan continues to suck at you through the shocks, and him with you cumming on his tongue so pretty. 

by the time you’re done, he’s still going at it, and it takes you gripping his hair and weakly standing up from his mouth to get chan to finally stop. when you look down at him from your awkward position, the lower half of his face glistens back at you, his plump lips and pretty features wet with your arousal and juices, prompting you to bite back a moan. you swing your leg over and shakily stand, petting your skirt down to get rid of the creases as chan sits up, still looking like he ascended to another dimensional plane. he’s rock hard in his boxers by now, cock painfully straining against his jeans, but he can’t find it in himself to get you to help him out.

“well,” you clear your throat after a moment of silence. “i should get going.” chan’s heart sinks in his chest at your words, and it must show in his expression too because you can’t seem to meet his eyes with the way your gaze stays locked on your twiddling fingers. “they’re probably wondering where i’ve been, so..” you trail off, trying to find a way to excuse yourself despite your mind screaming at you to do otherwise.

“yeah.” chan curses internally at the way his voice cracks. “yeah, you should go.” the sentence comes out more bitter than he intends it to, but he can’t help it. a part of him wants you to feel guilty for just up and leaving without even delving into what this is, what it could mean and become if you just allowed yourself to let it do so, but he’s come to learn that he just can’t expect that from you at this point. so, he doesn’t, instead choosing to wave bye as you sheepishly make your way outside the locker room to the field. once you’re out of sight, he sighs heavily, covering his face with his hands before flopping back down on the bench, his mind racing with thoughts. 

because the simple fact is that chan knows. he knows you’re oh so out of his league, and you would’ve been miles away from his reach either way had it not been for the fact that you stopped him one random thursday afternoon to ask if he could help you out in economics 101. and yet, a part of him still longs for you, longs for your presence and the way you bat your eyelashes at him when he scolds you for getting a question wrong. he longs for the way your perfume wafts in his direction when you pass him in the hallways, ignoring his existence like you both weren’t tangled up in each other’s embrace the night before. even though his heart hurts so painfully, even though his friends all say you’re bad for him, even though he knows himself how bad you are for him, he doesn’t care. 

for him, it’s always going to be you.

. . . 

comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[cantpickyourgenre]

I believe Bobby is coming back from the dead because I think we deserve to live in a world where Kenneth Choi gets to act his ass off by playing a simultaneously relieved/joyous and angry/furious Chimney, who feels like he has to thank Bobby, but also scream at him until his throat is sore because it wasn't fair to make that decision! he's going to say they should have played rock, paper, scissors and Bobby will chuckle because he thinks he's joking like silly haha Chimney, but Chimney is like "no, we should have discussed it, you died and I didn't even get to say thank you. you died and I owed you a debt I didn't even know about. you let me carry that" and he has to wrestle with the guilt of knowing that Bobby would do that for him, not just theoretically, but actual concrete proof that Bobby would die to save him. which they all know on some surface level that they'd die for one another, but it feels like such a far-off concept until it isn't. but Chimney also has to deal with the gratitude because Chimney is also so incredibly thankful that he didn't die. every step of the way he wanted Ravi, Bobby, Buck, and Athena to commit crimes, because he loves his life and he wants to keep living it. he's so overjoyed that he got to go home to his wife and kid, and that comes with its own guilt because how can he be so happy to be home when Bobby DIED. does that make him a monster? that on some level he's HAPPY that Bobby did that? and now he has to FACE Bobby. so he tries to be the Before Chimney who gets people whimsical gifts, but how do you give someone balloons about choosing your life over theirs? and he spirals because he's different now and Bobby is here and he has so so much he wants to say but all of it feels contradictory and unfair and he would normally go to Bobby for advice. so he does. he goes to Bobby and he says "what would you do, if you were in my position?" and Bobby just says "whatever you need to say or feel, I understand" and that just makes Chimney even more upset because what he needs is for none of this to have ever happened. its like they all got a re-do, but kept the memories and the feelings and now he has nowhere appropriate to put them. anyway, Bobby lives and we get Chimney angst yay <3 forever and ever.

[kxsagi]

hihi i LOVE LOVE LOVE your writing sm i’ve read basically all of them 😭🩷

i saw a video of a wife asking her husband “if i die and you remarry, when you die will you be buried next to me or your new wife?”

if you can, can you do this w the bllk guys??

if you can’t, just ignore this 🫶

“𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐨 𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭… 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞”

a/n: THANK YOUUUUU

I LOVE YOUR IDEAS, THIS ATE ❤️

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, karasu tabito, hiori yo, shidou ryusei, ness alexis, bachira meguru

isagi yoichi

“... why are you asking me this at 3 AM while i’m brushing my teeth?” 

poor guy was not prepared. he’s literally got a toothbrush in his mouth and you drop this philosophical bomb on him like it’s nothing. 

he spits out the toothpaste mid-choke. 

“first of all, why are you dead?! second of all, who the hell is this imaginary wife?! i’m gonna die alone, crying at your grave like a loser–” 

gets way too emotional way too fast. now you’re trying to comfort him 😭 

“you think i’m gonna love anyone enough to be buried next to them? no. i’ll be buried next to you or not at all. plot twist, i fake my death and move in next to your grave in a tent.” 

now you’re crying. he’s crying. the dog is crying. you guys are unwell. 

itoshi sae

“wtf kind of question is that.” 

stares at you like you just asked him if he’d eat his next wife’s toenails. 

“i’m not getting married again. why would i? you’re the only one i liked enough to commit to. anyone else is annoying.” 

you’re on the verge of tears. 

“also, my ghost will haunt anyone who tries to touch my corpse. you think i’d share a burial plot? nah. i’m getting cremated and mixed into your ashes. now we’re both in the same damn urn. problem solved.” 

so specific. so dramatic. so him. 

kaiser michael

“babe, why are you asking me questions like this when i’m literally shirtless and vulnerable.” 

immediately panics because he knows it’s a lose-lose question. 

tries to joke it off: “i’ll get buried between you and my new wife like a sexy grave sandwich.” 

silence. 

“... i was kidding. obviously.” 

starts overthinking and imagining fake future scenarios where you’re not there and he’s an old man crying into a photo of you. 

“actually, scratch that. if you die, i die, too. dramatic romantic death pact. like romeo and juliet. except with no poison because that sounds horrible.” 

writes a will that says: “bury me with my first wife or don’t bury me at all.” 

adds a dramatic drawing of him weeping at your grave. 

itoshi rin

stops. mid-bite. mid-breath. mid-thought. 

blinks slowly. 

“why would i remarry.” 

says it like it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. 

“you think i’m going through the agony of dating again? of being emotionally vulnerable again? of pretending to like someone’s jokes again? “i’d rather get hit by a truck and be buried face down in a ditch.” 

you’re like “you wouldn’t even consider it?” 

he scoffs. “you don’t get it. if you die, that’s it. i’m done. there’s no part two.” 

and then – 

“also if they try to bury me next to someone else, i’m coming back to life out of pure spite. i will haunt the graveyard. i will throw dirt at people.” 

writes in his will: “bury me next to her or i will make hell your problem.” 

nagi seishiro

“mm… can i just respawn and be buried next to you in my next life? “i don’t wanna do all that extra marriage stuff again. sounds tiring.” 

he literally says he’ll just build a house in the afterlife and wait for you to show up like it’s minecraft. 

also casually mentions he’ll put a “no girls allowed” sign if anyone else tries to flirt with him in heaven 😭 

“besides, you’re the only one who puts up with me. no one else deserves to be my ghost neighbor.” 

he’d get cremated and request his ashes be sprinkled on top of your coffin like parmesan cheese. romantic. 

mikage reo

“what kind of scenario is this?? are we in a soap opera??” 

pulls out powerpoint. 

“as you can see from slide three, i will never remarry. slide four shows the customized gravestone that already has our names on it. and slide five is just a meme, but it felt relevant.” 

has already purchased side-by-side burial plots “just in case.” 

“i don’t care how old i get, you’re it for me. if you die first, i’m still sending you memes from the afterlife.” 

you’re like this was supposed to be a joke – 

“it’s not a joke. i planned the playlist for our funeral already.” 

chigiri hyoma

“buried next to my new wife? i’d rather be buried next to my shampoo collection.” 

looks offended you even implied he’d remarry. 

“you think i’m letting someone else call me ‘babe’? disgusting.” 

he’s genuinely more upset about the idea of someone else trying to take your spot than his own death. 

“if you go first, i’m turning into an emotionally unavailable old man who only wears black and listens to sad playlists.” 

“actually, i’ll just haunt you and wait till you die, too. make it quick.” 

karasu tabito

“wait so in this AU, you’re dead, i’m alive, i remarry, and then i die? what kinda fanfiction timeline are we on rn.” 

immediately starts teasing. 

“so you're saying you're gonna let another woman have me? wow. fake.” “ANSWER THE QUESTION.” “obviously i’d be buried next to you. but now i’m wondering if my new wife would be hot–” 

you throw a pillow at him. 

“OKAY OKAY IT’S YOU. IT’S ALWAYS YOU. i’d get a second grave next to you just in case mine filled up with too many dramatic sobs.” 

writes his own tombstone message: “don’t worry babe, i got buried next to you.” 

hiori yo

visibly stressed by the moral dilemma. 

“wait. would you want me buried next to you if i remarried? would that be disrespectful?? would it hurt your ghost feelings??” 

bro thinks this is an ethics class discussion. 

you’re like “hiori, i just wanted to hear you say it’s me 😭” 

“oh. then yes. obviously you. i’d get a whole graveyard if i had to. you get the nicest spot. she gets the ditch.” 

writes it in his will just to be sure: “under no circumstances will i be buried next to anyone but her.” 

draws a little heart in the margins and everything. 

shidou ryusei

“ohhh we’re doing hypothetical trauma bonding? i’m in.” 

you ask the question. he goes quiet. 

“babe. i will punch my way out of the coffin if they try to bury me next to anyone else. you think this is a joke? i will haunt the mortician.” 

“bury me next to you or yeet me into a volcano. your choice.” 

gets weirdly romantic and intense about it. 

“also i’m not remarrying. no one else is mentally unwell enough to match my energy anyway.” 

shidou’s ghost would 100% be floating around your grave with sunglasses like “still hotter than your average corpse.” 

ness alexis

gasps. like full dramatic GASP, hand on chest, almost drops his skincare bottle. 

“YOU DIED?! AND I WAS STUPID ENOUGH TO REMARRY?” 

looks personally betrayed by this made-up scenario. 

“why would you even say that?! my whole aesthetic would be RUINED without you!” 

paces around like he’s in a soap opera. 

“no offense to future imaginary wife, but i’d pay extra to be buried next to you, in the prettier coffin, with a better outfit. she can be buried in the clearance section for all i care.” 

already has funeral outfits picked out for the two of you. matching. with pearls. 

“if i die first, i’m gonna request a full gothic candlelit shrine next to your side of the bed so you never forget who the original wife was.” 

will be so passive-aggressive in the afterlife. 

bachira meguru

“ooooh spooky question ~ i like it!” 

he thrives on unhinged hypotheticals. 

“hmm okay okay… if i die, and you die, and i remarry, and then i die again– wait no, i’m confusing myself.” 

10 minutes later: “okay, i figured it out! i’m getting buried next to you AND the new wife. but the twist is: you rise from the grave and fight her for graveyard dominance.” 

you’re just staring at him like ??? 

“jk jk jk 😚 obviously i’m getting buried next to you! in a cute grave with smiley face carvings and sunflowers.” 

“also i’m gonna build a little ghost house on your grave and throw ghost parties there until you show up again.” 

“do you think ghosts can cuddle?” 

bro turns your emotional trap question into a horror-comedy date night. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[bueckersworld]

౨ৎ headcanons for jealous!bsf!paige

౨ৎ WARNING(S): sfw + suggestive ish, cheating, territoriality, possessive!paige, cocky!paige

info. masterlist. taglist.

────୨ৎ────

౨ৎ — paige always sits next to you, even when your boyfriend’s around — she’ll slide into the spot like it’s hers by default, daring him to say something.

—. your boyfriend makes space for you on the couch, but before you can sit, paige slides into the spot next to him, flashing him a teasing smile. “you mind?” she asks, already settling in. he freezes. you just watch, amused.

౨ৎ — she interrupts your conversations with him constantly, pretending it’s casual, but her eyes flick to him every time like she’s daring him to protest.

౨ৎ — if he makes you cry, even once, paige goes radio silent—except to show up at your door, hoodie on, hands in her pockets, jaw tight, like she’s deciding between comforting you or committing a felony.

—. your phone buzzes with his apology, but it’s too late. there’s a knock on your door. you open it to find paige standing there, hoodie pulled low, jaw clenched. “you okay?” she asks quietly, her eyes flicking to the tear-streaked mess of you. she doesn’t wait for an answer, stepping inside, pulling you into a tight hug and closing the door with her foot.

౨ৎ — when you’re out as a group, she subtly puts her hand on your lower back, guiding you through crowds like you belong to her.

౨ৎ — she always introduces you as “my girl” to new people, and if someone raises a brow at that, she doesn’t correct them. you’re at a party with paige, and she’s introducing you to a group of new people.

—. “this is my girl,” paige says casually, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. someone raises an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you. paige just smirks and shrugs, her grip tightening slightly. “what? got a problem with that?” they stay quiet. you feel a thrill of heat rush through you.

౨ৎ — if he texts you while you’re with her, she gets visibly annoyed, watching you respond like every second you’re not focused on her is an insult.

౨ৎ — she glares at him when he makes you wait on replies, then messages you right after with: you deserve someone who actually gives a shit

౨ৎ — when he forgets something important, she shows up with it instead — your favorite snack, a charger, your hoodie — always acting like someone had to do it.

౨ৎ — if you ever fight with him, she’s at your door in twenty minutes, hoodie and all, smirking like she’s been waiting for her chance.

౨ৎ — paige gets weirdly quiet when you mention sleeping over at his place — but when you crash at hers, she makes the couch magically “unavailable.”

—

౨ৎ — she lowers her voice when she’s close to you, whispering things like, “he doesn’t make you blush like i do, huh?” — just to see your reaction.

౨ৎ — you once joked about her being jealous, and she deadpanned: “yeah, because watching him waste you makes me fucking crazy.”

౨ৎ — she offers to “show you what it’s supposed to feel like” after hearing your boyfriend was a little too lazy in bed — her tone isn’t joking.

—. “so, how’d it go last night?” she asks, her voice lower than usual, the casual question laced with something else. “you know… with him?” you shrug, trying to play it off, but your fingers curl around your glass, memories of his lackluster touches still fresh. “same old. he’s… lazy.” paige chuckles, but it’s dark, almost knowing. she steps a little closer, her breath warm on your ear. “you deserve someone who knows how to treat you, baby. someone who actually gets it.” her lips brush your ear as she adds, “i could show you what it’s supposed to feel like, if you wanted.” your pulse quickens, the words hitting deeper than they should.

౨ৎ — paige grabs your jaw when you avoid her gaze, lifting your chin and saying, “don’t look away from me like that. you know i mean it.”

౨ৎ — when you’re tipsy and clinging to her at a party, she lets you, leaning in close and whispering in your ear, “tell him you’re sleeping at mine tonight.”

౨ৎ — she watches you get ready for a date with him, eyes trailing your body, then mutters, “shame you’re wasting that dress on someone who won’t appreciate it.”

౨ৎ — you once caught her staring at your lips for way too long. she didn’t even flinch — just said, “what, you want me to stop pretending?”

౨ৎ — when you stay over, she always finds a reason for you to share her bed — and somehow ends up pressed behind you, arm slung low on your waist.

౨ৎ — one time she adjusted your necklace and let her fingers drag down your collarbone, slow and intentional, like she was memorizing how soft your skin was.

౨ৎ — one day, she just says it — low, frustrated, and right in your face: “you’re mine, and he’s just borrowing what he doesn’t even know how to hold.”

© bueckersworld

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ HEY GUYS. long time no see, *tuck hair behind ear.*

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

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[misstycloud]

[Yandere.Rich man x ballerina reader]

(I don’t actually know much about ballet so forgive me if things are incorrect!)

—————

Rich. Yandere who was pestered by his friend and his wife to join them at the opera house and enjoy a performance. The couple had asked him numerous times before but he’d always declined. He was a workaholic and didn’t have any other commitments, so there was no need to break his routine. Although he would never admit it to anyone- he barely does to himself- he often find himself imagining a different life; one where he had a wife to welcome him home every evening. Perhaps a few children too. There was no sound besides himself and the staff in his home, it would be so very nice to hear the noise of running feet and happy chatter echo through the empty halls.

Rich. Yandere who is lonely above all else. His family is dead and he has next to no friends- the only one he has is married and devote all his time to keep him company. He knows that he doesn’t have the best track-record of being the kindest person in the world, and he might not be the friendliest or the most out-going, still, doesn’t he deserve some love too?

Rich. Yandere who eventually give into his friends demand and goes with them to the opera. As they took their seats- the expensive and best ones, of course- his friends wife babble on about her favourite dancer. They were regulars there and had seen many performances. He simply sighed and leaned back into his seat, waiting for the show to begin. He could only hope that it’ll be somewhat enjoyable since he doesn’t like wasting his time.

Rich. Yandere who was prepared for it to be a dreadful 3 hours, rubbing his eyes and suffering from lack of blood-flow in his legs. Oh how wrong he was. Instantly his gaze zoomed into you as soon as you stepped forward from behind the curtain. You were so beautiful and you moved your body gracefully to the music. It was magical. While he knew close to nothing about ballet, he knew that the point of it were for the women to look like they’re floating, and it’s exactly what you were doing.

Rich. Yandere who is instantly enamoured with you. As someone who’s never felt love this was all a brand new experience for him. He asked his friend and his wife if they knew who you were, since they frequent the opera so much. And turns out the wife did know who you were; you were her favourite after all. Rich. Yandere was never close with her or particularly liked her even, but he had to give it to her: she has excellent taste in performers.

Rich. Yandere who starts looking up information regarding you. It’s be your name, age, background, family, where you went to school and where you live. Everything. He also begins donating a lot of money to the opera house. In a short amount of time he’s become their nr.1 funder. The managers and owners are ecstatic at the news! They ask why he’s so generous and he simply answers that he loves culture and thinks it’s important it doesn’t disappear. Then, they wonder if there is anything they can do for him return, to which he smiles in response.

“Well, I do suppose there is one dancer I would be delighted to meet in person.”

Rich. Yandere who you feel uncomfortable around. He is so strange. You were just a normal ballerina, a dancer, no better or worse than anyone before your time. That’s why you can’t fathom the interest this wealthy man has taken in you. You two came form completely different worlds! But what can you do when your bosses not-so-gently urge you to see this man alone? You dont have any other skills and can’t apply to another job if you get fired.

Rich. Yandere who is determined to make you fall for him the way he has fallen for you. He’ll take care of you, love you and protect you. You don’t have to worry about a thing. He will do anything for his love.

“Don’t be scared, just keep on dancing, my little dancer.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Sibling shit Dante and Vergil defiantly did do: a volume by a stressed and perpetually tired you from dealing with twins who share a brain cell when in proximity to each other:

Dante would get bored of reading his magazines, go to vergil’s room, stand in the doorway until his brother looks up from his book only to see that Dante was flipping him off with the smuggest grin on his face before leaving the room.

Vergil retaliates by doing the same shit not even five minutes later by standing in front of Dante’s room, waits for him to look up from his magazines, only to flip him off with the most deadpan expression and stabbing him with a sword and leaving without a word.

You were there for both instances in a referees outfit and a whistle incase you had to facilitate a fight and keep count on who was winning, you weren’t helping but this was better then saying ‘I’m not your babysitter, please stop asking me to referee your fights because neither of you can count and leave me in peace from your chaotic bullshit.’

While they might not like what the other eats, but they will wholeheartedly eat the others food when extremely petty.

Vergil ate half of Dante’s pizza because he wouldn’t give his book back, grimacing at the greasy and fatty food but has too much pride and continues to commit to the bit.

Dante eats whatever the hell Vergil had -if he ever eats- whenever he felt like pissing him off, he does this shit for the love of the game and it shows very evidently.

Asking you who the favourite sibling is; NEVER GET INTO THIS WITH THEM, it’s never fun seeing a half demon sulk like a child when you insinuate that you like one more then the other, it’s honestly the most stressful thing you’ve ever been put through and the worst thing was; no one was gonna help you out of it, you were on your own. Using the ‘I like the both of you equally’ doesn’t work, it’s a cop out to them both.

If there was an instance you favoured Vergil over Dante, then Dante would pout and huff as he stands in the corner and loudly question what he did to deserve this cruel, cruel fate all the while looking over you at times to see if you’d come for him. He’s a loud whiner and make it everyone’s problem, probably overused the phrase ‘I dunno ask Vergil since you like him more then me’

If you favoured Dante over Vergil, this man was silent as his face gave nothing away, but his actions were like that of a little kid trying to guilt trip you into feeling bad about not getting them candy when you should’ve. He’s not sharing his books with you, he’s not sharing his makeshift study with you, he pretty much withholds everything from you until you retract your statement even if you haven’t said it aloud. Huff and puff too but don’t tell him that Dante does the same thing, just don’t.

These were two fully grown men, powerful men and yet whenever they were within the vicinity of each other, they were children again and whenever they couldn’t come to a conclusion, these two powerful men would come to you like a pair of little ducks who’ve imprinted on a random stranger.

You weren’t getting paid to basically babysit two overgrown half demons, it wasn’t your job description, but it might as well have becuase everyone should be fucking thanking you that these two weren’t brawling out on the streets. You were basically pulling them both away from each other by their coat tails and saying ‘come on, keep it moving, we’re not fighting here there’s too many casualties and we don’t get paid enough to make the reparations needed after one of your fights.’

You love them both, you really do, but the moment someone calls you when you were away saying ‘I know you’re on holiday but-‘ you knew Dante or Vergil or both were too much for that sorry soul to handle and you were forced to cut your vacation short and come home to reign in the chaos twins with a simple ‘what are you two doing!?’

They’re smart, charismatic, strong, the pinnacle of what a half demon should be and talented within their own fields, but they lack caution and care when paired together and that spelt out trouble for whoever was on the receiving end because after all they were two siblings who loved to fight one another. You could easily see the care in the other’s eyes, but knew they’d never say it, so they let the fighting talk instead.

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part one)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

author’s note thank you to this anon!! this fic deviates from canon. timeline is s2 when rafe is at his most unhinged.

» masterlist

disclaimer there is no explicit s/xual assault scene in this story, but it is referenced and the trauma that comes with surviving it is explored. it is committed by an original character. when writing this, i pulled from personal experience, so please be mindful that if you comment, do not engage in any victim-blaming as it is triggering to me and others.

·········

In a single harrowing moment, you’ve learned that there’s truth to the expression that the enemy of your enemy can be your friend.

Rafe looks all too comfortable holding a gun. The rage coursing through you is deafening, persuading you that the person he’s pointing it at deserves to die.

And then, you utter the words rising in your throat.

“Do it.”

╰┈➤ two days earlier

Your shifts at the country club are a repetitive motion of driving over the golf course’s hills, handing the island’s wealthiest people their overpriced drinks, and accepting their money with a fake smile.

The job was always a predictable bore. Until a week ago, when you started seeing a familiar face.

The moment Rafe’s eyes landed on you and he realized that one of the Pogues he revels in berating is the new cart girl, his lips twitched into a smirk.

Every time you see him, he does the same thing. He orders a beer and says here you go, sweetheart when he tips you.

It’s always a fifty. No other club member gives you nearly this much. It’s like he loves reminding you that this type of money is pocket change to him.

Every time you serve him, you subdue your glare and take the crisp bill that sits between his fingers, wondering why even though the man is an arrogant asshole, you can’t stop staring at him.

You feel weak for not hating him all the way. You can’t help that over the years of your tense, sporadic interactions, a part of you has always wondered if he feels the same pull of attraction that you do.

You have to remind yourself of who he is. A man committed to letting everyone know how much better he thinks he is because he was lucky enough to be born into money. He’s heartless. And you can’t wait for the day that you finally rid yourself of this fixation you have for him.

It’s a sunny Thursday afternoon at the end of a long shift and you’re parked by one of the paved pathways on the course, recording your last transaction in your logbook.

You hear the familiar whirring of a cart passing by. It stops. You don’t think much of it until you hear his voice.

“We’ll take two beers,” he calls from behind the steering wheel. You look up to see him. Rafe.

“I’m obviously off duty,” you reply curtly, looking between him and his friend.

“What, so you can write in your diary, but you can’t give us some drinks?” he calls.

“It’s a logbook,” you reply coldly. “It’s called having–”

You flatten your lips together, trying to control yourself.

“Having…?” he challenges. The mocking tone of his voice is what makes you snap.

“A job,” you reply. “Not everyone can live off of daddy’s money.”

Rafe huffs a laugh, a wisp of amusement flashing on his face.

“Careful, Pogue,” he says. “What’ll your boss say if he knows that’s how you’re talking to me?”

“I’m off the clock, Kook,” you say the label with the same vitriol. “I can talk however I want.”

You close your book and start up your cart before he can irritate you any more. Even though there’s something aggravatingly magnetic about him, you refuse to allow him to taunt you any longer.

·········

You meet up with your friends on the beach that evening, zoning out as the three of them chatter around you, passing a joint you brought.

You stare ahead at the soft waves under the setting sun, thinking of Rafe’s cold stare, thinking of the smirk he seems to always have etched on his face reserved especially for you, thinking of how you wish your body would catch up with your mind because how can you dislike somebody this much but also be so attracted to them?

“Who’s your plug?” JJ asks, seemingly impressed. He pulls you out of your daze as he passes you the joint. Smoke curls out of the end of it, twisting in the wind.

“That guy, Porter,” you say flatly. You take a puff, thinking back to the shaggy-haired Kook who approached you at a party on the north side of the island the other night, offering you half the price on your first buy.

He also tried to convince you to try something harder, but you told him you’re sticking to pot. You weren’t about to get hooked on coke, especially not because a drug-dealing Kook wants to take more of your money.

You continue to stare ahead, passing the joint along.

“What a trust fund kid name,” JJ laughs. “Fuckin’ Porter.”

Your friends chuckle around you, but you continue to stare ahead.

“Hard day at the office?” he says in response to your absentmindedness. You meet JJ’s gaze, shaking your head as if to dismiss your own thoughts.

“Rafe is such an asshole,” you say.

“What’d he do this time?” Pope asks. Your friends await your response, already well aware of your history with the bullshit you’ve ever had to deal with at work lately.

“He said something about ratting me out to my boss for talking back to him,” you reply. You scoff, getting mad all over again. You need to pull yourself out of this funk. “Whatever. All I do is complain about him. He’s not worth it. This is the last time you’ll ever hear me talk about him. I mean it.”

You make an effort to join in your friends’ conversations, feeling guilty that you’re so spaced out. With parents who never give you much attention at all, the guys surrounding you are your family. Your brothers. They deserve better than to hear you ramble on about Rafe.

Rafe’s eyes travel over the silhouettes sitting along the darkening shoreline when he arrives at the beach with his friends.

It’s the sound of his pick-up truck’s door shutting that gets your attention. You look over your shoulder. Then, you glance away, indifference on your face.

It pisses him off. Rafe has always craved what he can’t have. Power. Self-control. You. Every time he talks to you, you act like he’s such a bother, a sharp thorn in your side.

You get under his skin. And he’s never wanted a girl this bad. A goddamn Pogue of all people. Something about you lures him in. It makes him want to see what really lies behind the irritation that burns in your eyes every time he speaks to you.

He needs to crack your armor. And he has always loved a challenge.

As the beach populates, the division between the Kooks and the Pogues is clear, as if an invisible line is drawn in the sand. He stays on his side, you stay on yours.

When night falls, you and your friends have all smoked through the entire joint, and you’re a bit buzzed but not nearly as high as you’d like to be.

You spot Porter by the shoreline, drinking with his friends, and dust the sand off your knees when you stand up.

“I’m gonna go buy some more,” you say to your friends.

“Going into enemy territory?” JJ asks.

“It’s nothing new to me,” you laugh. “I work in enemy territory, remember?”

“You need company? Or cash?” John B asks.

“All good. My treat,” you say. “I’m loaded with tips.”

You don’t mention that a majority of the money in your pocket is from Rafe.

As you approach the boisterous group, you cross your arms and feign confidence. In reality, being around these types has always put you on edge.

Kooks give off a sense of invincibility, almost impunity, like predators at the top of the food chain, perpetually safe from harm and always on the brink of inflicting it.

You notice Rafe’s stare on you from his place in the large group and your stomach twists. Your eyes flit off of him and you wonder how it’s possible to wish someone would stay away but also so deeply crave they’d come closer.

Truthfully, within the tangled way he makes you feel, you’re kind of scared of Rafe, too. He’s reckless and unpredictable. And yet, that side of him excites you. There’s a complexity to him that has an inescapable effect on you.

“You holding?” you ask Porter once you approach him. He’s one of the few Kooks you don’t mind so much. He doesn’t have the cold air of arrogance that you’re so used to.

“It’s good shit, isn’t it?” he says with a smile. “How much you want?”

You leaf through the bills in your hand.

“Just a joint,” you say. The waves crash behind you, almost drowning your voice out. You make the exchange and push through the crowd, eager to get back to your friends.

You thought you managed to get away without any complications, but two words stop you.

“You lost?”

You turn to see Rafe, overwhelming heat rushing through you as he closes the distance between you, towering over you as the breeze brushes his hair over his forehead.

“What, ‘cause I’m on your side of the beach?” you mutter. “Grow up.”

Rafe smirks. He gets such a kick out of fucking with the Pogues. Especially you.

“Is that what you’re spending my tips on?” he asks, eyes darting down to the joint in your hand.

“Yeah,” you answer. “You can tell your father I say thanks.”

Rafe’s mouth curls into a bigger smile. When he looks at you like that, like he wants to be around you, you wonder if he secretly enjoys your company.

“How long you been buying from him?” Rafe asks.

“Why?” you say. The way you glare at him makes every muscle in his body tense. He’d be an idiot to deny how attracted he is to you. “You gonna tell my boss?”

“It was a fucking joke,” he mutters with a laugh. “You Pogues all have sticks up your asses, I swear.”

You grit your teeth. He’s clearly pleased when he riles you up like this. You don’t understand how somebody could be so spiteful.

“What do you want, Rafe?” you say.

Silence settles between you, the chattering of people on either side of the beach intertwined in the air, an overlap of worlds far apart. He reminds himself that he has something important to ask you.

“Did he offer you anything else?” he says. You’ve already heard the gossip about how Rafe’s selling coke now. He must want to offer you a better price.

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling,” you reply. Rafe scoffs, his tongue jutting under his cheek as he takes you in.

“I’d never sell to you.”

You huff a flat chuckle. You’re tired of his juvenile obsession with the class divide that sits between you.

“So, I’m good enough to serve you drinks, but not good enough to buy your drugs?”

You feel a sick sense of satisfaction when his face hardens with anger. For a second, you worry that you’re just as spiteful as he is, that you’re no better than him.

Rafe scoffs. He’s seen what coke does to people. To himself. He refuses to see it happen to you. But of course you expect the worst of him. Like everyone else does.

“Did he offer you anything else or not?” Rafe repeats with a note of irritation.

“Why?” you sputter.

“I need to know if he’s trying to steal from me.”

Rafe refuses to be in competition with anyone. Other Kooks can sell weed all they want, but coke is his territory, and if he has to claim his territory, so be it. He’s heard rumblings that Porter’s expanded his offerings now. And Rafe isn’t going to let him fuck him over.

“He did,” you finally answer. “Coke. He said it’s the purest on the island.”

He only nods tersely, lips twisting in frustration, before he turns around and storms away from you. So, that’s all he wanted from you. Information.

“You’re welcome,” you half-shout. Curiosity pulls you in as your eyes follow him into the crowd. Sure enough, Rafe pushes Porter to the ground, shouting indistinctly, earning jeers from the crowd.

It’s typical. Nearly every time you see Rafe out socially, he’s yelling and fighting someone. You walk back to your friends, hoping you can shake off the feeling he left you with.

·········

The only thing getting you through your shift the next day is that tomorrow is a holiday. The night of the Fourth of July is an escape from the stresses of your life, an excuse to get wasted with your friends under the fireworks and let yourself drift off into oblivion.

After you clock out, you’re pacing through the country club’s bar when you hear your name called from the patio. You look to see Porter sitting at a table with a couple of friends, his smile wide.

“Didn’t know you worked here,” he says when you approach.

“Yeah, I’m a server on the course,” you explain. You almost expect him to ignorantly ask for a drink, but have to remind yourself that he’s not like Rafe.

“How is it?”

“It’s fine.”

“Come on, we won’t tell,” Porter chuckles. “You hate it, don’t you?”

“Only sometimes,” you reply with a laugh. “Depends on the day. And on the person I’m dealing with.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He pulls out his phone, punching in the password. “I meant to tell you last night that you should have my number. You know, for when you need to stock up.”

You take his phone, cluing in that he’s making himself more accessible to you for the next time you need to buy from him. As you text yourself his name, one of the men at the table motions to Porter.

“Bro,” his friend says, gaze trained ahead. Porter looks past you to the bar and shakes his head in disbelief.

“Can’t escape him,” he sighs.

You follow his eyeline to spot Rafe at the bar with a friend, dark liquor sitting in the glass he’s holding.

“Not a fan?” you ask.

“Is anyone?” Porter laughs. “He’s a nutcase.”

“Don’t let him hear you,” his friend murmurs.

“Yeah, he’ll kill you,” the other guy laughs.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Porter replies.

Your eyes linger on Rafe a second longer than they need to. Your curiosity for why he’s the way he is is like a flame that won’t burn out. He has everything he could possibly want. Why is he so mean?

“Yeah,” is all you can say. You turn around again and give Porter his phone back.

“Oh, there’s a party at my beach house tomorrow night. My neighbor does this crazy fireworks thing every year,” he tells you. “I’ll text you the address.”

You nod appreciatively, glad that at least some of the rich people you deal with don’t buy into the idea that you’re beneath them.

·········

It’s nearing nine p.m. when you make it to the beach house the next night. The guys are rambling on behind you as you step inside the massive, humid house, filled with chattering people and loud music.

“Where are your car keys?” Pope asks.

“Right here,” JJ says, jingling them in front of his face. “Do I need to show you every five minutes?”

“I’ll just take them,” Pope says, grabbing them and stuffing them in his pocket. “You can’t be trusted.”

“It was one time,” JJ says. You laugh as you think of last weekend when he’d lost his car keys at a party in the Cut.

“Yeah, and we had to search the sand for, like half an hour,” you remind him.

“You know what I’m not hearing?” JJ says. “A thank you for driving all the time.”

“Remind me, who actually drove last time?” John B asks. “And who was hurling in the backseat?”

JJ scratches the back of his neck.

“I’m a man of honor,” he says. “I’m not not going to chug when I’m told to chug.” His eyes fix on something across the room. “Speaking of…”

He heads towards the keg and you and Pope share a disapproving shake of your heads. You follow your friends, grabbing a solo cup and sipping on beer.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzes with a text from Porter: You here? Want to buy?

You’ve already smoked through the joint you bought two nights ago and quickly reply: yes.

He texts: come upstairs.

“I’ll be right back,” you quickly tell your friends before you push through the crowd.

You duck under the string tied across the bottom of staircase, a sign that warns partygoers that it’s off limits hanging in the middle. One door is open in the upstairs hallway. You see Porter sitting on a bed, rolling a joint on a book that’s sitting in his lap.

“Hey. Got a fresh one for you,” he says.

“Thanks.” You dig into your pocket. “Same price?”

“Sure.” He cocks his head. “It’ll take a while. You can come in and chill.”

You sit at his desk close to the door, talking as he packs the thin white paper.

When he stands up, instead of giving the joint to you, he darts across the room abruptly. Your brows knit in confusion when he shuts the door, the loud music reduced to muffles now.

“What are you doing?” you ask, fear twisting your heart in a vise.

He must have read things wrong.

You assume he’ll stop when you tell him no.

He doesn’t.

·········

You fall to the hard floor. You grip the edge of the bed, hardly any light spilling into the room from the hallway as you blink rapidly to gain your bearings.

A loud slam was what woke you up. You don’t remember falling asleep. You don’t even know where you are.

Two shadowy figures stand on the other side of the room. One roughly pushes the other to the floor. You stay still, peeking over the bed. Your body is trembling with pain and you don’t know why.

“Do you think I’m joking?” a man spits.

You know that voice. It’s Rafe.

“Dude, relax,“ the man on the floor says.

You might be sick. It’s Porter on the floor, whimpering like an idiot. You remember why your body is aching now.

He hurt you. He hurt you and you retreated into your mind and you fell unconscious. A cold swirl of anger and disgust and sadness twists your stomach into a knot.

“I told you to stay out of my fucking way,” Rafe shouts. “Where’s your stash?”

“In the desk,” Porter says quietly. “Just take it. I’ll stick to selling weed, okay? You have my word.”

You watch from the floor, Rafe’s broad figure leaning to pull open drawers and shove items off the desk, objects clattering on the floor in the dark. They don’t know you’re here.

Consciousness slowly grips you. Rafe confronted him about selling coke. He told him to stop. And Porter didn’t listen.

Your eyes flood with hot tears. He didn’t listen to you, either.

You just want to leave. To get out of this horrifying room. To figure out how to put yourself back together after surviving one of the worst ways a person can break another.

Loud fireworks abruptly crack in the sky, startling you, shining light in through the window. And that’s when you see it. Porter is by the other side of the bed, still on the floor, and in his raised hand, something is gleaming.

A gun.

“Rafe!” Your throat is dry, sore from the way you’d screamed.

He suddenly turns towards you, confusedly finding your face across the room. Then, his gaze snaps down at Porter. He notices the gun. And he lunges.

You stand on shaky knees as you watch Rafe land vicious punches, every blow making Porter groan.

“Gonna pull a gun when my back is turned, pussy?” Rafe bellows. “Really?”

You round the bed, staring in horror, your mind still in fragmented shambles. You’d told Porter to stop so many times and every strike of Rafe’s knuckles against his jaw gives you a jolt of satisfaction, a desire for him to suffer more.

He was never a nice guy. He’s just like all of them. A predator.

Rafe scrambles to his feet, heavily breathing as fireworks continue their pops and sizzles over the beach.

The gun is in his hand now. His heart is thrumming, his blood boiling hot. He could’ve died. If you didn’t call his name, he could’ve lost his life.

Rafe’s steady and firm, holding the weapon still, a sharp contrast to how hard you’re shaking.

“Do it,” you say. Rafe’s eyes finds yours, his lips parted, blood splattered on his face. It’s not his. Porter didn’t land any punches. Rafe beat him that badly.

“What?” Porter cries. “Are you insane?”

He’s staring up at both of you through wide eyes as the barrel of the gun remains directed at him. You imagine how terrifying you must look to him, standing over him in the dim room with his pathetic life in your hands.

“Me?” you mutter. Hatred courses through your veins when you glare at him as he lies on his side, bloodied and weak.

The power has shifted into your hands. He was the one looking down at you earlier, hurting you. And now that your body is yours again, you don’t hesitate to kick him in the stomach.

He grunts when you make contact, his body curling forward.

Rafe watches, rendered speechless. He thought he’d seen you angry before. He hasn’t. This is new. This is pure rage. This is a level of wrath he didn’t know you were capable of.

Even through the darkness, Rafe can see that your eyes are shiny with tears when you turn your head to look at him again.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” you snap, your words dripping with agony and rage. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

Rafe is powerless against the angry, malevolent instinct that’s guided him all his life. He doesn’t think.

The blow of the gun cuts through the air.

Your breath catches.

And he’s just a body. Lifeless on the floor. Gone.

You look up at Rafe. Your chests are heaving, broken and shaky breaths spilling out of your mouths. The colors lighting up the night sky tint your tear-streaked face. He’s never seen agony personified. He has now.

You glance down at Porter again. His mouth is agape. His eyes are shut. Forever. Forever.

“Oh, my God,” you whimper. Hot tears fall over your cheeks so quickly that you fear they’ll never stop. The adrenaline escapes you like water spinning down a drain, replaced with a bottomless dread.

Rafe realizes he’s still pointing the gun. He lowers his arm, his palm sweating against the grip. He had to do it. He had to. He didn’t know that taking a life would feel this good. He doesn’t feel a shred of regret or remorse. For once, he has real power.

But then he watches the way you sink down to the floor.

“What did we…” you whisper, words rushed. “What did we do? Rafe, what did we do?”

There’s a dead body next to you. Cold permeates your bones. You know it’s the type of chill that will never leave you.

Rafe kneels in front of you. The gun hits the floor with a heavy thump. The air smells like gunpowder, fried and smoking. He’s trying to meet your eyes, but your gaze is skittering around as you sit, crumpled and trembling.

“Hey,” he says clearly.

You’re staring at the ground, your breaths shallow.

“Hey,” he repeats louder. Finally, you look at him. “It was self-defense.”

You nod weakly, processing how within a second, you’ve tangled yourselves together into a knot that you can never unravel. Rafe pulled the trigger, but you told him to. And you’re sure you would’ve done it yourself if Rafe didn’t. You’re murderers.

Rafe’s hand is an inch away from you, almost putting it on yours, almost touching someone with tenderness instead of anger for once. You saved his life. You loathe him, but you saved his life, reacting in a split second.

“Why were you even up here?” he asks.

“Just be glad I was,” you say, hoping it’s enough to satisfy him.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

If you weren’t so shellshocked, you’d laugh. You never expected Rafe to have manners, and you never expected that if he did, it’d be a show of gratitude for helping him kill somebody.

Nausea pools in your gut at the reminder of why you were so angry. Did Porter plan it? Did he always have his sights set on you, like a vulture circling the sky, ready to attack?

What happened earlier tonight flashes through your mind. He deserved to die. He did something unforgivable. He said things about how girls always do this, they always tease but never give it up.

You didn’t just save Rafe. You saved all the girls who were fated to cross that monster’s path. You pushed a soul to its death, but it was one not worthy of life.

Rafe stares at you as you blink rapidly, your mind clearly racing.

“He rip you off or something?” he asks, at a loss for why you’d encourage him to pull the trigger.

Of course Rafe thinks it’s about money. That’s all that matters to him.

“Yeah,” you lie, voice cracking. You can’t tell him. You can’t relive it. Especially with someone who you know is cold-blooded. Someone who might blame you for coming up to this bedroom in the first place.

Tease. Porter called you a tease while you pleaded for him to stop. You drop your head in your hands, chest stuttering with your breathy cries, remembering how he’d hurt you.

Rafe stares at you, confused, wondering how you could be so angry and vengeful and ruthless, just to regret it a second after the bullet left the chamber.

“We had to do it,” he states.

“I know,” you tell him. You wipe your cheeks with your palms, well aware that he could never understand why you’re really crying. “We’ll just tell the truth.”

He shakes his head at you.

“Tell who the truth?” Rafe mutters, his stare hard. “We’re not telling anybody.”

Your breath shakes. He wants to hide this. To try to get away with it.

“What if someone heard the gunshot?” you murmur.

“Everyone’s outside,” he says. “And those stupid fireworks are so fucking loud. Nobody could tell the difference.”

You wipe your face again, considering his words. Your phone is buzzing in your pocket. Someone’s calling you. Surely one of your friends. Why didn’t you just tell them where you were going? Why didn’t you just have one of them come upstairs with you?

Impatience quickly rises in Rafe while you stay silent.

“I almost knocked him out the other night,” he says. “In front of everyone. You think backing me up would be enough for anyone to believe I was protecting myself?”

You chew on your bottom lip anxiously. Rafe has a reputation for being violent. Porter put up a front that he was a nice guy. His friends even said right in front of you that Rafe would kill him. Who’d believe that Porter actually pointed a gun first?

Besides, if you vouched for him, who’s to say they’d trust you? They could spin it and say Rafe paid off a Pogue to lie for him.

“And then the cops would dig and find out it was over coke,” Rafe sputters. “It’d be a fucking mess. We’re not telling anybody.”

He’s right. Confessing wouldn’t do you any good, either. It could go sideways and you could never afford a good lawyer.

Nobody deserves to be punished for taking down the evil, lifeless man lying on the floor. Not you. Not even Rafe. You won’t take the risk.

You gaze into Rafe’s eyes, finding comfort in the striking blue hue for the first time, feeling a newfound sense of loyalty to him.

He gave you vengeance in a world that would never punish the man who hurt you. You’re in this together.

“Okay,” you whisper. “What do we do now?”

“We get rid of the body.”

next >

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[luv4arinn]

Bayverse!Leo as a Boyfriend – Headcanons

(Because even if I don’t like him, he deserves better characterization and development. And besides, I love overanalyzing.)

Pairing: Leonardo x Female!Reader

Warnings: Overprotectiveness, possessive behavior, affection-starved. Subtle (but present) hints of: narcissism, egocentrism, perfectionism, spirituality, insomnia. I developed him so well that I actually like him now—I don’t like that.

Leonardo, as a partner, would be a fascinating study in contradictions. At first glance, he seems like the perfect boyfriend—disciplined, loyal, protective, someone you can trust without hesitation. But being with him isn’t easy.

Not because he’s cold or indifferent—on the contrary, he feels too much. He’s just spent his entire life learning how to hide it. To him, emotions are a double-edged sword: love can give you strength, yes, but it can also make you drop your guard, make mistakes, and risk everything you’ve fought for.

And Leonardo can’t afford that luxury.

Since he was young, his identity has been tied to duty. He’s not just an older brother—he is the older brother. The leader. The one who must always have the answers. There is no room for error, no space for doubt. That’s why, if he ever fell in love, he would do so with the same intensity he applies to any challenge—with absolute commitment. But also, with a need for control that can be suffocating.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust his partner. It’s that he needs to make sure nothing puts her in danger. That she’s safe, that there are no loose ends, that every move is calculated. Don’t expect Leo to be the laid-back boyfriend who goes with the flow. He will want to protect you—even from things that might not even be a real threat.

If he comes to your house and you don’t answer, his mind will assume the worst before even considering that you were simply in the shower. If you go out alone at night, he won’t be at ease until he knows you made it home safely. Not out of jealousy, but because the thought of losing someone he loves terrifies him. But instead of expressing that fear, he translates it into rules, into planning, into strategies.

Because Leonardo doesn’t know how to handle what is beyond his control.

This was evident in Out of the Shadows. His instinct was to make decisions for everyone, to divide the team when he felt they were weakening. He truly believed he was doing the right thing, that carrying the burden alone was the best course of action. But in the process, he lost sight of what his brothers really needed. And that’s exactly how he would be in a relationship—not out of malice, but because he believes being the strong one is his duty.

And while Leo loves with every fiber of his being, he doesn’t say it easily. He’s not the type to look you in the eyes and just blurt out an “I love you.” His way of showing affection is more silent, more tangible. He will remember exactly how you like your tea, he will learn to pick up on even the slightest change in your tone of voice, he will make sure you always have an escape plan in case things go wrong. But if you expect spontaneous hugs or verbal expressions of love, you might find yourself frustrated. Not because he doesn’t feel it, but because, to him, love isn’t something you say—it’s something you prove.

However, if someone manages to break through his armor, they will see something that few have ever witnessed. Because beneath all the rigidity, the discipline, and the self-imposed perfection, there is a boy who never had the chance to make mistakes. A boy who has spent years carrying a tremendous weight, who can’t remember the last time someone saw him and not just the leader. A boy who desperately needs a space where he can stop being the strategist, the protector, the flawless Leonardo… and simply be Leo.

Leonardo isn’t someone who easily succumbs to distractions. Not because he doesn’t enjoy them, but because he’s always believed his time should be invested in something useful. Yet on the rare occasions when he allows himself to let his guard down—in the privacy of his room or on a quiet night at the lair—small details reveal who he truly is beyond being the leader of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

For instance, he enjoys science fiction movies and TV shows. He wouldn’t admit it out loud—after all, Mikey would never let him forget it—but there’s something about exploring space, about advanced civilizations and the ethical dilemmas these worlds present, that fascinates him. Perhaps it’s because he sees his own struggle reflected in them: leaders forced to make impossible decisions, burdened with responsibility, torn between duty and heart. Whether it’s Star Trek, The Expanse, or even some of the more philosophical tales of Ghost in the Shell… Leo sits with his arms crossed, pretending not to be too interested, yet if someone pays close attention, they’ll notice the intensity in his gaze and the way his fingers tense with every twist in the story.

And although everyone sees him as the serious one, it’s not that he lacks a sense of humor. His humor is just more subtle, drier, more ironic. He won’t burst out laughing like Mikey or be as explosive as Raph, but if you’re close enough, if you’ve earned his trust, you’ll notice that there are moments when he quietly drops a joke in a neutral tone, waiting to see if you catch it. And when you do, when you respond with a retort just as sharp, the corner of his mouth barely curves, as if he’s quietly satisfied with the interaction.

But if there’s one thing that truly brings him peace, it’s tending to his bonsai trees. It’s a hobby that no one in the lair seems to fully understand. Mikey calls them boring, Raph jokes that they’re just “miniature trees,” and Donnie respects the practice but sees it more as an exercise in patience. For Leo, however, it’s more than that. It’s a reminder of balance. Of control. Of how even the smallest force, with the right guidance, can grow in the right way. And on nights when the pressure becomes too much, when he feels the weight of his role crushing him, he sits in silence before his little tree, allowing himself a moment to breathe, to reconnect with himself.

But love… love is different.

Leo doesn’t allow himself to fall in love easily. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because his mind simply doesn’t work that way. He needs to feel that his partner is more than just a fleeting attraction. He needs connection. Compatibility. A deep, unwavering understanding. And that isn’t built overnight.

That’s why, when he finally starts to realize that what he feels for you goes beyond friendship, the first emotion that floods him isn’t happiness.

It’s doubt.

And Leonardo shouldn’t doubt.

He always has answers. He always has a plan. But for the first time, he’s standing on ground where logic is useless, where he can’t break things down into a battle strategy. He can’t make a pros-and-cons list about his feelings. He can’t calculate every move the way he would in combat. And that frustrates him.

Because if he accepts it—if he acknowledges that his feelings are real—it means there’s something in his life that he can’t control.

And Leonardo hates not having control.

Leonardo isn’t someone who falls asleep easily.

Not because he doesn’t need to—his body demands rest just like anyone else’s—but because his mind never truly shuts off.

In the lair, when everyone else is asleep—when even Donnie has finally stepped away from his monitors, and Raph has stopped pounding the punching bag—Leo is still awake. Arms crossed, back stiff against the wall, gaze lost in the dim light of his room.

It’s in those moments of solitude that his mind betrays him.

When he tries to dissect what he feels, to categorize it, to put it into some kind of logical order. Because he’s always in control. Always.

And this… this shouldn’t be any different.

He’s not impulsive like Mikey, letting himself be carried away by every emotion without a second thought.

He’s not a ticking time bomb like Raph, ready to explode at the most unexpected moment.

He’s not even like Donnie, obsessively analyzing every variable to the point of overload.

He is Leonardo.

Leader. Warrior. Strategist.

And there is nothing he can’t control.

So if he has reached the conclusion that what he feels for you is real, then he will take the reins.

It won’t be difficult.

It shouldn’t be difficult.

He will force himself to keep everything in place, to act with precision. His glances will linger just a second longer—but not enough to be obvious. His words will be measured, carefully chosen, but still carrying his usual composed tone. He will make small, almost imperceptible changes.

Like making sure you walk on the safer side of the street.

Adjusting his stance subtly to block the wind when you’re on the rooftop.

Asking if you’ve eaten well—but casually, as if it’s not really important.

And the worst part? Unlike Donnie, who would give himself away with nervous fidgeting and stammered words, you will never notice.

Because Leonardo won’t allow you to notice.

All you’ll see is someone who has everything under control. Someone who watches you with the same intensity he reserves for his enemies on the battlefield, as if he’s calculating every single one of your movements.

But what he doesn’t want you to see is the opposite.

That inside, he’s nervous.

That his palms sweat when he touches you, when his fingers accidentally brush against yours.

That his pulse quickens when you get too close, and he has to remind himself to breathe normally.

That in every conversation, in every moment, there’s a small part of him afraid that one wrong step will ruin everything.

Because if there is one thing Leonardo could never forgive himself for, it’s losing what you’ve built together.

Not just losing you, but losing your trust.

And if that were to happen… how could he justify it?

How could he explain to himself that after a lifetime of making the best possible choices to protect those he cares about—this was the one he let slip through his fingers?

And when he finally allows himself to admit it—when he has broken through every mental barrier he imposed on himself, when he has analyzed every angle, when he has measured every consequence—Leonardo feels something inside him loosen.

For a moment, just a moment, it’s as if he has won the hardest battle of his life.

The weight on his shoulders dissolves, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he breathes deeply without the pressure in his chest tightening.

You are his.

Not in some shallow, possessive way, but in something deeper, more primal.

Like an instinct that has always been there, buried beneath layers of discipline and responsibility, waiting to be acknowledged.

And now that he has… there is no turning back.

But the peace doesn’t last.

Because almost immediately, another weight crashes down on him—heavier, inescapable.

Before, his burden was uncertainty.

Now, it is certainty.

Now that he has you, he must protect you.

With everything he has.

Not just from the dangers of the outside world—but from himself.

Because Leonardo cannot afford to fail.

And even though love is uncharted territory—a battlefield he has never stepped foot on—he demands perfection from himself.

To be the ideal partner.

To give you exactly what you need before you even ask.

To measure every word, every gesture, every decision.

To make sure you never have to question if he is enough for you.

Because he has to be.

He is Leonardo.

And Leonardo does not fail.

But there is a problem.

Because you don’t want the flawless strategist.

You don’t want the leader who is always in control.

You don’t want the polished, calculated version of him.

You just want Leo.

The Leo who watches sci-fi shows but would never admit to liking them.

The Leo who pretends he doesn’t enjoy messing around with his brothers, but secretly loves the rare moments when he catches Raph off guard or makes Donnie roll his eyes.

The Leo who tends to his bonsai trees with quiet devotion because, though he never says it out loud, they reflect his philosophy: patience, growth, balance.

And that is a terrifying concept for him.

Because showing you that side of himself means lowering his guard.

It means allowing you to see what’s underneath the armor.

The boy who gets frustrated.

Who sometimes doesn’t know what to do.

Who fears he won’t be enough.

That side of him—no one has truly seen it.

Not even his brothers.

But you… you want to see it.

And the road to him letting you in will be a long one.

Because accepting that you love him for who he is—not for what he represents, not for what he does, but for his very essence—is the hardest test Leonardo has ever faced.

Leonardo believes he has everything under control.

That he can handle his emotions the way he handles a katana: with precision, with discipline, with absolute mastery over every movement.

But you…

You are a challenge unlike any other.

Because while he struggles to keep his composure, while he measures every word and makes sure not to take a wrong step, you simply are.

You don’t need strategies or plans. You don’t analyze every interaction as if it were a life-or-death mission.

And that unsettles him.

Because deep down, Leonardo doesn’t know how to be loved.

He knows how to protect. He knows how to fight. He knows how to sacrifice himself for others.

But when it comes to receiving love… that’s where the conflict begins.

He appreciates that you’re not overly affectionate with him.

That you don’t suffocate him with displays of affection that would make him uncomfortable, that would force him to lower his guard all at once.

But at the same time, he dies when you take his face in your hands and kiss him.

At first, he goes completely still, trying to process it, trying not to lose control.

But the moment you feel his breath hitch, the moment you notice the way his fingers grip your waist tighter than he probably meant to—you know he’s falling.

And the worst part is that he hates it.

Because Leonardo shouldn’t let himself go.

He shouldn’t forget the weight on his shoulders or allow something as simple as a kiss to make him feel lighter—as if, for just a moment, the world didn’t depend on him.

But he does.

And it frustrates him.

Because he’s supposed to be the unshakable fortress.

He’s supposed to be untouchable.

And yet, here he is.

With his heart pounding too fast.

With his mind completely blank.

With you stealing his control with just a simple touch.

It sounds contradictory.

Because it is contradictory.

But Leo is a contradiction.

Because while he says attachment is a weakness, he holds you tighter when you try to pull away.

Because while he insists emotions cloud judgment, he stays awake until dawn thinking about what he feels for you.

Because while he tries to convince himself that his duty is more important than his happiness, he wonders if, just this once, he can have both.

And that is the real battle.

Not against an enemy.

Not against an external threat.

But against himself.

Because loving you means lowering his guard.

It means trusting that, even if he doesn’t have everything under control, you’ll still be there.

It means accepting that love isn’t a problem to solve, nor a responsibility to bear.

It’s just… love.

And no matter how hard he fights it, no matter how much he tries to convince himself he can keep his distance, there is one truth he cannot deny:

You are the only person in the world who can make Leonardo stop fighting.

Leonardo isn’t someone who takes intimacy lightly.

For him, physical touch isn’t just an act. It isn’t just a moment.

It’s an offering.

And he doesn’t give himself away so easily.

Not because he’s afraid—or at least, he’d never admit it.

But deep down, there’s an unease that eats away at him.

His size. His strength. His biology.

You’re human. Fragile in comparison.

And even though he knows you’re strong, that you wouldn’t do anything unless you were absolutely sure, his protective instincts won’t allow it.

It’s not just about protecting you.

It’s about himself.

His own control.

Because control is the one thing he’s always had.

Ever since he took on the role of leader, ever since he understood that his life wasn’t his own but belonged to those who depended on him, Leonardo learned to restrain himself.

To hold back.

To be the balance in the midst of chaos.

But you…

You make him lose that balance.

And if he allows himself to let go, if he allows that wall to crumble, he fears what might happen.

Because to Leonardo, intimacy isn’t just physical pleasure.

It’s a connection.

It’s binding his soul with yours.

It’s giving you a part of himself that no one has ever seen before.

And that is the real danger

Because if he gives you that—if he allows himself to feel you, to touch you, to love you on such a profound level—

Then there’s no going back.

He knows he could become addicted.

That the moment he lets go of the weight on his shoulders and focuses only on you—on your body beneath his, on your breath hitching, on the way you say his name—

Everything else will fade away.

And Leonardo cannot afford to forget his duty.

But… what if, just this once, he could?

What if, just this once, he could be Leo and not the leader?

If he could forget the world for a few hours—lose himself in you, in the warmth of your skin, in the way you look at him as if he’s more than just a warrior, more than just a responsibility, more than just a soldier trained to sacrifice everything.

If he could simply be yours.

That… that is what truly terrifies him.

Because if he tastes it once, he knows he’ll want it again.

And again.

And again.

Until there is nothing left of the fortress he has so carefully built.

Until there is nothing left of the perfect leader his brothers need.

Only him.

Only you.

Just two souls bound together—no rules, no duties, no limits.

And though he tries to convince himself he can resist…

He knows that, eventually, he will fall.

But Leonardo knows he’s not ready.

That he can’t let it all go—not yet.

Because if he does, who will bear the weight of the world in his place?

If he falls, his brothers fall. If he allows himself to be selfish, even for a moment, everything he has built could collapse.

So he waits.

He waits for you to understand.

To understand that there are things he still cannot give you, no matter how much he desires them.

But that doesn’t mean he gives you nothing.

Something just as intimate, just as addictive.

Vulnerability.

Not with his body, but with his soul.

So when night falls, when the world goes quiet and there is no one but the two of you, he lets you see beyond the barrier.

He lets you step into his sanctuary.

He pulls out the blankets he keeps tucked away in the back of his closet, the ones with the worn-out Rebel Alliance logo, and hands them to you without a word.

He lets you see the space-themed pillowcase he would never admit he still uses.

And then, in the dim glow of his room, when there are no more distractions, no more responsibilities, you talk.

Not about strategies. Not about training. Not about what is expected of him.

You talk about everything and nothing all at once.

About stars and distant galaxies.

About the Star Wars episodes he never gets tired of watching.

About the times he wondered if his destiny was already written or if he could take a detour.

And it’s there, in those organic conversations—unplanned, uncalculated, imperfect—that you witness something few have ever seen:

Not the leader.

Not the eldest brother.

Just Leo.

And then, when sleep finally claims you, you curl up against his chest—no fear, no hesitation.

Your breathing slows, steady and peaceful.

Your warmth seeps into his skin.

And Leonardo, the one who never lets his guard down, the one who is always on alert, stays still.

Feeling.

Listening.

Your heartbeat, syncing with his.

Nothing separates you but a thin layer of skin.

And for the first time in a long time, he forgets.

Forgets duty, weight, sacrifice.

Forgets that he must be strong, that he must be everyone’s shield.

Because in this moment, there is only you.

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Get Me Out of Here || Rook Hunt

You’re isekai’d into a trashy novel and stuck as a tragic side knight character. All you want is survival, but your boss is Rook Hunt—a poetic, eccentric duke.

Now you’re caught in his chaos and, worse, you kinda don’t mind.

Series Masterlist

You’re a completely normal person. You eat normal meals at normal times, sleep the normal amount of hours (give or take a few, who needs all eight anyway?), and hold down a regular, soul-crushingly normal job. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills and lets you indulge in your one true love: reading web novels for five hours straight like some kind of feral literature goblin.

Your current obsession? The Lady’s Tragic Love. It’s the sort of story that you can’t put down—not because it’s good, but because it’s so excruciatingly terrible that it loops back around into comedy. The heroine has all the personality of a wet tissue but somehow manages to ruin everyone’s lives with reckless abandon. It’s almost impressive.

You rub your temples as you skim yet another chapter. “Oh my God, this woman has the moral compass of a black hole,” you mutter.

The plot makes less sense the deeper you go: the heroine starts off as the daughter of a down-on-their-luck noble family. Her father racks up an unholy amount of debt, so she’s forced to marry a viscount who—get this—is actually a nice guy. Like, genuinely kind. He agrees to marry her in name only to protect her from debt collectors, even offering to fund her hobbies.

And what does she do? Poison him. Poison him!

"Okay, maybe she's misunderstood," you think, in the kind of delusional optimism only a web novel enthusiast can muster.

Nope. She poisons him because she "can’t stand looking at his face," which is only mildly unattractive and not the ogre-like monstrosity the text implies. Also, he was literally helping her stay alive.

“Oh, sure, let’s kill the only decent male character in this hellscape. Why not?” you hiss, scrolling furiously.

After committing literal murder, the heroine sets her sights on an archduke, who is tall, handsome, and very much engaged to the so-called villainess. The villainess is stunning, kind, intelligent, and inexplicably hated by everyone because—checks notes—she’s too perfect?

At this point, you're gripping your phone so hard that it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in half. “Why is the villainess the villain? This should be the heroine’s title! She’s practically speedrunning how to be the worst human being alive!”

But no, the heroine gets rewarded for her nonsense. The archduke doesn’t fall for her (because he has taste), but the crown prince does. The prince, apparently a sucker for chaos, marries her. Instead of being happy with her new title and riches, the heroine spends her days scheming to ruin the villainess’s life because, in her words, “How dare the archduke choose someone that isn’t me?”

You pause and reread that line. Then reread it again.

“WHAT?!” you yell so loudly that your downstairs neighbor bangs on the ceiling.

It’s a spiral of nonsense that drags you through emotional whiplash until you finish the last chapter with a migraine and a full-blown existential crisis. You stare at the screen. "Why...why did I do this to myself?"

You stumble out to your tiny balcony to clear your head, phone still in hand. The cool night air washes over you as you lean on the railing, your brain buzzing with rage and confusion.

“Why does she get a happy ending?” you grumble. “She’s a walking red flag factory! The villainess deserves to be queen, and the prince deserves a lobotomy for his taste in women!”

In your frustration, you kick the balcony railing. Unfortunately, your landlord hasn’t exactly been diligent about repairs. The rusted screws holding it in place give way with a terrifying screech.

“Oh, come on,” you say, deadpan, as the railing collapses beneath you.

You plummet ten stories down, bouncing off an awning like some kind of cartoon character before landing face-first in a suspiciously placed fruit cart.

As darkness creeps in, your final thought is not of regret, nor fear, but of pure, unfiltered pettiness:

“I hope my next life is more exciting… and I never have to read about this heroine again.”

With that, you pass out, blissfully unaware of the absurd fate that awaits you.

You wake up, groggy and disoriented, and immediately ask yourself the first logical question: Why the hell am I alive?

The last thing you remember is gravity betraying you and a suspiciously convenient fruit cart breaking your fall. But when you sit up and look around, it’s very clear you’re not in your crappy apartment anymore. For starters, this place is way too clean, smells faintly of vanilla, and—oh, is that sunlight streaming through those beautiful glass windows? Not the dim, depressing flicker of the streetlight outside your old place?

Something is very wrong.

You scramble out of the bed, which is definitely not your rickety twin-sized monstrosity held together with duct tape and misplaced hope, and start poking around. The furniture is elegant, the carpet is plush, and there’s an oil painting on the wall that practically screams, Welcome to Generic Medieval Europe™!

The realization slams into you with all the subtlety of a freight train: You’re in that garbage web novel.

You pause, frozen, your brain throwing up a million red flags at once. Your knees almost buckle. "Nope. No. Absolutely not. This is some kind of cosmic punishment," you whisper to yourself, clutching your temples.

You creep towards the ornate mirror on the other side of the room, your reflection getting clearer with every step. “Please,” you mutter, “if there’s a single merciful entity out there, don’t let me be the heroine. Or the villainess. Or, God forbid, one of the male leads.”

You finally reach the mirror, squeeze your eyes shut, then crack one open. And there you are: just some random face.

“Oh, thank God,” you exhale, slumping against the wall. You’re not the heroine. You’re not the villainess. You’re not one of the tragic walking disasters that make up the main cast. You're just… some person. A total nobody.

But just as you’re about to bust out your victory dance of mediocrity, something catches your eye. You lean closer, squinting.

Wait.

No.

NO.

You’re that nobody.

You’re the tragic commoner knight who gets blackmailed by the heroine, coerced into doing her dirty work, and ends up assassinating the villainess for her. The same commoner knight who dies in three chapters because the heroine throws them under the bus as soon as the villainess's fiancé finds out what happened.

You stagger back from the mirror like it’s cursed. “Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. I did not reincarnate into this medieval soap opera just to get unalived in the dumbest way possible,” you say, pacing the room like a lunatic.

Your character’s life flashes before your eyes: the abusive father, the crippling family loyalty, the gambling debts. This poor soul had it rough even before getting turned into the heroine’s personal murder minion. And you? You’re not about to pick up that torch.

So you grab some parchment and pen what might be the most passive-aggressive resignation letter of all time.

“To Her Highness, the Crown Princess,

Kindly do your own dirty work from now on. My father can gamble himself into oblivion. I’m out. Good luck with your reign or whatever.”

Satisfied, you sign it with an unnecessarily large flourish, slap it on the desk, and prepare to bounce.

You’re halfway down the hall when you almost walk face-first into him.

Rook Hunt, the walking embodiment of “this guy doesn’t belong in this novel but here he is anyway,” stands there with his golden hair and overly dramatic smile. He’s loud. He’s eccentric. He’s dressed like he’s about to break into a musical number about the beauty of life. Oh, and he’s also the duke whose household you served in as a knight before you quit.

“Mon ami!” he exclaims, throwing his arms wide like you’re long-lost lovers. “You’ve returned to me! What an exquisite twist of fate! Shall we celebrate the beauty of reunion?”

“No,” you say flatly. You attempt to sidestep him, but Rook doesn’t just let things go.

“You cannot leave me again! Do you not wish to resume your role as my loyal knight?”

“Absolutely not,” you snap on instinct, because why on earth would you willingly dive back into this mess? But then it hits you. Wait.

Rook isn’t part of the main plot. He’s not the crown prince, not the archduke, not the villain, and definitely not one of the doomed love interests. He’s just… there. A minor character. A colorful extra who pops up to sprinkle poetic nonsense into the plot and then wanders offstage.

Your brain kicks into overdrive. If you stick with him, you’ll be close enough to the action to keep tabs but far enough to avoid the heroine’s nonsense. Plus, salary. And minor characters like him rarely die!

Your decision solidifies. You plaster on a winning smile and nod. “Actually, on second thought, yeah. Let’s do that.”

“Magnifique!” Rook practically beams as he grabs your arm. “Come, let us bask in the splendor of returning home!”

You follow him, letting his endless stream of poetic babble wash over you. Is this the best plan? Probably not. But it beats getting murdered for a heroine who couldn’t find her moral compass with both hands and a map.

You make it back to the duke’s grand estate—because of course it’s grand. Every aristocrat in this godforsaken novel seems to have a mansion the size of a small country. Rook practically floats through the gates, his dramatic energy causing every passing servant to give him the “not again” look. You follow, still trying to process the reality of your current situation.

After an unnecessarily flowery tour of the place (you’ve been here before in this body, but you let him talk because it’s easier than interrupting), he finally stops in the courtyard. He turns to you, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Now, mon chevalier, reclaim your rightful position as my trusted bodyguard!” he declares, flinging his arms wide as if inviting the heavens to applaud him.

You blink. “…Respectfully, sir, why do you need a bodyguard?”

He pauses, staring at you like you just asked why water is wet. Then, with an infuriatingly serene smile, he says, “Ah, but the shadows are filled with secrets, my dear knight! The beauty of life is in its mysteries, n’est-ce pas?”

You squint at him. “Okay, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

He leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Because the wolves, mon ami. The wolves.”

You freeze. “…What wolves?”

Rook straightens up, tilting his head as if contemplating the meaning of the universe. “Ah, they are everywhere and nowhere. In the forests, in the halls, in the hearts of men. Who can say where danger truly lies?”

This man just said a whole lot of words without saying anything.

“Right,” you say slowly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “But you’re, like, ridiculously strong. I’m pretty sure you could take on any wolf—metaphorical or not—by yourself.”

“Ah, mon chevalier,” he says with a wistful sigh, placing a hand on his chest like he’s reciting a Shakespearean soliloquy. “Strength alone cannot protect one from the unexpected, the unseen, the poetry of peril!”

You stare at him, trying to figure out if this is some sort of elaborate prank. But no. This man is completely serious.

“So… wolves. Poetry of peril. Got it,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “I’ll, uh, just… go patrol or something, I guess.”

Rook claps his hands together, beaming. “Ah, magnifique! I knew you would understand! Truly, you are a gem among knights!”

You slink off, still scratching your head. You’re 90% sure the wolves are a metaphor for absolutely nothing, but who are you to question the logic of a trash novel? At least the pay is good.

You quickly realize this trash novel is trying to trash you right back. It’s like every corner you turn, fate has decided you don’t deserve a peaceful life.

Walking through the garden to calm your nerves? Someone leaps out of the hedges with a dagger. You narrowly dodge, trip over a decorative fountain, and the attacker runs off, cackling.

Trying to enjoy the roses because you’re starting to think, “Hey, if I gotta die, at least let it be aesthetic?” Nope, arrow. Right past your ear.

By the fifth assassination attempt (some guy “accidentally” dropping a potted plant from a balcony), it clicks. The heroine must’ve decided since you’re not doing her dirty work anymore, she needs to eliminate you before you spill the beans. But, unlike her, you have brains.

So, you write a letter.

Dear Villainess and Esteemed Archduke,

I hope this letter finds you well, though considering the general chaos surrounding us, that feels optimistic.

I am writing to inform you of an unfortunate situation involving a certain someone (cough the crown princess cough) who has, shall we say, less-than-noble intentions toward your continued existence.

To clarify: she asked me to assassinate you. I know, shocking. However, as someone who values integrity, personal safety, and not being murdered by shady royalty, I’ve decided to step down from my position as her unwilling assassin.

This does mean she may hire someone else to handle the job, which is unfortunate for you but also none of my business anymore. I’m not sure how you typically handle murder plots, but I suggest taking precautions, like perhaps not smelling your roses or standing under precariously placed flower pots.

Lastly, while I am admittedly a pawn in this chaotic mess, I felt it was only fair to let you know what’s going on. I wish you both a long, unassassinated life.

Warm regards,

Your Local Retired Assassin

P.S. Please don’t kill me. I’m just the messenger.

You thought this letter would buy you peace. Instead, it bought you an invitation.

And by “invitation,” you mean you’ve been dragged into a private meeting with the villainess and the archduke, who are both sitting across from you now, looking like they’re deciding whether to thank you or strangle you.

“So,” the villainess says, her voice like ice. “You’re telling me the crown princess is plotting to kill me?”

“Uh, yes,” you say, your palms sweating. “But, like, not me anymore! I’ve retired. Permanently.”

The archduke raises an eyebrow. “Why would she want to kill us?”

You glance at the villainess. “Uh… because you exist?”

Before the villainess can stab you (she looks ready), the door swings open, and in saunters Rook.

“Ah, my friends!” he says, grinning ear to ear. “How serendipitous that we are all here. I believe I can shed some light on this matter.”

You gape as Rook launches into a detailed explanation of the heroine’s convoluted scheme—exactly what she’s planning, who she’s hiring, and even the color of the dress she’ll wear while gloating about it.

The villainess and the archduke exchange a glance, then rise, thanking Rook for his “invaluable insight” before sweeping out of the room, leaving you and Rook alone.

You turn to him, your jaw still on the floor. “How do you even know all that?”

Rook just winks at you. “Ah, mon chevalier, the shadows have ears, and I am their maestro.”

He struts out, humming a jaunty tune, leaving you sitting there, more confused than ever. At this point, you’re half-convinced Rook is either a genius or just making stuff up as he goes. And honestly? You’re too tired to figure it out.

You’re stationed at the edge of the garden, trying your best to blend into the scenery while the tea party unfolds. Rook, as usual, is the life of the gathering, passionately chatting with Vil and Epel, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You’re in your usual "bodyguard mode," which mostly consists of staring off into the distance and trying not to fall asleep. It’s peaceful—for once—until Epel casually drops a comment loud enough for even you to hear.

"Rook, you finally got them back, huh?"

Your brain screeches to a halt.

Got you back? Back? What does that mean? What is there to get back? Was there something to get back in the first place?

You barely have time to process any of this before Rook, in the most Rook way possible, interrupts with a flurry of poetic nonsense.

“Ah, young Epel, the winds of fortune have indeed graced me with their bounteous song! But let us not dwell on the past, for the present blooms before us like a radiant garden of opportunity!”

You blink. Did… did that mean anything? Epel seems to think it doesn’t, judging by the way he rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath. But you’re too busy processing the odd look on Rook’s face to care.

Because, for the first time ever, Rook looks nervous.

His usual serene confidence is still there, but there’s a hint of something else—a faint pink dusting his cheeks, an almost imperceptible shift in his tone. And why the hell is your heart fluttering at the sight?

You squint at him, trying to decode whatever is happening here. Is he… embarrassed? Flustered? Can Rook even be flustered?

Before you can spiral further into overthinking, you notice Vil’s sharp gaze cutting through the moment like a knife. His violet eyes lock onto yours, and an infuriatingly amused smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

Oh no. He knows.

Vil, of course, pretends like nothing’s happening, smoothly pouring himself another cup of tea and joining the conversation like the consummate aristocrat he is. But every so often, you catch him glancing at you with that same entertained expression, like he’s just discovered a juicy secret.

You try to shake it off, refusing to let yourself be dragged into this nonsense. But Rook’s flushed face lingers in your mind, and every time he smiles at you for the rest of the party, you feel the heat creeping up your own cheeks.

Great. Just great. Whatever this is, it’s going to haunt you for days.

It started with an uproar in the palace—a desperate, urgent call for help sent to Rook, Duke of Hunt.

"The wolves are attacking!"

You were mid-sword practice when the messenger arrived, breathless and frantic. He handed the summons to Rook, who took the parchment with an amused smile.

"Wolves, you say?" he mused, tapping his chin dramatically.

"Yes, my lord!" The messenger practically collapsed from the effort of delivering the message. "They’ve breached the outer gardens, and the prince and heroine request your immediate assistance!"

Rook looked at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ah, mon chevalier, do you recall what I told you once about wolves?"

You blinked, frowning. "You mean the thing about being surrounded by wolves one day? I thought you were joking."

Rook’s grin widened. "Oh, I never jest about wolves."

You opened your mouth to demand clarification, but Rook waved the parchment dismissively. "Alas, I must decline."

The messenger froze. "W-What? But…you’re the Duke of Hunt! The greatest tracker and marksman in the kingdom! Without you, the palace is doomed!"

Rook leaned forward conspiratorially. "Tell me, mon ami, what makes you think I’d risk life and limb for the likes of the heroine and her precious prince?"

The messenger stammered. "B-But—"

Rook held up a hand, silencing him. "No, no. I simply cannot. My schedule is far too packed. Why, just this morning, I promised my chevalier here that I’d help reorganize their weapons rack." He turned to you with a wink. "Isn’t that right?"

You rolled your eyes but nodded. "Yep. Super busy."

The messenger left, looking utterly defeated. You figured that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Over the next two hours, messengers kept arriving, each more desperate than the last. Rook refused them all with increasing flamboyance.

One messenger was sent away with, "Alas, the stars are not in alignment for such a hunt!"

Another was dismissed with, "The winds whisper that this is not my destiny today."

Finally, a personal plea came from the heroine herself. She barged into the estate, dramatically throwing herself at Rook’s feet.

"Oh, noble Duke!" she wailed. "You are the only one who can save us! Please, I beg of you!"

Rook tilted his head, pretending to think it over. Then he glanced at you, his expression suddenly sharp beneath the veneer of cheer.

"And what of my chevalier?" he asked.

The heroine frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You’ve made quite a nuisance of yourself lately," Rook said lightly, though there was an edge to his voice. "Why, only yesterday, you sent someone to ambush them in the gardens, did you not?"

Her face paled.

"I might reconsider," Rook said, his tone taking on a singsong quality, "if you promise to leave them alone from now on."

There was a long, tense pause. The heroine’s expression flickered between rage and fear before she finally forced a smile. "Very well. I promise."

"Splendid!" Rook clapped his hands and stood. "To the hunt, then!"

You stood there in stunned silence as he walked out the door, bow in hand. When he turned back to flash you a grin, you couldn’t help but mutter, "What the hell just happened?"

Rook’s laugh echoed through the halls, and you were left wondering yet again if you’d ever fully understand this ridiculous man.

It’s payday, baby.

You’ve never been more excited to hold a pouch of jingling coins in your life. Your day off couldn’t have come at a better time, and you’ve already decided to treat yourself. No assassination attempts, no cryptic poetry, no Rook yammering about beauty—just you, the market, and sweet, sweet retail therapy.

After wandering for a while, you stumble upon a fruit stall, and your eyes light up. The produce is incredible—vividly colored, juicy, and nothing like the waxy, suspiciously glossy stuff you’d get in your original world. You don’t even know what half these fruits are, but they smell amazing, and you’re buying them all.

As you carry your haul back to the manor, an idea hits you like a freight train. You’ve been craving dessert—specifically, something you can’t get in medieval Europe. Something simple, sweet, and utterly anachronistic.

And that’s how you end up in the kitchen, surrounded by fresh fruit, flour, sugar, and whatever else you’ve managed to scrounge up. You’re determined to make crêpes. Yes, you know they weren’t invented yet, but the cooks don’t even seem to know what a waffle is, so they’re not going to stop you.

It takes a bit of trial and error—because, shocker, medieval kitchens are not equipped for finesse—but eventually, you’ve got a plate of soft, golden crêpes filled with fresh fruit and drizzled with honey. It’s so beautiful it almost brings a tear to your eye.

You’re mid-bite, mentally congratulating yourself, when Rook materializes out of nowhere like some kind of dessert-seeking missile.

“Mon chevalier! What marvel have you crafted here in this humble kitchen? The scent alone rivals the sweetest perfume!”

You freeze. This is fine. He’s just curious. There’s no reason to panic. Subconsciously, you scoop up a bite on your fork and offer it to him, your body on autopilot.

Rook doesn’t hesitate, leaning in and accepting the bite with the elegance of a prince at court. “Magnifique! Truly, you have woven magic into this creation, mon cher!”

You relax slightly, pride swelling at the compliment—until he takes your hand and licks a stray drop of honey from your finger.

Your brain short-circuits.

Before you can even form a coherent thought, Rook grins at you with that infuriatingly charming smile of his, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek.

“You are as talented in the kitchen as you are with a blade,” he says, his voice warm and soft, as if he hasn’t just dismantled your sanity.

And then he’s gone, striding out of the kitchen with his usual jaunty step, leaving you standing there like an idiot, replaying the sensation of his lips on your cheek and his tongue on your finger.

You slowly sink to the floor, crêpe in hand, trying to process what just happened.

“Why,” you mutter to yourself, taking another bite of your crêpe for courage, “does this keep happening to me?”

Life had been…dare you say it, pleasant recently. No assassination attempts, no tea parties and no surprise arrows whizzing by your head. You were almost convinced this world might not be so bad after all.

But like clockwork, the plot reared its ugly head.

You were outside, basking in the rare serenity of a quiet afternoon, when the shouting began. You knew the voice instantly. It was grating, furious, and way too familiar.

Your abusive father—the original you’s deadbeat excuse for a parent—had somehow crawled out of the woodwork.

“You useless brat!” he snarled, stomping toward you. “How dare you stop sending money? Do you think you’re too good for your family now?!”

Oh, for the love of—

You crossed your arms, already done with the theatrics. “First of all, family implies mutual care and respect, neither of which you’ve ever provided. Secondly, kiss my ass.”

The man’s face turned a deep shade of purple, veins bulging in his forehead. He raised his hand, and you didn’t flinch. You weren’t scared of him. You were just irritated that he had the audacity to show up and ruin your vibe.

But before his hand could even swing down, an arrow whizzed past, slicing through the air with deadly precision. It nicked his cheek, leaving a shallow cut, and he yelped like a scolded dog.

You turned, and there he was.

Rook.

But this wasn’t the poetic, flowery Rook who praised sunsets and waxed lyrical about everything under the sun. No, this was Duke Hunt. His bow was clenched tightly in one hand, his expression colder than you’d ever seen. His eyes locked onto your father, sharp and unyielding, and for the first time, you truly understood why people called him a hunter.

Your father stumbled back, clutching his cheek. “Y-you’ll regret this! I’ll get my revenge!” he spat, turning tail and running like the two-bit villain he was.

You didn’t even watch him go. You were too busy staring at Rook, your heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the fact that, dammit, he looked good like this.

You silently scolded yourself. Really? Now? This is when you’re going to have a revelation about your feelings? Pull it together.

Rook’s gaze softened as he looked at you, and without a word, he closed the distance between you. Before you could process it, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a firm, steady embrace.

You stiffened for a moment, but then it hit you—you were shaken. You hadn’t realized it until now, but the encounter had left your hands trembling. And Rook…he didn’t say a word. He just held you, radiating warmth and reassurance, as if he knew exactly what you needed.

Slowly, you relaxed, leaning into him, letting the tension bleed out of your body. For once, there were no witty remarks, no poetic musings, no cryptic riddles. Just Rook, steady and solid, and the quiet comfort of his presence.

You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. Maybe life here wasn’t so bad after all.

It was the hunting competition trope—the bread and butter of every third-rate villainess novel ever written. Noblemen rode out in droves to massacre innocent wildlife in the name of prestige, while the women gathered on the sidelines to swoon over who could kill the most majestic creature.

Normally, you'd find this whole affair ridiculous, but today? Today, it was a strategic opportunity.

Rook and you had cooked up a plan. After bagging his game, Rook would publicly gift it to the villainess, cementing the stance of his household against the heroine. A subtle yet unmistakable message to everyone present: this duke’s house wasn’t here to play politics; it was drawing battle lines.

Rook was, predictably, ecstatic about it all. “Ah, mon chevalier, what a splendid opportunity to honor beauty and justice with the art of the hunt!” he proclaimed, twirling dramatically as he readied his bow.

What you didn’t anticipate was his strange fixation on a handkerchief before he left.

Throughout the day, noblewomen approached Rook, each one batting their lashes and holding out dainty, embroidered handkerchiefs. It was practically a parade of desperate peahens.

“Oh, Lord Hunt, a token for luck!” cooed one particularly persistent lady, pushing her frilly kerchief toward him.

Rook clasped his hands to his chest with exaggerated reverence. “Ah, mademoiselle, your thoughtfulness moves me beyond words, but alas, I cannot accept. To carry such a treasure into the wild would be to risk its loss, and I could never bear such tragedy!”

Another woman attempted to loop her kerchief around his wrist directly. Rook gracefully dodged, as though she were offering him a live snake. “My dear lady, your artistry is unparalleled, but the only adornment fit for this hunt is the pure, untainted spirit of nature herself!”

By the third rejection, you were practically biting your tongue to keep from laughing.

But then came the curveball.

“Ah,” Rook sighed as he approached you. “If only I had a handkerchief imbued with sincerity. A simple, honest token to guide my aim and steady my heart!”

You blinked at him. “What, like…this?” You pulled out your completely ordinary, unembellished handkerchief and held it out.

Rook’s eyes lit up as though you’d just handed him the Holy Grail. “Mon chevalier! How perfect! How divine! This humble square of cloth shall be my guiding light!”

Before you could protest, he tied it around his arm with a flourish and rode off, looking like he was ready to star in his own personal opera.

From his place in the pavilion, Vil Schoenheit took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, his sharp eyes locking onto yours with a glint of pure amusement. The smirk tugging at his lips seemed to say, Oh, I know exactly what’s going on.

Meanwhile, Epel squinted between you and Rook, his expression shifting rapidly as though he’d just cracked the secret to immortality. He whispered something to Vil, who nearly choked on his tea before regaining his composure.

What the hell is going on? you thought, baffled.

Fast forward to now, the present, where the plan was supposed to culminate with Rook triumphantly presenting his prize to the villainess. Simple, elegant, strategic.

So why, why, was Rook standing in front of you holding a literal griffin?

“Uh, Rook,” you whispered through gritted teeth. “What are you doing? This is supposed to go to the villainess.”

But Rook was having none of it.

“Ah, my loyal chevalier,” he declared loudly, drawing the attention of every noble in the vicinity. “It is only fitting that such a prize goes to the one who inspires my steadfastness and resolve!”

Your jaw dropped. “Rook. No.”

He turned his radiant smile on you, looking like a proud schoolboy showing off a crayon drawing to his teacher. “Yes!”

The gathered nobles erupted into murmurs, and you could already feel the weight of every single judgmental stare. This was not part of the plan. But despite your internal screaming, a small, annoying part of you couldn’t help but feel…flattered. This was a duke, and you were just a knight. A very confused, very underqualified knight, sure, but still.

Vil, still seated with his ever-present cup of tea, took another long, pointed sip, his eyes glimmering with amusement.

This was the drama he’d signed up for.

The hallway leading back to the room where Vil, Rook, and Epel were sitting felt oddly silent, the muffled voices of their conversation barely filtering through the door. You weren’t one to eavesdrop—but when you heard your name, well, curiosity got the better of you.

"Just confess already," Epel was saying, his tone exasperated. "We’ve all seen the way you look at them."

Vil chimed in, his voice tinged with amusement. "Epel is right for once, Rook. Love is about timing, and yours is abysmal."

"But love is an art, mon ami," Rook replied, his tone unusually hesitant. "It cannot be rushed. It must unfold naturally, like the petals of a flower in spring."

"Okay," Vil drawled, clearly unimpressed. "But what happens when someone else plucks your ‘flower’? Say, the gardener they’ve been spending so much time with?"

The silence that followed was deafening. You leaned closer, your heart pounding, hoping—no, needing—to hear Rook’s response.

Instead, you heard nothing.

The stillness stretched unbearably until you couldn’t take it anymore. You shoved the door open, startling all three occupants. "What are you talking about?"

Vil raised an eyebrow, the picture of nonchalance, though the corners of his mouth twitched with mischief. "Perfect timing, as always. I’ll leave you two to sort this out."

He grabbed a very reluctant Epel by the collar and dragged him toward the door. "Wait, I wanna see what happens!" Epel protested, but Vil shut the door behind them with a decisive click.

Which left you and Rook alone.

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a look that you hoped masked the frantic hammering of your heart. "So…what’s this about a confession?"

Rook’s usual composure faltered. For once, the poetic, perpetually self-assured Rook you knew looked…unsure. Vulnerable. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his gloves, and he avoided your gaze, staring instead at the floor.

"Rook," you said softly, stepping closer. "Please, just tell me what’s going on. I need to know."

He finally looked up, and the raw emotion in his eyes was enough to steal your breath.

"Mon chevalier," he began, his voice low and trembling, "I have loved you from the start. At first, it was the camaraderie of equals, a kindred spirit I admired. But when you returned from the heroine’s side, defying expectations and staying true to yourself…you captured my heart completely."

You blinked, stunned. "Rook, I—"

He continued, the words spilling out as though he’d been holding them back for far too long. "You never treated me like I was strange. You accepted me as I am, even when others mocked my passions or dismissed my eccentricities. I never truly needed a bodyguard. I just needed you. Near me. Always."

His voice broke slightly on the last word, and you felt your resolve crumble.

You sighed, but it wasn’t from exasperation. It was the sound of relief, of something clicking into place. "Next time," you said, stepping even closer, "just tell me your feelings directly. It’ll save us both a lot of trouble."

Before he could respond, you reached up and pulled him into a kiss.

It was everything a first kiss should be—long, searing, passionate. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you flush against him as though he never wanted to let go. You melted into him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, and for a moment, the world outside that kiss ceased to exist.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. Rook’s lips quirked into a smile as he whispered, "Your lips are the sweetest arrow, mon amour, and they have pierced my heart beyond repair."

You burst into laughter, burying your face in the crook of his neck to muffle the sound. "Gods, Rook, only you could ruin a moment like this with something so cheesy."

He chuckled softly, his arms still secure around you.

And as you stood there in his embrace, you couldn’t help but think that this ridiculous, trashy novel world was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

The parlor was warm with the golden light of afternoon sun filtering through the windows, but the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation. You stood near Rook, his arm casually draped across the back of your chair, as Vil and Epel looked at you expectantly.

“Well?” Vil prompted, raising a perfectly arched brow.

You glanced at Rook, who smiled encouragingly, as if to say, go ahead. Clearing your throat, you announced, “We’re…together.”

Vil sighed dramatically, setting down his teacup with a soft clink. “Finally. I was starting to think I’d have to intervene.”

Epel, on the other hand, froze mid-sip of his cider. Slowly, he set the glass down, stood, and walked over to you. His expression was a mix of grief and dread, like someone had just informed him of some terrible, life-altering news.

He placed both hands firmly on your shoulders and looked you dead in the eyes. “Good luck,” he said, solemn as a funeral bell. “This is a life sentence, y’know.”

Rook chuckled, clearly amused. “Mon cher Epel, you wound me! Surely being with moi is more of a treasure than a trial?”

Epel turned to him, unimpressed. “Treasure? You follow people for fun. You recite poetry to wild animals. You can’t even eat pie without analyzing its existential meaning. I mean, who does that?”

You were already laughing, shaking your head as you patted Epel’s hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Epel. This is a sentence I’m more than happy to serve.”

Vil smirked behind his tea, watching the scene unfold with obvious amusement. “Frankly, I’m just relieved we won’t have to endure any more of his tragic sighs every time you left a room.”

Rook clasped a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Oh, Vil! My sighs are poetry incarnate!”

Vil didn’t even blink. “Your sighs are the sound of unspoken melodrama. Spare me.”

Epel plopped back into his seat with a long groan, running a hand through his hair. “Anyway, I guess congratulations or whatever. At least now we can all stop pretending we don’t notice him staring at you like some love-struck puppy.”

“That’s rich,” you shot back, grinning. “You’re the one who looks like your pet rat just died every time we get close.”

Epel huffed. “I’m just saying! Now you gotta deal with him being even more poetic! And clingy! You thought the prince and heroine were bad? Wait till you see Rook when he’s in love. You’re doomed.”

At the mention of the prince and heroine, Vil made an exaggerated sound of disgust. “Speaking of those two… Honestly, has anyone ever been so painfully predictable? The prince has all the charm of wet cardboard, and the heroine—don’t even get me started on her hair ribbons.”

“Ah, the heroine,” Rook sighed wistfully, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Always so delightfully transparent. Her schemes are like open windows to her soul.”

You snorted. “If by soul, you mean her desperate attempts to turn everything into a sob story, then yeah, sure.”

Epel leaned forward, grinning. “Did you see her crying at the hunt competition? Like, girl, it’s a competition. What did you think would happen? That the griffin would apologize and hand itself over?”

Vil smirked, tapping a manicured finger against his chin. “Or how about the prince declaring his ‘eternal devotion’ to her at the banquet last week? I nearly choked on my wine.”

Rook chuckled, turning to you with a soft smile that was far more genuine than his usual theatrics. “Ah, but let us not waste all our words on such trivialities. This moment, mon amour, is one of joy.”

You leaned into him, your laughter subsiding into a contented smile. His arm slipped around your shoulders, holding you close as Vil and Epel continued their playful bickering in the background.

For the first time since you’d been thrown into this absurd world, you felt completely at ease. If this was the result of being trapped in a trash novel, then so be it. You were exactly where you wanted to be.

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