#how am I supposed to sleep at night knowing what I know...

[withrafayel]

waves.

pairing: zayne x reader genre/warnings: mild angst, hurt/comfort if you squint i guess?? word count: 0.6k note: yay my first lads piece after weeks of debating whether or not i should start posting for lads. pretty self-indulgent bc i am skraight up going through a shitty time lmao

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / ko-fi

Despite what Zayne does for a living, the most rewarding part of his day is always coming home to you.

Maybe it shouldn’t be, and maybe it’s not something he should admit out loud to anyone at the hospital, but he can’t lie. It’s the truth after all.

Today was a long day, such as most days are for him.

11:48PM, it’s not unusual for him to stroll into a quiet and darkened apartment, accompanied only by the gentle whirring of the refrigerator and the faraway sound of cars passing by the adjacent street. It’s peaceful and calm, and it’s exactly what he needs when he knows that just a few steps away, hidden by a closed bedroom door is you, the only safe haven he's ever known.

On most days, you’d either already be asleep by now, or sleepily watching videos on your phone while waiting for Zayne to come home so you could kiss him goodnight. It’s routine, it’s how he expects to find you.

But instead, tonight he finds himself frozen outside your shared bedroom, a hand hovering over the door handle when he hears you shuffling inside. Tissues being pulled from their designated box on your nightstand. Sniffles and choked out sobs, like it’s impossible for you to hold back anymore.

The ache blooms instantaneously, just listening to you on the other side of the door. Knowing that you’re crying all alone in the dead of night, that he’s part of the reason why it’s come to this — because you don’t want him to have to shoulder your burdens too.

So you hold onto them by yourself, bearing the weight alone until it becomes to colossal to hold.

Zayne supposes you’re similar in that way — both too stubborn to share your troubles with the other. It’s how he knows that if he were to walk in right now, you’d be embarrassed thinking you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Hastily wiping away your tears and pretending that everything is fine for his sake, only for the same affliction to come bubbling up to the surface another day.

He stays rooted to the spot, simply waiting. Sometimes, these are the motions that you have to go through, a cleanse of sorts so that you can start anew again.

But even then, it hurts him too, merely listening to how it hurts you. The sharp intakes of breath between uncontrollable sobs, the crumpling of tissues, some incoherent mumbles to yourself that he can’t quite make out.

A question strikes like lightning. How many nights have you been doing this? When he’s not around, how many times have you curled up into yourself, crushed by burdens you would never speak aloud? While the rest of the world is on pause and at peace, his love is here, unravelling all alone.

Zayne waits some more, until the sobs die down and the sniffles fade away and he’s sure that you’ve fallen asleep. The door opens with not so much as a creak. His heart twists again when he catches sight of you, with the duvet pulled up to your shoulders and tears staining your cheeks.

It’s a particular kind of heartbreak, bearing witness to this.

He makes quick work of freshening up for bed in the en suite bathroom, and when he finally slips under the covers with you, his moves are calculated. A careful arm sliding around your body to pull you closer, soft lips ghosting over your swollen eyelids so you wouldn’t wake, then gentle hands tucking your face into the crook of his neck. Like he’s trying to piece you back together. Like this is all he can do for now.

“Sleep well,” he whispers, barely audible at all, “my love.”

[fantasticfourthwingimagines]

When It First Took Hold Pairing - Dain Aetos x RiorsonSister!Reader Summary - You're so worried about challenges starting next week that you can't sleep. So instead you decide to sneak out and try and get some practice in the gym. Unfortunately, your wingleader catches you out after curfew. Word Count - 1.4k Warnings - None!

It was one of the nights where the world refused to be quiet. You tossed and turned for hours in the barracks, every single sound, from the wind rattling the windows, soft laughter, moans echoing from the far end of the barracks, kept you from the sleep you were longing for. When the moon was high in the sky, you realized you couldn’t take it any longer. You glanced over beside you, but Sloane didn’t seem to have the same problem, since she was sound asleep. You slipped your cloak around your shoulders and crept out, quiet as a shadow, not even sure where your feet were taking you until you ended up at the gym. 

Challenges started next week, and you knew all the eyes that mattered would be on you. Your squad, the other marked ones who were already looking for a reason to crucify you since you had gotten to live such a “extravagant” life with no relic compared to themselves . . . Everyone was waiting for you to fall on your face, and you couldn’t let it happen. You couldn’t disappoint Xaden who was already pissed off you were here in the first place, and you didn’t want to disappoint Violet who you were sure was reporting back to him with how you were doing. That meant you had to be better, and that meant you needed more practice. 

The problem was, it was hard to practice sparring when there was no one to spar with. You resigned yourself to using the punching bag to practice your hits and kicks, but didn’t feel like you were getting anything out of it. In fact you felt more frustrated than when you started. 

“You’re out after curfew, cadet.” 

Shit. You turned, pushing your sweaty hair out of your eyes and meeting your wingleader’s gaze. Once again, you questioned why the man you were supposed to hate had to look like that. Dain Aetos’s eyes were dark in the dim lighting of the gym, but his gaze dipped for the briefest second, down your form and back up again, and you couldn’t tell if it was judgment or something else that made the tips of your ears burn. Something about his presence always seemed to rob the breath from your lungs, but it had to be the exercise you were doing, right? “Well . . . So are you. Doesn’t that cancel me out or something?” 

He was not amused. “Get your ass to bed Riorson.” 

“No! I - I can’t.” You said, panic creeping into your tone against your will. 

Dain’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak. He waited, like he knew you weren’t done yet. 

Before you realized what you were doing or why, you were blurting out your fears. “Challenges start on Monday, and I don’t want to let the squad down. I suck Aetos. Aaric is a natural, Sloane . . . doesn’t want to try. I only got a few weeks of combat training, and no one is helping me. I can’t - fuck, I can’t give people more reasons to hate me by being bad at this.” 

Something flickered across Dain’s face, quick and unreadable, but it didn’t look like scorn. He stepped closer to you, “All the marked ones were trained-”

You tugged the neckline of your shirt down, exposing smooth, unmarked skin. “Don’t have a mark. My mother smuggled me out to Poromiel when things started turning ugly. Easy to do since she was a Poromish citizen. Not much Navarre could do.” You caught the faint flush on his cheeks, but said nothing. Instead, you turned back to the punching bag. “Marked ones know who I am, and I’ve spent the majority of my life thinking I’d be accepted by them when I got here only to learn they all can’t stand me because they think I got off easy.” You threw a punch that hurt more than it should. “Do you know how it feels when the people you thought were your family, the people you spent a lot of your childhood with, fucking hate you?” 

He was so quiet, if you hadn’t been able to feel his gaze on your back, you would have thought he left. Then he was right behind you, taking up way too much space. “You’re going to break your wrist if you keep throwing punches like that.” 

“I - what?” You blinked at him, the shift from emotional spiral to sparring advice short-circuiting your brain. 

“And you’re aiming your hits in the wrong spot. The straighter the punch the better. You’re going to do a lot better aiming for the jugular-” His fingers brushed the surface just inches from yours, and your breath caught, not from nerves, but from the warmth of his proximity. “- than the face.” 

Okay, that made sense, but your head was clouded in confusion. Was Dain Aetos, your brother’s number one hater, trying to help you? “What are you doing?” 

He took a deep breath. “You said no one was helping you. It’s my responsibility as your wingleader -” 

“Bullshit.” You interrupted. “I’m nothing to your wing until I make it through threshing and manifest a signet. What. Are. You. Doing?” Gods this better not be pity. That wasn’t what you wanted. In fact you didn’t think you’d be able to stand it from him. 

Dain stared at you, an expression in his eyes that you could almost describe as . . . Understanding. “I do.” His voice was quieter now. “I know how it feels when people you thought you knew look at you like you’re something they don’t even recognize.” 

Suddenly, you knew. The way he and Violet were with each other. You had heard whispers about the two of them, and then the way Violet spoke to him on the parapet . . . Her words about not letting him touch you swam back in your mind. “Aetos-”

You saw the exact second the door slammed shut behind his eyes. Whatever softness had cracked through was now gone. “Let’s go. A few rounds, then kicks. You want to survive next week, right?” 

As much as you hated to admit it, you knew Dain was a good fighter, and you’d be stupid not to accept his help. So you did. Of course, his definition of “a few rounds” was a damn lie. By the time you moved on to kicks, sweat was pouring off you like rain. 

“Spread your legs.” 

You couldn’t help it. It had to be the lack of brain function due to the stress of exercise. It was the only logical explanation to why your thoughts immediately went to Dain saying those words to you in another situation, shirtless, that intense gaze locked on you once more. Shocked that the thought had even dared cross your mind, you shook it off like a physical thing, hoping it hadn’t somehow broadcast itself. “I - what?” You said, thankful for how much you were exercising because you were sure it was helping hide the flush in your cheeks. 

Thankfully, Dain took no notice of your weirdness, moving from behind the punching bag to behind you, his boots kicking your legs further apart. 

Great. Another mental image to shake out of your head. 

“It’ll help with your balance. Just make sure you’re centered-” You saw his hands start to rise toward your waist, then pause mid-air, fingers flexing like he was caught between instinct and caution. A moment later, they dropped back to his sides. “-between both of them.” He carried on like nothing had happened. 

But you’d never been good at letting things go. “Aetos,” you didn’t mean for your voice to sound that soft.. “Why did Violet tell me not to let you touch me?” 

Looking at him over your shoulder, you could see the conflict in his eyes, the pain that was too much for him to hide, and for a moment you . . . felt sorry for him. Then it was gone, replaced with the sternness you had seen when he first walked in. “It’s getting late. You need to get to bed, cadet.” Without another word, Dain Aetos started walking to the door. 

You stood frozen, already kicking yourself for asking. Why the hell did you have to ruin it? He was helping. He was helping. Of course you had finally gotten help, and then fucked it up. You pulled your shirt up, wiping some of the sweat from your face. 

“If you want some more help . . .” 

Your head snapped up. He was still at the door, facing you, cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. 

Maybe you weren��t the only one flustered tonight. 

“I’ll be here tomorrow night at around the same time.” 

Swallowing, you nodded at him. “Thank you.” You whispered, but he seemed to hear you fine, nodding back at you and walking out the door. 

You really needed to figure out why everyone hated him - 

Because so far, all he’d done was help you. 

And leave you a little breathless.

[loversrocktvgirl2]

my mini multiverse of madness… 

Workshop (Tony Stark x Reader AU)

word count: ~1.1k

masterlist

Tony Stark was good at flying solo. He was good at getting things done, inventing and reinventing and reinventing, and when he couldn’t sleep at night or didn’t want to think about anything else, he knew that he could tinker, and that was exactly what he did. It was starting to get to the point where the Avengers were worrying about his sanity. Well, it was a bit more like Nat, Steve, and Nick who cared. Everyone else had noticed, but it was Tony. It seemed normal for his hyperactive brain. 

Nick tried sending other people down while Tony worked. He began with Steve, and Steve walked down to the workshop, opened it up with the key Nick had given hi, and offered to Tony to help him out. Tony just quirked an eyebrow, looked over at Steve, and said one word. “You?”

Very seriously, Steve nodded. “Yes. Me. Is there anything I can do to help you out here?”

Tony snorted and returned to his work, ignoring Steve entirely. So Steve went back upstairs. The next day, Nick tried sending down Nat. Nat was slightly less ignored than Steve, but Tony quickly forgot she was there and forgot to give her anything to do, so she went back upstairs and informed Nick of the situation. Nick decided he was just going to run an intervention instead. 

“Tony,” Nick said. “You have spent twenty hours of the past twenty-four down in your workshop. It’s not healthy, and you need to stop.”

“Hey, I slept for those four! That’s pretty good for me,” Tony argued. 

Nick rolled his eyes. “Case in point, buddy. It’s not. Either we get someone down there to work with you so you stop overworking yourself, or you minimize the hours you’re there. What’s it gonna be?”

“The second one,” Tony grumbled.

And Tony tried. He really did. He tried not to be in the workshop every waking minute, tried to stay upstairs, converse with people, bully Steve in his free time instead of working. But then he slipped into the habit of sneaking downstairs into the workshop when Nick wasn’t around, and it did not take long before Nick caught on. 

And so you were hired. 

You walked on in to the workshop like you were walking into work, which, of course, you were, but Tony was more relaxed about these things. He seemed confused at first. His eyes flicked up and down and then he asked, “who are you?” 

“Uh, Nick hired me,” you informed. “He said that you needed someone to help out. I needed a new job. Ta-da! Here I am.” Your tone was laced with a hint of sarcasm that made Tony snort. And while he considered kicking you out, he decided that he really didn’t feel like it, and so he just went back to business. 

You just got in his business. It bothered him at first. Tony, again, preferred to fly solo. But he was starting to get some of your helpfulness. You’d solve problems before he could get to them, just to let him continue working on the project. He was doing things…more quickly, he supposed, and your presence was oddly comforting, despite the fact that he knew little about you. At 6 pm, you told him you were going to leave, and so he walked you out. During this brief time upstairs, he managed to get himself roped into a game of Monopoly. 

The next day, you showed up again at 8:30 am, didn’t bother to reintroduce yourself, and got right back to working with Tony. It went on for weeks. He actually looked forward to you coming, and when you left, he often wouldn’t go back downstairs into the workshop. But then he was starting to realize he didn’t know some very basic things about you. He knew your name, but…how old were you? What was your last name? Middle name? Favorite food, favorite movie, favorite book? He had no idea.

So the next time you showed up and got to working with him, Tony decided to ask some questions. As you were helping him attach two chest pieces of the Iron Man suit together, Tony asked, “so uh…what kinds of stuff do you like?”

“What do you mean?” you inquired, screwing in a bolt. 

“Well, I see you every day, and I don’t know anything about you,” Tony replied as he screwed in the bolts on the opposite side. “C’mon, you’ve gotta have likes and dislikes, a personality maybe?”

You snorted. “Uh… I mean, sure, yeah. I’ve got stuff I like to watch when I get home. Music I like.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” And you get talking. 

Tony’s a hyperverbal guy. He can talk for hours. And he’s actually pretty fun to talk to, as long as you’ve got the energy to deal with him. And you somehow do. 

It’s not long before Nick and the Avengers start to catch on to the fact that Tony likes you. “Don’t date her, Tony, she’s the best thing that’s happened to your mental state, and I would rather you not sacrifice that,” Natasha said. And yes. Tony valued Natasha and her opinion. But he decided to take that specific one with a grain of salt, and he went ahead and asked you out anyway. 

“Aren’t you technically my boss?” you countered. 

“Well, technically, Nick is your boss. I am just your only coworker,” Tony argued. 

You shrugged. “Sounds fine, then.”

The first date you go with Tony on is to a wing bar. You get the spiciest wings off the menu and try to beat each other at who can eat the most of them (they are ungodly hot), and then the two of you get stupider and decide to see if you drink the other one under the table. For a couple of geniuses, you’re both idiots. 

Now, you were both way too drunk to drive, so Tony called Rhodey to come and pick you both up. Rhodey was shaking his head in the front seat while you and Tony giggled in the back of the car like teenagers. 

Nick wasn’t happy about this at first, but he knew there was no way to really fully control Tony, and he eventually learned to let go of it. Besides, you’re Tony’s healthiest and longest lasting relationship in the past decade. Who would he be to break it up? 

taglist @spaceycat @vidanand @xo-cench @raikan624 @yeehawgiddyup13 @wpdarlingpan @puer-aurea

[fameandfiction]

IMAGINE PART II: “Drooling on the Star: The Afterburn” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— Post-embarrassment vulnerability, soft confrontation & unresolved tension.

Requested | PART1 - PART2

[Later. Same night. 3:04 AM.]

You’re both in the hotel suite now.

It’s a high-rise downtown with blackout curtains that turn everything into velvet—deep and heavy. Your body still hums from the nap earlier, and from the echo of that mortifying moment where your unconscious self betrayed every shred of pride by drooling all over America’s lesbian pop princess.

Reneé hasn’t mentioned it since. Not directly. But her expression has been smug all night.

The kind of smug that says she’s storing it for later. Weaponizing it for just the right moment. A talk show anecdote, maybe. Or a lyric.

God, she’d put it in a song.

You're on the couch again. This time upright. Cross-legged. Wrapped in a hotel robe because you forgot your pajamas in your suitcase.

Reneé is sprawled on the opposite end, hoodie half-on, hood up, cheeks flushed from the hot shower she took twenty minutes ago. The ends of her hair are still damp.

She keeps glancing at you.

You pretend not to notice.

But then she speaks—low, casual.

"That was the most disgusting and adorable thing I've ever experienced."

You groan. “I knew you were gonna bring it up.”

Reneé shrugs, sipping her water. “I waited a respectful amount of time.”

"Respectfully shut up," you say, throwing a pillow at her.

She catches it, grinning. “Nah, for real. You were out cold. Like… full dead weight. You do that often?”

You lean your head back. "Not usually. I guess I just feel safe with you."

The words leave before you can dress them up or tie a ribbon around them.

They’re raw.

And when you lift your gaze, Reneé’s smile falters. Not in a bad way—more like she wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.

You try to soften it. “I mean, tour’s a lot. Being around people is a lot. But you’re not…”

“A lot?” she finishes for you, raising an eyebrow.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Not in the draining way.”

There’s a pause. Tension, quiet and pulsing, like a second heartbeat in the room.

Reneé leans forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped.

"Sometimes I wonder if people like me because they feel like they should," she says, voice quiet. “Or because it’s convenient. Or because they want to be seen with me.”

You blink. "Is that what you think I’m doing?"

She shakes her head immediately. "No. You drooled on me, babe. That was too real."

You laugh, finally. Shoulders easing.

But Reneé doesn’t laugh with you this time. She just watches you. With that look she only gets when she’s writing something in her head. A verse. A moment. A you.

“You scared me for a second,” she says. “When you pulled away so fast.”

Your smile fades. “I was embarrassed.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “But you didn’t have to be.”

You study her—how tired she looks. How present.

"I know I joke a lot," she continues. "And I flirt. That’s my armor. I don’t really… let people sleep on me.”

“Lucky me,” you whisper.

Another pause.

You mean it as a joke. But Reneé’s head tilts, and suddenly the silence isn’t funny anymore.

“I mean, really,” you add, quieter. “You could’ve shoved me off.”

“I didn’t want to,” she says.

You breathe in.

And then it just—slips out of you.

"I miss this when I’m home."

She nods. “Me too.”

There’s so much unsaid packed between those two words that it hurts. You shift, the robe slipping off one shoulder, and Reneé’s eyes drop there—just for a beat—before flicking back up.

“You staying the night?” she asks, voice rough.

You blink. “Am I not supposed to?”

Reneé shrugs. “You can do whatever you want.”

“Dangerous thing to say to a girl who just drooled on you.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, standing and stretching, “I’m dangerous too.”

You watch her walk to the bed, pull the covers back. Your chest tightens.

You’d slept beside her before. It had never been weird. Not even when your legs touched. Not even when you accidentally grabbed her hand in your sleep.

But tonight feels different.

And maybe it’s because she’s letting it.

When you eventually climb into bed, you keep your distance at first.

But Reneé is already half-asleep. Hair still damp. Breathing steady.

You whisper, “Night, Rapp.”

She doesn’t open her eyes. Just mutters—

“You know you can sleep on me again.”

You choke on a laugh. “Hard pass.”

“I’m serious. I liked it.”

“You liked me drooling on you?”

She turns, finally looking at you.

“No,” she says softly. “I liked you trusting me enough to fall asleep like that. You never do.”

You look at her. At the sincerity in her face.

And you realize... she’s right.

You never do.

Requested | PART1 - PART2

[paperaddictionss]

Bakugou Katsuki~

Without you.

His Letter To You

Dear Y/N,

This is day 352 without you, i can’t say it’s gotten any easier Y/N, because it hasn’t. In fact it’s gotten worse, everything reminds me of you. The way the flowers bloom in spring on the small patch of grass in our garden, to the way a certain store smells.

It’s like you’re following me everywhere…even though you’re not actually here. God i wish you were following me everywhere. I never would’ve thought that I’d ever write stuff like this, let alone fall in love.

Falling in love with you was one of the best and worst things of my life. It was the best because i finally found my person who grounds me, who understands me, reassures me and loves ME for ME. The anger, the pain, the sadness, you loved every part.

You kissed every single broken part of me and put it back together perfectly with nothing but love. And yet now, here i sit in the empty, dark corner of our room, writing away on this flimsy piece of paper because i am unable to express my emotions through speaking.

I’ve wrote to you since the day it happened, hoping one day you’d come back to me and i’d be able to show you how much i loved and missed you while you were gone.

I hated falling in love with you, because being without you makes me so angry at the world for not giving us more time. We had a whole other books to complete together and yet, i was only a few chapters in yours.

I hate time. I hate death. I hate everything and everyone. I miss you. Come back to me. Why can’t you come back to me damn it.

Those big beautiful eyes i fell in love with, were supposed to be passed down to my children. But instead, I mourn them. I flick through photos to remind myself this is why im still here -surviving-even if it is barely.

I will never love anyone else the way I have loved you, my heart truly belongs to you, as well as my soul. And if there is other universes out there, I promise i’ll come searching for you in every single one, because i don’t want just a couple of chapters with you, i want a lifetime worth of books with you. Which is why i write to you, because even though we can’t be together physically, i can still give you the lifetime of books describing how much you mean to me because that’s the least that you deserve.

Everyone is distraught by your passing, some have moved on, some still mourn you. I will never get over you, i swear sometimes i see you in the corner of my eyes, or even feel you when im laying awake at night staring into the abyss pondering about what we could of had if you weren’t took away from me so soon.

I hope you’re okay wherever you are, i hope you’re proud of me, like im proud of you. Most of all, i hope you don’t forget about me.

I always thought that my biggest fear was not becoming the number one pro hero, but i soon learnt that my biggest fear was in fact losing you.

I’ll continue fighting, proving myself everyday, doing better, being kinder, softer, for you. I’ll continue making you happy, continue your legacy so the world knows just how amazing and special you are.

I look back on times where we fought or argued, and they sting me leaving me with the numbness of guilt for ever leaving, for not spending enough time with you and cherishing what we had. You were always right. I just had too much pride. And yet, you still loved me.

If i could make one wish now, it would be to never take time for granted ever again.

Anyways, you must be tired. Sleep well Princess, I love you for eternity.

Lots of Love,

Yours,

Katsuki

[maudie-duan]

Series Summary: Harry has been fighting to keep his relationship with Olivia afloat for nearly two years. At what point do you choose to either endure or let the strain of the world defeat his ambitious hopes of a lasting relationship? Or will a single night and a fleeting encounter be enough to change the projection of Harry’s path? Maybe our ‘Mystery Girl,’ Shiloh, will just happen to be in the right place at the right time. 

Word Count: 5.3K

Warning: SLOW-BURNER, Strong Language, Major Angst, Mentions of Pregnancy Emotional.

I've been awake for over an hour, sitting in this chair across from her bed, watching her sleep, drowning in the weight of what I have to do. She looks so peaceful. Fucking angelic, really, the way her long wavy hair fans across the pillow, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, her full lips slightly parted as she breathes in that slow, steady rhythm that had lulled me to sleep just hours ago. As my eyes sweep over her, the sheet slips down to reveal the curve of her bare shoulder as she stirs, and I have to force myself to look away because even now, even with the guilt eating me alive, I want her.

Christ, what kind of monster does that make me? I think, as images of last night flood my mind, her falling asleep in my arms, our naked bodies flush together as we drifted off to sleep. Yet, I slept like a fucking baby, god the fucking irony.

Last night was... perfect. There's no other word for it. The way she touched me, the sounds she made, the trust she placed in my hands—it was everything I had ever dreamed of and more. For those precious hours, nothing else existed except Shiloh and me and the delicate connection that wove between us: no Olivia, no pregnancy,

no incomprehensible choices waiting to tear our world apart.

But now, in the harsh clarity of morning, the guilt is fucking suffocating.

How could I have let that happen? How could I have been so fucking selfish, taking what I wanted from her when I knew—I fucking knew—that everything was about to change? And she gave it so freely, completely, and willingly, and I accepted it like the coward I've become, knowing full well that I was stealing something precious, practically selling her the false sense of stability I knew she was dying for, because it was evident, in every touch, every kiss.

I know she deserves better. She deserves the truth. She deserved it before I ever put my hands on her, before I let her believe that we could have a future together without all the fucking compilations my life was about to bring.

And as I sit here, the memory of her words echoes in my head: "I'm counting on it." There was so much hope in her voice when she talked about what might come next between us. The way she looked at me was like everything could be fine, like I was something worth waiting for. Like I was the answer to all her heart's desires, but what is it that she wants? What can I even offer her at this point?

Just the fucking truth, a voice inside my head whispers.

And so I sit. And I wait. And I let my heart break, piece by piece with every breath she takes, knowing that soon, too soon, I will be the one to shatter hers.

Break her with the truth and leave her with the bliss of last night.

Maybe that's what makes this all so fucking cruel. The universe dangling perfection in front of me—this incredible woman, this connection that feels like everything I've ever sought after—only to snatch it away the moment I dare to reach for it. It's like some kind of cosmic joke, to give me exactly what I've been searching for my entire life, and then just fucking destroy any chance of keeping it, but here we are in the consequence and there's nothing I can do to change it.

I run my hands through my hair, trying to quiet the storm raging in my head. What am I supposed to do here? How do I tell the woman I'm falling in love with that I'm having a baby with my ex? How do I explain that everything she's hoping for—everything we talked about, dreamed about might not be possible now? Because it has to be right? I keep trying to put myself in her shoes, and I don't know how I would react honestly, could I trust and forgive? Would my pride allow me to move forward with that gnawing thought that would always be at the back of my mind?

The worst part is, I can already see it playing out. The way her face will change when I tell her. How the light in her eyes will dim as the reality of it all sinks in like a tidal wave. Once, she realizes that she's not getting Harry Styles, the man she thinks she knows, but getting Harry Styles, the fucking mess of a human, complete with baby mama drama and a new lifetime of complications she never signed up for, something I know she never pictured happening because I know I never pictured it.

And maybe that's for the best. Maybe she'll take one look at the chaos I'm offering and run for the fucking hills, run with her sane mind, and everything pure she has to offer and give it to someone else. Maybe that would save us both years of trying to make something work that was doomed from the start, right?

But Christ, the thought of losing her now, after last night, after feeling what it's like to hold her, to be held by her—it's unbearable. She's become crucial to me in a way that defies logic, because I think we're both past trying to make this make sense. The scattered contact, a handful of real conversations, the photoshoot, the premiere, one perfect night—and somehow she's woven herself into the fabric of who I am, of who I want to be, because I want to be good for her.

I watch her stir slightly, thinking this time she'll wake as her face scrunches up in an adorable way that has my chest tightening, the feeling so intense it's painful. This could be the last time I see her like this—peaceful, trusting, almost mine. In a few hours, everything could be different. She could hate me. She could be telling me to leave, telling me she never wants to see me again.

The rational part of my brain knows I should wake her now. Get it over with. Rip the bandage off quickly and hope the bleeding stops eventually. But we all know I'm too much of a coward for that. Too selfish. I want to preserve this moment a little longer, this bubble that we created, this bubble that only we understand.

What if she surprises me? What if she's stronger than I think, more understanding? What if love really can conquer all the bullshit life throws at you?

But even as I try to convince myself that everything might be okay, that maybe we can work through this together, I know I'm grasping at straws. Because it's not just about telling her I'm having a baby. It's about everything that comes after. The shared custody, co-parenting, and the fact that Olivia will now always be part of my life. It's about asking Shiloh to sign up for a relationship where my ex and our child will always be factors in every decision we make.

How can I ask her to do that? How can I ask anyone to do that?

She'll be awake soon, probably. And then I'll have to find the words to destroy the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Maybe that's what I deserve for being careless, for letting one night of weakness in Venice create this mess. Maybe this is karma, showing me exactly what I'm losing by reminding me how perfect it could have been, because that's how karma works, right? There's a lesson to be learned? A punishment to be felt.

Well, I'm fucking feeling it ten folds.

Just then, her eyelashes flutter. A soft movement, almost imperceptible, but I catch it. My heart rate spikes, a thunderous beat echoing in my ears. This is it—the moment before everything changes.

She stretches, her limbs lengthening, an unselfconscious movement that has become so achingly familiar in just a few stolen moments together, and I already want it forever. Her hand reaches out, seeking me, and when she finds only empty space beside her, her eyes slowly open.

And God help me, to my surprise, she smiles. That smile so fucking soft, and full of something that looks like hope, like the trust I don't deserve, that I'm about to destroy.

"Hey," I say softly, my voice gravelly, barely more than a whisper.

Her smile doesn't waver, not yet. She stretches again, that languid movement that's making my heart ache. "Morning," she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep, completely unaware of the hurricane about to tear through her world. "Why are you sitting over there? Come back to bed." She asks, as though it's as simple as that. As though it's not about to be the last time I'm ever allowed to touch her.

And I am lost.

I can't return her smile. Can't pretend everything is okay.

My hands tremble as I watch her sit up, pulling the blankets to her bare chest, and I have to look away, staring down at my hands as a distraction. I can't even look at her right now. My throat burns, constricted with the weight of what I'm about to do. Every instinct is screaming at me to stay silent, to preserve this moment, to pretend that everything can be okay.

But I know it can't.

"Shiloh," I start, my voice breaking on her name. One word, and already I can feel the tremor of everything about to fall apart.

"Harry—come back to bed. I want to talk, but I want you next to me, please--"

"Okay," I whisper, starting to my feet, and it takes everything in me to take a single step forward, my legs shaky, my knees nearly buckling beneath me.

I take another step, then another, each movement feeling like I'm walking toward my own execution. My heart is pounding so loudly I'm certain she can hear it, can sense the dread radiating off me in waves.

When I reach the bed, I don't sit. Can't sit. Instead, I stand at the edge, looking down at the beautiful woman who has no idea her entire world is about to be shattered by my words.

"Shiloh," I repeat, and this time her name sounds like a prayer, a fucking plea for my life, for everything that is us.

And she reaches for my hand, then pulls me closer until I'm collapsing onto the bed next to her, and she scoots over, giving me space, and I crawl onto the bed next to her as she faces me, but I still can't look at her.

When her hand touches my cheek, her fingers are gentle, and the tenderness of the gesture nearly breaks me completely.

"Harry," she says softly, and there's a question in her voice, a hint of concern that tells me she can sense the weight of what's coming.

I finally force myself to meet her eyes. Those eyes—the ones that have seen me, truly seen me, in a way no one else ever has. And now I have to destroy everything in them.

"I need to tell you something," I whisper, my voice so low it's almost not a sound at all. "And I don't know how to say it without ruining everything."

Her hand doesn't leave my cheek. If anything, her fingers press slightly harder, as if anchoring me—anchoring us—to this moment before everything changes. And god, I don't deserve her gentleness. Not now.

Not ever.

I take a deep breath, my hand reaching up to cover hers where it rests on my cheek, and I wonder how a touch can be both comfort and pain at the same time, and then the words are tumbling out of my mouth. ​"Olivia is pregnant," I confess, plain and simple, three words like broken glass, sharp and cutting. "And the baby is mine."

And I watch her face, waiting for the moment everything shatters. Waiting for the exact second when her eyes will change, when the trust and softness will drain away, replaced by something harder, something wounded.

But in this moment, all I see is shock. Pure, unadulterated shock.

How do you explain the weight of each word he just confessed, each one cutting with a sharp edge, knocking the breath from my lungs in one devastating sweep, because there is no way to cushion this kind of blow.

Olivia is pregnant. And the baby is his.

Blunt and brutal, and I can't speak. Can't move. Can't even fucking breathe as the reality of what he just said crashes over me in waves, each one more destructive than the last. My mouth opens, and closes, then opens again, but nothing is coming out. It's like my brain has short-circuited, a fucking spiral of nonsense, suddenly unable to process the magnitude of what I've just heard.

I feel Harry's eyes on me, burning into my skin, waiting for some kind of reaction, but I have nothing. Nothing but this hollow, echoing silence that seems to stretch between us like a chasm I'll never be able to cross.

Slowly, mechanically, I lean back against the headboard, pulling the sheet up to cover myself more, but the movement feels foreign, like I'm watching someone else's body go through the motions while my mind floats somewhere above, detached and numb.

A baby. Harry is having a baby. With Olivia.

The thought loops in my head, over and over, like a broken record I can't turn off. Each repetition makes it more real, more final, more devastating. This isn't something that can be undone, or explained away, or fixed with the right words. This is permanent. Life-altering. Future-destroying.

The news is like a jagged edge held to my throat. I've literally spent the last two weeks thinking I wasn't enough, like maybe the connection was all in my head, that I was just another girl in a long line who thought they meant something to Harry Styles. Turns out, I wasn't even competing with his career or his fame or his inability to commit.

I was competing with forever, and fuck. There's no competing with that.

Because that's what a baby is, isn't it? Forever. A permanent link between Harry and Olivia that no amount of love, chemistry, or connection could ever break. I could fight another woman, maybe. Hell, I could even compete with an ex who was trying to win him back. But how do you compete with a child? How do you ask someone to choose between you and their own flesh and blood?

The answer is simple: You can't. You don't. I don't even stand a chance.

I close my eyes, feeling the sting of tears sear behind my them. In the space of thirty seconds, my entire future has been rewritten. All those late-night conversations about what we wanted, all those careful plans we had started making, all those dreams I'd allowed myself to have—gone.

Just like that.

When I open my eyes again, Harry is still watching me, his face pale and stricken, like he's waiting for me to explode or cry or scream. But I don't have the energy for any of that right now. I'm too busy trying to figure out how to rebuild myself around this new reality.

Because the worst part isn't even that he's having a baby with someone else. The worst part is that despite everything—despite the deception I've felt, despite the timing, despite the absolute fucking mess this will create—I still love him.

And I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do with that.

The more I repeat the line in my head, the fog seems to lift, and then something unexpected happens. Instead of jealousy or anger, I find myself thinking about Harry with a child, his baby. I keep picturing the way his face would light up, how gentle his hands would be, how he would probably sing lullabies in that voice that makes my heart skip—and it's all so fucking devastatingly sweet that I just want to cry.

Cry for everything that we were, or could have been. What we could be, and it's all so confusing, and all I can think about is last night—the tenderness in his touch, the vulnerability in his eyes when he cried against my chest. He'd been carrying this alone, this massive, life-changing news, and he came to me. Even knowing it might destroy what we were building, he still came to me.

The timing makes sense now. The premiere, his sudden disappearance, the two weeks of silence. He wasn't running from me; he was trying to figure out how to tell me something that would change everything.

And yes, it changes everything. But maybe not in the way I first thought.

When I close my eyes again, I take a deep breath and let myself really consider what this all means. Harry is going to be a father, and with that the complication that will bring, and the fucking realization that Olivia will always be part of his life in some capacity. I know it's complicated as hell, and it's not what I pictured when I imagined our future together.

But when I open my eyes and look at him—really look at him—I see the same man who held me so fucking tenderly last night, who whispered apologies against my skin with an ache so deep I believed him then and now. Because I can't take the look in his eyes right now, the one that looks like he's about to lose me. He's still the same man then, the same man now that I told I loved just hours ago.

A baby doesn't change that. If anything, it tells me something important about who Harry is—that he's the kind of man who would show up for his child, who would take responsibility, who would put their innocent life first even when it complicates everything else, because that's how important all of this is.

And okay. Fine. If the universe is going to test us, we'll be tested. But I'll be damned if I'm going to walk away without a fight. That's when I reach out, my hand finds his, and I intertwine our fingers, and I ask the first question that comes to my mind.

"How far along?" I ask quietly, my voice steadier than I expected.

The question seems to surprise him, like he was prepared for screaming or tears or me kicking him out, but not for something practical, maybe not even a question at all.

"Six weeks," he answers carefully, his eyes flitting over my face.

And I nod, doing the math in my head. Venice. The night he hooked up with her for the last time, yet there's no shock because I knew this—a truth he had spoken before we even began building whatever this is between us.

"Are you okay?" I ask, and I mean it. Because looking at him right now, I can see how much this is weighing on him, how terrified he is of losing me, of becoming a father, of navigating this strange situation, and I'm scared, so I can't even imagine how fucking frightened he must be.

"Are you?" he asks back, deflecting.

I look down at our hands then, his fingers trembling against mine, "I'm asking you?" I tell him, meeting his eyes again, yet he's looking at me like I've spoken a foreign language, confusion lacing his features, and maybe there's relief warring in his expression, but all I can do is keep talking:

"I know this changes things," I continue, my voice growing stronger as I work through my thoughts out loud. "And I know it's fucking complicated—god, so fucking complicated ...and I know you're scared. But Harry... a baby isn't something to apologize for. It's not something to be ashamed of. Nor is it something we can really change. I'm not going to lie and say I'm not scared..."

And I squeeze his hand then, "But fuck..." I breathe, the words aching deep in my bones, "I'm not going anywhere."

I'm not going anywhere.

Those were her words, and holy fuck if there is a god, her words land on my ears like a fucking life line to a drowning man.

I keep staring at her, thinking something will change, but I'm completely unable to process what just happened. In every scenario I've played out in my head during those torturous hours of watching her sleep, this wasn't one of them. I had prepared for the worst, for the tears, for anger, for her telling me to get the fuck out and never come back. I was bracing myself for the shattering of everything we had built together. Not this.

Not her holding my hand. Not the words: I'm not going anywhere.

But this? This calm acceptance—the question about how far along Olivia is, the concern for how I'm feeling—I'm completely unprepared for it.

"Are you serious?" The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and disbelieving.

Shiloh's hand tightens around mine, and when I look into her eyes, I see something that makes my chest ache with relief, a terror trying to steal me all at once. There's no anger there, no disgust or betrayal. Just... understanding. Love. The same look she gave me last night when she told me she was falling for me.

"What are you thinking?" she asks softly, and there's a hint of sadness in her voice that cuts me deeper.

"I..." I start, then stop, my throat closing around the words. Because there's so much. There's so much happening, and I'm not sure what to do next. And there's still this dominant part of me that feels like I don't deserve this. Whatever this is. This forgiveness she's giving so quickly.

She shifts closer then, her free hand coming up to cup my cheek, and I can't help but lean into the touch. "Harry, talk to me. What's going on in your head?"

Everything. Fucking everything is going on in my head. A relief so overwhelming it's making me lightheaded. A Gratitude that feels too big for my body to contain. But underneath it all, there's still fear, this daunting fear that this acceptance is temporary—that once the reality of what my life is about to become really sinks in, she'll change her mind.

"I don't understand," I whisper, my voice barely capable of words. "How are you okay with this? How are you not... angry?"

"Should I be angry?" she asks, tilting her head slightly. "I don't know...this happened before us, didn't it? Before we were anything real?"

And I nod, unable to trust my voice.

"Then what's to be angry about. I mean... the avoidance was a sting. I won't sugar-coat that. It fucking hurt and was so confusing?" Her thumb brushes across my cheekbone, catching a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "But, that all feels small compared to this, Harry, you're going to be a father. That's... that's actually kind of amazing, right? Like you've created a life."

The way she says it, with such genuine warmth, nearly undoes me entirely, and I'm barely hanging by a thread. This woman—god, this incredible, unbelievable woman—is talking about my child with someone else like it's a gift instead of a complication.

"But it changes everything," I manage to say. "Olivia will always be in my life now. There'll and everything that goes with it—"

"And we'll figure it out," she interrupts gently. "If you want to... I mean... If this is something you want to try to make work, then we'll figure it out together. Because something tells me it's not about us anymore."

Together. The word hits stealing the air straight from my lungs, knocking what little composure I have left completely off balance. She's talking about staying and making this work. About choosing me, even when that means choosing chaos.

"I love you," I blurt out, the words escaping before I can think better of them. "Fuck, Shi, I love you so much it scares me."

And god, the smile that sweeps across her face is radiant, transforming her entirely. "I love you, too," she says just as quickly, like it's the most natural thing that has left her mouth all morning. "That doesn't change just because our life just got complicated."

I want to believe her. God, I want to believe that it could be that simple. But there's still so much she doesn't know, so much she hasn't had time to really think through. The media attention, the speculation, the way this will play out in the public eye. The reality of dating someone who shares a child with their ex.

"You don't know what you're signing up for," I warn her, even as every cell in my body is screaming at me to shut up and accept this gift she's offering.

"Maybe not," she agrees. "But I know you. And I know how I feel about you. Can this just be enough for now, please?"

Looking into her eyes, seeing her determination there alongside the love, I find myself nodding. Maybe she's right. Maybe love really can be enough to start with. Maybe the rest—all the complicated, messy, impossible rest—we can figure out as we go.

For the first time since I walked out of that doctor's office, I let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, I haven't lost everything after all.

Holy shit, the relief in Harry's eyes is palpable, and as I watch him process everything that was just said something else bubbles up inside me—something that's been festering under my skin for two weeks and needs to be addressed before we move forward.

"But Harry," I start, my voice firmer, and the tone has him straighten slightly. "We need to talk about what happened. The ghosting. The disappearing act."

His face falls then, the relief morphing into something guarded, ashamed. Good. He should feel ashamed. I think.

"The premiere was amazing..." I continue, my grip on his hand tightening. "And we had this beautiful moment, that felt genuine, and then you... vanished. For two weeks, Harry. Two fucking weeks of silence while I sat here wondering what I had done wrong, wondering if I had imagined everything between us. If it was all an act."

"Shi—"

"No," I cut him off, holding up my free hand. "Let me finish because I have to get this off my chest. Listen, I get that you were scared, and now, I totally get that finding out about the baby threw your world into chaos; that's all understandable. But running away? Leaving me in the dark? That's not okay. That's never going to be okay, and I'm not going be with someone who makes me feel that way, because that was fucking hell, and I was so fucking miserable."

My words have Harry shrinking into himself, his shoulders curving inward, but I push forward because this needs to be said, and right now I need him to feel the weight that's been sitting on my chest.

"I spent two weeks thinking I wasn't enough. Thinking, maybe I was just another girl who got caught up in this fantasy of you, which was so confusing because I had no clue what was real anymore. Do you have any idea what that did to my mind? It had me questioning everything."

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice strangled. "I'm so fucking sorry, Shiloh. I was a coward. I didn't know how to—"

"Harry, I know you're sorry..." I interrupt again, but this time softer. "And I forgive you. But the thing is... if we're going to do this—if we're really going to try to make this work—then I need you to promise me something."

And he nods, eager for my words, desperate, like he would promise me anything in this moment.

"I need you all in... not a foot grazing the line of maybe," I push, my words steady and sure. "Not just when it's easy or convenient. I won't play that shit. I don't want to play games. I want to know that when things get complicated, or life throws us curve balls—because it will—or when you're scared or confused or... I don't know, overwhelmed—I need to know that you'll talk to me. You have to be able to trust me enough to let me be part of the solution, rather than making decisions for me. Because I'm capable of more than you think... if you haven't noticed."

His green eyes are glossy with tears now, but he's listening, really listening, and I know this is all painful to hear, but I can't go on like we have, I won't, and he has to know.

"Because I'm going to be all in, Harry. Completely. This baby, Olivia—and fuck I just thought about the circus the media will make of this—god, whatever comes next—I'm choosing all of it because I'm choosing you. But I need to know you're choosing me too, even when it's hard."

"I am," he blurts immediately, "I choose you, Shi. I'll always choose you."

"Then prove it," I challenge. "The next time you're scared or confused or don't know what to do. Call me. Don't disappear into your head and make assumptions about what I can or can't handle. You trust me. Can you do that?"

"Yes," he breathes, bringing our joined hands to his lips, and I watch as he presses a soft kiss to my knuckles. "I promise. No more running. No more bullshit."

My eyes sweep over his face, studying him, looking for any hint of a lie, but all I see is the earnest glint in his eyes, love, a desperate desire to make this right.

"Good," I finally tell him, feeling some of the tension lift, "Because we're going to need that trust moving forward, because nothing about this is going to be easy."

And he nods again, understanding flickering in his eyes.

Then, I take a deep breath, knowing what I'm about to say might surprise him because it's surprising me, but it's a feeling in my gut, and I think it needs to be said. "I think... I think I want to wait to have sex."

His eyebrows raise slightly, but there's no judgment in his expression, just curiosity.

"Last night was incredible, don't get me wrong, and maybe we can explore more of that later," I continue, heat rising in my cheeks at the memory. "But I think maybe we moved fast... or maybe I moved too fast. I just felt desperate. I just wanted to feel close to you after everything. And now, I don't know. Maybe I don't want to confuse things further."

He's watching me, a soft smile playing at his lips, "I think I need us to slow down. Maybe build some kind of foundation first before things really get complicated."

And for a long moment, Harry is quiet, his eyes trained on mine while he processes the words that just left my mouth. Then he squeezes my hand and gives me a small, understanding nod.

"Whatever you need," he says simply. "I want this to work, Shi. Really work. If that means taking our time, then that's what we'll do, okay?"

"Okay," I breathe, the word broken as the weight of the conversation hits me, and he draws me into his chest, holding me while we both sit with the massive shift in our universe. My head rests against him, and I close my eyes, feeling his heartbeat steady, familiar, and I know that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.

A/N: The next chapter will be posted Friday, 6/13. Sorry for the delay. I've been so busy lately!! 🙃

LET'S TALK ABOUT IT: Well, now it's all out in the clear. I wasn't expecting that...

->chat with me<-

Tag List: @howling-wolf97 @sassamanda77 @babegoalsreads @palmettogal508 @indierockgirrl @lizsogolden @sexymfharriet @pologoonies @amateurduck

Chapter Sixteen (Coming 6/13/2025)

All Chapters Here <-

[theprinceandthewitch]

I didn't think the Bible and The Pilot would make Sense and Insensitivity even more suspicious than it was... but it did...

The Lunter kiss really is going to haunt me forever...

[umbreonix]

I forgot I never posted this outside of discord XD but this was a lil secret santa exchange I did for @ponie-cornious <3

[coridallasmultipass]

brocal for the ship bingo?

The OTP to end all other OTPs... (Man. This wound up being basically Cori's Masterpost of BroCal. AKA... this got long and has some images, since I realized I can post my own art directly instead of just a text link to it lol.)

Wasn't actually expecting this to wind up with a bingo? But I got basically 2?? (Will explain the lighter heart later.) This is A LONG post, and definitely gonna get SUGGESTIVE, bc man, am I obSESSED with BroCal. I'm just gonna go thru each checked box, since I don't know how else to structure this post lol.

Read More to save ppl's dashboards:

I want them to make out with blood: OKAY. I HAVE A WHOLE THING PLANNED FOR THIS CONCEPT. I AM NOT GOING TO GO INTO DETAIL ABOUT IT JUST YET BC I ACTUALLY WANNA WRITE IT. I'm obsessed with this one fanart of Bro licking Lil Cal, and it spurred on an idea I outlined and really wanna write: https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/739969858334294016/hiiii-mutual-i-am-secrecy-asking-if-u-have-anymore

((Sorry for the plain text links, Tumblr app is NOT cooperating with me right now to add hyperlinks. I'd post the image directly if that one was mine.))

Basically, I just really need to see Bro and Cal making out with blood in their mouths, and I started a whole convoluted, unrelated outline in order to make that hapen. It'll probably just be a really short thing that ends at the uh climax, since otherwise it's gonna end up sadstuck. And I don't like sadstuck lol.

Undeniably t4t: Bro and Dirk are always trans for me, and Lil Cal's got that uh... what percentage did I calculate it out to be? 13% of Dirk is in Lil Cal [ My shitpost calculations: https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/746702663327072256/i-ran-out-of-tags-rambling-about-this-so-im-just ] so Lil Cal is at least 13% trans because of that much of Dirk being in him, plus however you feel about the other components being trans. LMAO this is ridiculous to type out. Moving on.

EDIT: FUTURE CORI INTERJECTING WITH A:

"Lil Cal Top Surgery Healing Progess: Day 1"

Terrible for each other affectionate/derogatory: I don't even know where the affectionate/derogatory split occurs. I multiship BroCal as both Bro/normal puppet Lil Cal and as Bro/evil juju puppet Lil Cal, and whatever combination in between or outside of that. Terrible in that Bro is so obsessed with Cal that he doesn't have normal relationship/social skills and uses Lil Cal as both a crutch and motivator alternately, in a terrible cycle, or maybe rather... spiral. And also terrible in that Bro is caught in the allure of playing the role of puppeteer while also being a puppet for the darker parts of Lil Cal, whether he actively knows it or not. (Honestly though, I feel like it's dismissive if you try to blame all of Bro's faults on Lil Cal like this tho, which is why I tend towards liking Lil Cal as just a regular puppet a lil bit more. Or at least, a regular mildly supernatural puppet since that can be a little more entertaining if Cal can get into mischief while no one's looking or give off the vibes of his mood more directly, rather than like entirely inanimate or 'just LE, trapped in a puppet body.' Again, I like all of these concepts.) ((I mean that can also be a whole post of its own, like, by the time Bro gets ahold of Lil Cal, are any of the other components still alive in there? Like, are ARquius and Gamzee still in there or did Caliborn kill and consume them entirely? Idk how it works, man. This is why I like Lil Cal as his own person, maybe just influenced by the feelings of the others. LaCroix: CalGamARquius essenced water. Lil Croix.))

They need to get weirder with it: YES YES. 1000% YES. I need entirely shameless Bro doing entirely shamless things to Lil Cal. I want them inseparable and doing unspeakable things to each other. I want Bro taking full advantage of Cal having a puppet body and all the intimacy that comes with making repairs and being elbow-deep in stuffing.

Playing with them like dolls cute/psychological torture: This is the same divide as with the 'terrible for each other' point, so I'm just gonna go with the cute one, since the torture one is self-explanatory. I want them fucking married. Like. Full mushy cute romance type of relationship that Bro has never felt for any of the people in his life (cough aromantic cough). I made this comic not too long ago, and I often fondly look back on it, because I adore the concept of Bro being lovey and romantic and everything out of character around Lil Cal because he feels safe and loved and comfortable around Cal:

[ https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/750602227910131712/brocal-4-lyfe-so-i-had-this-idea-of-dave-being ]

I made a post a long, long time ago (not gonna link that one bc it was personal and I was being very obviously mentally ill ["C'mon, like you're not being obviously mentally ill while typing paragraph upon paragraph about BroCal still in 2024 like 10 years later??" Fair.]) But the gist of it was that, like, having objectophilia or objectum sexuality is like, from an outsider pov, it's a way to express love to yourself. You filter all your self-hate through the object you love, and you get back unconditional love in return.

Lil Cal is never gonna hate Bro, no matter what Bro does. As a regular puppet, Lil Cal doesn't have the capacity for hate. And so that only brings them closer, since Cal is never gonna reject Bro for any reason. (Back to being a crutch. RSD is real, and Dave is probably a big trigger for that since he's not on the same wavelength of weird as Bro [not blaming Dave, obviously, this is a post about BroCal].) Bro can experience receiving positive attention from Lil Cal, without feeling 'fake' or uncool by expressing that same attention or affection directly to his own self. (Things are always done through multiple layers with the Striders, aren't they?) ((And I'm not saying Lil Cal doesn't love Bro, or that their relationship is just pretend - it's real, I'm just like, 'What's going on behind the curtain in the mundane situation?/ How is the relationship appealing?' Lil Cal luvs Bro 5eva 4 lyfe and that's a hard fact. Could cut diamonds with that shit.)) Example: maybe Bro is dealing with a bout of body/gender dysphoria and is trying to take out his frustration with working out, and it's not helping, even if he's powered through a set better than normal. Then, he notices the way Lil Cal is watching him, and he can feel the excitement seeping off Cal. He can sense the echoes of a wolf-whistle ring out through his mind, and it's like. Okay, none of that shit from before matters, he's got all the validation he needs right there in Lil Cal. Maybe flex in Cal's direction, Bro?

Oh, so back to being cute: isn't it wonderful how the template maker phrased it as 'playing dolls'? But yeah, I want all the mush and everything. Bro has a whole wardrobe for Lil Cal for every minor event that occurs in the Strider household. I want them going on genuine dates. Maybe even... holding hands. Bro blushes for the first time since he was 16. He even gets to take Lil Cal with him when he goes out to DJ or put on a show. Not to mention the whole website business. (I've talked about Cal's role in that before, but I'll mention it in a moment...)

They will die in a heart shaped pool of blood: I mean, kinda did happen, even tho Lil Cal didn't perma die right there. I don't think this one needs any explanation, since it basically happens in canon.

'You should see the other guy...': Okay, so. About 11 years ago, I had a really great idea. About how smuppets enter this world. I expanded on it in the following more-recent post (adult only content lol): https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/741683686717669376/back-in-the-day-my-friends-called-me-insane-when-i

To sum it up, whenever Bro makes a new smuppet design, he then gives it a video debut on his website, where uh, Lil Cal births the smuppet like it's a horror movie scene, fake blood and poly-fil gore all over the place as the smuppet crawls out from the viscera. Bro then gets to play aftercare by lovingly and gently cleaning up and restuffing Lil Cal as they get to admire their new creation and rake in the dough lol.

So it's technically not a 'you should see the other guy' kinda situation, but it does involve one of them being... idk what word would describe it. Injured by the other? Usually a character loses a fight and says this to act like they got out of it better than the other guy, but... We could have someone knock on the door during the filming of a scene like that, and Bro has to answer it with fake blood up to his elbows, and be like 'You should see the other guy.' (But obviously, that's a terrible idea and would cause more trouble than it's worth... Maybe worth it for a persistent door to door salesperson, though.)

Though, I guess I should also say, I'm not opposed to Bro beating on Lil Cal in or out of the bedroom. Or in the case of animate Lil Cal, Cal choking out Bro. In or out of the bedroom, lol. Depends on the situation, like I said I will ship this ship any which way. But my preference for animate Lil Cal is to be like a totally normal puppet around Bro (or mushy in-love with Bro) and then evil-murder-puppet towards anyone else in Bro's life, like a... toxic yaoi guard puppet. (New Phrase Achievement Unlocked!) Bro brings home another guy to have sex, who tries to stay the night due to the late hour, but the guy wakes up shortly after to see Lil Cal standing there with a knife in the dark, eyes glowing red. Panic ensues when the guest screams and freaks out, and by the time Bro's got a light on, grabbing his sword, ready for a ninja vs ninja fight (bc an intruder would've had to bypass all the traps), Lil Cal is just innocently splayed across the desk chair, no knife in sight. Relevant post (well, the caption on the post too, saying how Bro can't seem to hold onto any relationships besides Lil Cal):

[ https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/741830516962164736/i-want-you-so-youre-mine-always-selfishly ]

Uh, lol, also Cal choking out Bro in the bedroom, adult only drawing: https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/754328907438800896/i-wouldnt-wanna-be-my-ex-when-he-found-out-who

Thinking about them always and forever: Listen. My Tumblr as proof, I've had BroCal on the brain for at least 11 years at this point. Definitely longer, since I first started reading Homestuck. I fucking love puppets and dolls and plushies and I always have. Man, if I hadn't deleted Tweets (automated app I used to do, and I couldn't choose what to save) from when I was in high school, you could've seen me @ ing my fave band when they were taking lyric suggestions on a fan-inspired album, where I was telling them 'make a song where the theme is puppets' and, while I don't know if they saw that or took the suggestion (they had responded to me before bc they weren't huge yet), there is indeed a song titled "Puppets" on that album, and it was my favourite song on there. Point is, I was fated to ship BroCal before I even knew it existed.

Sicko 2 sicko communication: I mean, does this even need explaining? Bro and Cal aren't just on the same wavelength of freaky, they're the fucking source of the wavelength, and it's causing a feedback loop between them. And it does as feedback does, which is, it amplifies with time. (Going back to the spiral symbolism here, lol.) ((Actually, time can play a symbol here, too, I guess, but idk how to word it, I'm starting to run out of steam.))

Let them have a happy ending: God, I need this so badly. I know Bro's story ends in Homestuck, but like. Pls. Someone needs to officiate their wedding. Currently placing the dreambubble order, but I can't organize a wedding by myself. OH speaking of. In that lil comic I did above, where Bro is accepting Lil Cal's proposal, I had the Natural Born Killers wedding scene in mind. I was gonna draw that as a follow up, but I think I have too many WIPs going. Just two people on the run, saying "I do" in a scenic but completely ordinary roadside location. Idk why, I keep going back to that movie for things related to Bro (I mention it in a very important scene in a longer WIP I've been writing, as something Bro watched and internalized as a kid lol.) It's not the best movie lol. Anyway.

The devotion omg: I feel like I have already gotten my point across about this, but let me reiterate:

[ https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/735842968450269184/in-the-name-of-iconic-magical-girl-anime-ill ]

Bro and Lil Cal absolutely beat the shit outta Jack Noir before he gets prototyped. And even then, they fight together till the death, like. C'mon. Nothing more romantic than fighting a losing battle side by side. Also, like, Lil Cal having his own protective chest for safekeeping as seen in the Strider living room? Like, you don't just have a protective case for any old thing, especially something meant to be handled, especially something that is regularly used to smack other things/humans. What I'm saying is, Lil Cal is durable and resilient, and yet, Bro still has a case for transporting Cal safely. Oh, wait, I just thought of something funny, what if Lil Cal goes feral like a cat, and basically the chest is like a cat carrier so Bro can drive without being constricted lmaoooo, I've been typing for hours can you tell?

Kind of homophobic: Listen. I HAD a Cal. Took him to college. Staked my claim on the top bunk bc I am royalty. Proceeded to not have anywhere to set my water cup and had to use a cardboard box as a table up there. Spilled water. Melted Cal's sharpie-drawn face. And then proceeded to cry. I have a WIP of Lil Cal 2, but that requires actually remembering to work on him. I wanna do better by the pattern, too, since I rushed to finish the first. I have all the material! I have the project started! So it's just a matter of reordering my WIP priorities, honestly.

Where is all the fucking content?!: For realzz. I was actually venting about this the other day (didn't end up posting it), but it's like, either there's no BroCal content, or there IS BroCal content, but I can't reblog it for reasons I don't want to get into on this post. I'm dying of thirst in the ocean, basically. Whatever. This just means I need to make more BroCal content myself, which I am more than happy to do. I've just had a rough past few months, so I'm glad I got to type all this post out, and hopefully I can get back to creating soon.

Last one! I hope this one makes up for the absurd length of the post, it's prob my new fave idea I just came up with on the spot.

[TW drink spiking by a stranger mentioned in this.]

Committing atrocities as their silly little activities: I think we all know what this means, but I am going to ignore that elephant with my special x-ray vision. Because this is a BroCal post. I'm digging deep to the meat and bones of this. Honestly, this could go multiple routes, it depends on how you take your Lil Cal.

One could place emphasis on the 'guard' part of the, ahem ahem, toxic yaoi guard puppet. Maybe someone is actually trying to harm Bro, and Bro legit can't do anything for reasons outside of his control - let's say his drink got spiked a while after he invited a stranger home that he thought was chill. As Bro gets shoved down on the futon, his memory of the night is only a few flickers. Familiar orange plush, roiling around above him like a dancing windsock. Flashes of Lil Cal's face all distorted and stretched wide like a funhouse. J-Lo and Ice Cube on the TV. But when Bro is finally able to fully wake up in the morning, everything is as if he just got home alone last night and passed out on the futon. Cal looks totally normal and content tucked under Bro's warm arm. Except when Bro gets up, there is a pair of shoes too big to belong to him at the door. Maybe Bro knows. Maybe instinct tells him to run. Maybe he does, but he's running towards Lil Cal, every time.

[maj0rmayhem]

Really feeling that post abt how yearning and loneliness is great until you're curled up on your bed whimpering at the ache in your chest like a wounded dog. are we cooked chat.

[keeps-ache]

think this is funny. anyway. the Thoughts are back at it again

[strohller27]

.

[heyitstaytay21]

I made it from Michigan to Kentucky before realizing that I left my computer monitor and headset behind 😩

[euclydya]

The heartache has finally stopped. Perhaps because I'm not apart of their little group?

[knifegremliin]

on my hands and knees begging for my body to let me sleep. please. please. just let me fucking sleep what do you WANT FROM ME.

[caruliaa]

literally why am always like. feeling so inhernetly inferior to everyone