just a small idea i had but imagine a lohen x reader (smau prob) where you're a well known music composer online going by a different name and lohen is a guitarist of a rising band.
one day, during one of your review streams, someone requests lohen's band to be reviewed—and while everyone else is praising the performance, you ended up giving a completely different opinion.
unfortunately for lohen, your words hit a little too close to home.
instead of brushing it off, he takes the criticism personally and what started as him leaving a rebuttal under your video quickly turns into a full blown rivalry, with the two of you arguing about music or anything in general every chance you both get.
neither of you know much about the other beyond the screen name, yet somehow you've become each other's biggest annoyance online.
aka an enemies to lovers situation with lohen..
(might start this when im done with my current smau..taglist open?)
You’re the strategist. Lohen is the wildcard. When your carefully planned mission goes sideways because he decides “improvising” is a valid strategy, all that tension you’ve both been ignoring finally erupts. (...aka. an argument followed by making out)
Featuring. Lohen
Word Count. 2.4k
Notes. This is just an excuse for me to write a heated argument that crescendos into a make out session. Enjoy. Slightly... ooc? gn!reader
The training room at this hour is empty, which is the only reason you followed Lohen here, because what you are about to say does not need an audience.
"You didn't signal," you say, and your voice is already climbing at the edges. "We had a system. One signal for engaged, two for backup needed, three for abort. You had one job, Lohen, one job that was not even fighting, it was just moving your hand—"
"I was a little busy,” Lohen says, not sparing you a glance. That pisses you off even more.
"You were showing off."
"Those are sometimes the same thing." He pulls off one of his gauntlets and sets it on the rack with an ease that makes you want to throw something. He's not even looking at you. "You got the signal eventually."
"I got the smoke. From the building. That you were inside."
"And you knew where I was, so technically—"
"Technically," you say, and the word comes out like something thrown, "you walked into a building with twelve of them inside it alone, with no backup and no signal, and your definition of technically fine is that you walked out alive afterward."
"Thirteen." He glances over his shoulder. "There were thirteen. You had twelve in the briefing. The eastern room had an extra one, small guy, quick, almost interesting." Lohen turns back to the rack. "Your intelligence was off."
You stare at the back of his head. "That," you say, very carefully, "is your contribution. To this conversation. That my headcount was wrong."
"I'm just saying, if we're doing a debrief—"
"This is not a debrief."
"No?" He turns around now, and he's doing the look, the full version, the one that takes you apart by column and row. He leans back against the rack with his arms crossed and the specific quality of relaxation that means he is paying very close attention. "What is it, then?"
"It's me telling you that you could have died."
"I didn't."
"That is not the point—"
"Seems like the point to me." There's the tilt, the half-smile, the one that makes your hands want to do something inadvisable. "I'm standing right here. Uninjured. You can check if you want."
"I don't want to check, I want you to take this seriously—"
"I take it seriously."
"You take nothing seriously—"
"I take the fight seriously." His voice hasn't risen once. But you see the way his red eyes twinkle with mirth at your apparent frustration. That's the thing that makes it worse, the absolute evenness of him while you're coming apart at the seams. "Everything else is just logistics."
"People," you say, and your voice cracks very slightly at the middle of the word and then recovers, but not fast enough, because his eyes catch it immediately. "People are not logistics."
Something shifts in his expression. Minimal. But there.
You don't give him the space to do anything with it.
"You had thirteen opponents and no backup and you went in anyway because it was interesting to you, and I was outside, Lohen, I was right outside, and you didn't signal—" You're moving toward him now without fully deciding to, closing the distance because you need somewhere to put all of this and the room is running out of places. "Do you understand that from where I was standing I had no idea whether you were—"
"I knew what I was doing,” He says again, and for a single moment, only a miniscule one, you catch a crease against his eyebrows, a small mark of frustration before it, too, is replaced by his usually amused deamnor.
"You always think you know what you're doing!"
"I always do know what I'm doing. Ask Mika, he had complete faith in me." The evenness has an edge in it now, something underneath the calm that wasn't there a moment ago. "There's a difference."
"There is no difference, the outcome is the same, you walking into situations that should require twice the people and half the recklessness and you just—" You stop. You're close now. Closer than you meant to get than the argument strictly required, and you can see the line of tension in his jaw that he's been keeping there this whole time. "You just don't care."
"I care." The words come out shorter than anything else he's said.
"About the fight. You care about the fight—"
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant—"
"It is genuinely incredible," Lohen says, and his voice has dropped now, lost the easy cadence entirely, "that you can stand there and tell me what I mean."
"Someone has to, since you won't—"
"What do you want me to say?" He pushes off the rack, and now he's the one closing the distance, and you should step back, there's room, you could step back, you don't. "What exactly is the answer you're looking for? Because I've been watching you work yourself up to this for ten minutes and I still don't know what you actually want from me."
"I want you to act like your life has value—"
"I know my life has value—"
"You have a completely different definition of that than every other person on the planet—"
"And you have a completely different definition of what it means to be in a fight." Lohen is close enough now that you have to look up slightly, which you resent, and his voice is rough at the edges in a way you have genuinely never heard before, the control wearing thin. You didn’t even know the man had any control at all.
"You want everything clean. Mapped out. Orange for supply routes, purple for contingencies, every variable accounted for." His eyes are very dark. "You cannot map a fight. You cannot account for every variable. And the sooner you understand that, the less time you'll spend in trees being furious at me for knowing that already."
"That is not what this is about—"
"It's exactly what this is about." He takes another step and now there is almost no room left, and your back finds the edge of the weapon rack behind you, and he's close enough that you can see the old scar at his jaw you've been carefully not looking at for seven months and two weeks and however many days. "You had a plan. The plan didn't account for me. And you're furious, and I understand that, but what you're calling reckless I call reading the situation, and what you're calling careless—"
"You didn't signal," you say again, quieter now, and it comes out entirely wrong, it comes out like the thing underneath the thing, and you watch him hear it.
He goes very still.
"You didn't signal," you say, "and I didn't know, and I—"
His hand moves to your jaw before you finish the sentence.
It's not gentle. His palm is warm and certain and it tips your face up and then his mouth is on yours, and there is no transition between one thing and the other, no moment to prepare, just the solid immediate fact of him, his lips pressing hard and sure against yours with the same complete absence of hesitation he brings to everything, like this is simply the next logical step and he has already thought it through and committed.
You grip the front of his jacket.
He takes this, apparently, as agreement, because the hand at your jaw shifts, fingers pressing into your cheek, and the kiss doesn't ease up, it changes, deepens, becomes something that has been taking up space in a room for a very long time and has finally stopped pretending to be furniture. His other hand finds the small of your back and pulls you off the rack and into him, closing the last of the distance until there isn't any, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours and the scratch of his collar under your knuckles where you're holding on.
You kiss him back. This is a thing you are apparently doing now.
His mouth is warm and his grip is certain and he kisses the way he fights, no wasted movement, total attention, and when you press forward he makes a low sound against your lips that does something entirely unplanned to your knees. His thumb drags slowly along your cheekbone, adjusting the angle, and your free hand has found the front of his jacket and you pull, and he comes willingly, crowding you back half a step until the rack is at your shoulder blades and he is everywhere else, and the kiss opens, slower now, and his mouth is softer than it was and somehow worse for it, unhurried in a way that makes your chest ache in an uncharted and unscheduled fashion.
He pulls back and he is smiling, the full version, the one you have only ever seen aimed at a particularly good fight, and he looks at you with the expression of a man who has received exactly the information he came for and is deciding what to do with the surplus.
"Well," he says.
"Don't," you say, a little breathless.
"I haven't said anything."
"You were about to."
"I'm just standing here." He tilts his head, eyes moving over your face with the particular attention that has always made you feel thoroughly cross-referenced. "You're the one who still has my jacket."
You look down. You do, in fact, still have his jacket in both fists. You let go with what you feel is considerable dignity.
"This," you say, "does not change anything. We still have a debrief tomorrow, and you are still going to learn what a signal means, and—"
He leans in and presses his mouth to the corner of yours, barely a thing, the softest possible version of an interruption, and when he pulls back he is right there, close enough that the words have nowhere to go.
"—and the next time there is a plan," you say, somewhat less evenly, "you are going to follow it past the four-second mark—"
"Uh-huh." He kisses you properly this time, slowly, his bottom lip dragging against yours, one hand coming up to your jaw to hold you there, tilting your face up, and it lasts long enough that your hand finds the front of his jacket again without consulting you about it.
When he pulls back you are gripping his lapel.
"You do that every time," he observes.
"I do not—"
"The jacket." He glances down. "Every time. Like you're worried I'll move too fast."
"You always move too fast," You huff.
"You sure about that?" He dips in again, and this time his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw first, just below your ear, a warm press that makes your breath do something involuntary, before he finds your lips, and the kiss is unhurried, thorough, and he makes a low sound against your mouth that lands somewhere in the base of your spine. His hand slides from your jaw back into your hair, fingers pressing at the nape of your neck, and for a long moment the training room ceases to exist as a concept.
He pulls back an inch.
"Still think I move too fast?" he murmurs.
"That is not," you say, "the point I was making."
"What was the point?"
"The signal. The thirteen opponents. The building." You are aware your voice has a quality to it that it did not have twenty minutes ago, something rougher at the edges. "You didn't know I was outside."
"I knew exactly where you were." He says it simply, his thumb making a slow pass across your cheekbone. "I always know where you are."
He lets that sit between you for a moment, then presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, soft and brief, and another to your cheek, and tilts his forehead against yours. "You were in the trees at the northeast approach. Your satchel strap was catching the light. You were furious before I even went in."
You pull back enough to look at him. "You knew I was there the whole time."
"The whole time."
"And you went in anyway."
"I went in anyway." His eyes are steady on yours, the performance completely gone from them. "Thirteen opponents, no backup, no signal, because I knew you were forty yards away and I've never once needed more than that." He says it plainly, the same way he says everything true. "If you think about it, that's technically math."
Your heart stutters despite itself and you hate yourself for it.
"That is the most ridiculous thing," you say, "that anyone has ever said to me."
"Probably." He kisses you before you can continue, deep and sure, his hand firm at the back of your head. You kiss him back, despite all the instincts screaming at you that you are with the enemy, with both hands in his jacket and your heart doing things that are going to require significant documentation.
When you surface he's watching you with that look. You could almost call it soft. But with Lohen, nothing was really that soft. He was all sharp edges, and you could never predict what it was that he would do.
"So," he says, his thumb at your jaw, unhurried. "Debrief tomorrow."
"Debrief tomorrow," you manage.
"I'll try to look at the map for five seconds."
"That would be a record."
"I'm full of surprises." He grins, drops one last kiss at the corner of your mouth like he's leaving something there for later, and steps back, finally, and picks up his gauntlet from the rack. "The purple was the right call, by the way."
You stare at him.
"For contingencies." He pulls the gauntlet on, easy and unhurried. "Confident colour. Suits you."
"Get out," you say, but it comes out wrong, too warm, all the edge gone out of it.
He hears it. Of course he hears it. He pauses at the door and looks back at you one more time with the expression of a man who has thoroughly enjoyed every second of the last twenty minutes and intends to continue enjoying them indefinitely.
"Eastern ridge," he says. "Twelve minutes. I'll be there."
And then he's gone, and the training room is very quiet, and you stand there with your hair slightly wrecked and both hands still curved from where they'd been in his jacket, and think, distantly, that you are going to need an entirely new colour.
Something bold.
You've always liked purple.
ahhh... tryna get out of my writer's block. how'd i do?
synopsis. it’s been about two years since you married lohen. in that time, he’s been a perfect gentleman — leaving you to ponder if the rumors about his uncouth behavior are true, and if you ever will truly know your husband. all of a sudden, two years of a perfect marriage unravels in a single night, and it all starts with you catching him watching you in your sleep.
— content. arrangedmarriage!au, suggestive, takes place in the context of canon, stalking/stalking encouragement (but its okay cuz its him), like one or two phrases romanticizing murder and cannibalism (but its okay cuz its him) 🌚, jealousy, implies intimacy with reader being lohen's first time, mutual yearn, reader wears a loose tank top to sleep but no pronouns are used
— notes. 3.1k words, oh and he cries a little bit . we on some freak shit 2day. art by @/kanann_x on twt!
You never knew that red eyes could look pink underneath the pale moonlight.
It makes sense, since you and Lohen have never even shared a room (much less a bed) since you got married, and he’s rarely even in the house when the sun sets, so you wouldn’t know what your husband’s eyes look like at night. The last time you saw his face this close up was two years ago, at the altar. His eyes reminded you of cherries, then — ruby red like blood against pale skin, an intense presence that seemed like they could burn you if you got too close.
They’re softer, now. A gentler flush of light swirled in his irises.
Your voice comes out hoarse.
“… What are you doing in my room?”
Lohen has always been beautiful, even from the distance that he’s put you at. He’s beautiful every time his lips brush your knuckles at dinners with powerful families in Mondstadt, still beautiful when he forsakes you by your lonesome for the rest of the night, leaving you to entertain yourself in other ways. He’s beautiful when you’re strolling the gardens, and you catch him sparring against other knights, and he smiles like it’s the happiest he’s ever been.
Hell, he’s beautiful now — his bangs fallen over his forehead, eyes widened in shock, his chest rising mid-inhale. He’s moved your vanity chair to the side of your bed, elbows perched on the stand right above your previously sleeping form. Lohen's lips move in response to your question, but he doesn’t answer.
You have to blink yourself awake, try to force your words to come out less groggy.
“Did I oversleep?”
He actually answers this time, his tone with the veneer of professionalism.
“No.”
“… Is there an emergency, then? Has someone passed?”
“… No.”
Your heart thuds dully in your chest, confusion swirling in your head. You shift, your head lifting up from your pillow just a little, and Lohen scrambles. The chair falls to the floor with a thud in his hurry to leave, his voice uncharacteristically wavering as he fumbles, “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to come in, please have a good night—”
You prop yourself up in a panic, your hand reaches for his just barely enough to grab his wrist, and he freezes. Your mind races because Lohen hasn’t turned around to face you yet, but you grabbed for his wrist in a hurry, and you had no plan of action for this. With all your might, you tug him backwards — he yelps, forearms falling back on your sheets, his back landing on your lap.
“You are not leaving that easily.” You pant out, scowl on your lips, “What the hell, Lohen?”
He doesn’t respond again, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes blown wide. You watch in real time as the heavy flush at his ears spreads to his cheeks, red blossoming all over his face.
… Ah.
This is Lohen’s first time in a bed with you, you realize.
(And suddenly, your face feels warm too. You wonder if he notices.)
Slowly, you shift again — your thighs raise ever so slightly, so his head is brought closer to you, so you can sit a little more upright.
He's beautiful from this angle, too, and it only steels your resolve more. You’ve been denied the excuse to touch your husband for two years; you might as well take advantage of the opportunity while you have it.
Cautiously, your hand creeps towards him. A part of you is worried he’ll lunge — bite at you like a dog, or run away — but he stays frozen in your lap.
Your palm ghosts the cusp of his chin, tilting his jaw to face you. His skin is so much softer than you imagined, warm and getting warmer — he feels human underneath you.
Your hand travels to the side of his jaw, thumb on his cheek, tracing the deeper red on the apples of his cheek.
Lohen flinches, like your attention on him burns.
He should leave. He should lift himself from your lap, excuse himself to sleep in his cold chambers for the rest of the night so he can think about your touch without going rabid. He should cook you your favorite breakfast tomorrow, apologize profusely with a brilliant excuse for what he was doing in your room the night before.
Lohen knows himself enough to know that he should go. You're the one that stepped into the lion's den — a mouse keeping such a beast under it's paw is unheard of, and it's up to him to be strong enough to retreat back into the shadows, but he's never been strong when it comes to you.
So he stays there, drinking in the sight of you above him with half-lidded eyes, gazing at your lips as they move.
“Were you … watching me in my sleep?”
If only you knew.
He exhales. “Yeah.”
Warmth floods your chest, and your lips move before you can even process your next question. “Do you watch me often?”
Lohen feels like he might die, out of the pure ecstasy his heart can’t take being held by you, or the utter embarrassment of being caught.
“Almost every night.” He spits out, “Whenever I get the chance.”
“… Do you watch me when I'm not sleeping?”
Almost every day, whenever he gets the chance.
He's seen you in every state you've been in — it's not difficult to shrink his duties as the Vice Captain, and it's so easy when he already knows your daily schedule.
He used to chalk it up to keeping you safe. As his partner, you'd automatically be put in more danger than you normally would be, so he'd watch to keep an eye out for any attacks. The only attacks that he'd find out, however, were flirts and eyes from other men.
He wouldn't know what the feeling was when it happened — the something ugly that broiled in his chest, made his bloodlust that much more potent. He'd think about ending them all if he could for a moment — carve out their eyes for looking at you, flay their lips so they couldn't speak, butcher their hands for touching you.
But then you'd laugh. You'd wave your hand to show off the ring on your finger, speak of him, your husband, and all those thoughts would disappear. Because you were his, and he was yours.
Lohen would later find out (through rants with Varka of all people) that the fleeting emotion that overtook him was jealousy, and the emotion he felt towards you was love.
Something sick, tainted and unsure — but love nonetheless.
Lohen feels a rare bout of disgust towards himself. The bear trap he's placed himself in has finally clamped down on his crus, and like any wounded animal, he scrambles for absolution.
A gasp escapes your lips as his head rams into the fat of your stomach, his nose buried into your thigh, arms awkwardly wrapped around your waist. This is certainly the closest he's been to you — he can smell your bodywash through your silk top, just enough to send his panicking mind into overdrive.
“Please don't—” He chokes out, “Please don't leave me — I can be better, I can change, so please don't—”
You can only watch in shock as Lohen babbles on, manic pleas flying from his lips faster than you can process them. His arms squeeze around you, twisting the fabric bunched at your skin, pressing further closer to you. He'd reach past your skin if he could — have his teeth tear into your flesh, burrow into your bones, sink into the fibers of your muscle — he's happy to be a parasite if it means he can be with you—
“Lohen, stop.”
His teeth clamp down on his tongue at your command, just enough to draw blood.
It's embarrassing. The Vice Captain of the Knights of Favonius’ Fifth Company, trembling in his partner's lap, cowering like a child. He can't help it; he can't think properly with you so close to him. Any normal man would knuckle under your warmth, lurch on their axis at your touch, and he is all but just a man—
Your hands cup his cheeks, forcing his face to yours, your noses just inches apart.
It pisses you off — how absolutely angelic he looks, knowing he has so much to apologize for. Tears lace the corners of his eyes like poison on a sharp knife, arched right to your heart. There's a waver of his lips, small knit in his brows, pink in his eyes, the color of love, that makes him that much more pitiful.
“You're acting insane.” Your eye twitches, “I've never met anyone like you.”
“’M sorry,” he mumbles glumly, “I didn't mean for it to go this far.”
(You've never seen a man look more desperate in his life.
And now your heart feels soft again.)
For a moment, there's just silence. Pregnant and heavy, fallen over the two of you. There's not even a rustle on his side, like he's terrified that if he moves, time will go forward again.
“Can I ask why?”
What other reason would there be?
For the first time since being caught, his eyes meet yours wholly. Like you're the only person in the whole world, and his answer is the only truth.
His breath feels tepid on your skin, the shaky inhale and exhale as you await the answer.
“I just like being around you.” He breathes, “… Even when you're unaware of it, I just like you.”
And then his head dips, his cheek nuzzling into the palm of your hand. Like a dog at the heel of its owner, he bathes in the attention you've given him while still begging for more.
“I like you,” he confesses again — it’s not any easier to say it, even now that it's already out in the open. You feel his lips on your skin, not daring to enunciate more than needed, shielding your bare palm from his teeth. “And I’ve been holding back all this time, so please forgive me.”
There's something scrappy in his tone of voice — raw on his tongue, with something frenzied that you can't quite place.
So this is the real Lohen.
Normal? No. Well-adjusted? Certainly not. Like a wolf starving for a meal, he’s gotten himself through with instinct and madness alone. Polite greetings can't quell such a fire, and kisses out of duty will only ignite it further, so he's been staving it off by watching you — but that can't simulate what he truly desires either. He's just as obsessed as you are, to the point where it's debilitating.
Something stirs in your heart.
(Is it bad that this only makes you want him more?)
So you adjust your grip — you sit both of you up straighter on the bed, resting his chin between your propped-up knees.
“I forgive you.” You murmur, finger absentmindedly circling around his cheek, brushing his bangs back. You're impossibly close to him now —enough to see the flutter of his blue eyelashes, the faint freckles that dot his nose.
Your head tilts to the side, moving closer. “And…”
Lohen's breath hitches.
“I'm sorry you felt that you couldn't be yourself around me.”
A peck on his cheek, before you pull back. Far too brief, he'd think he imagined it if you weren't holding him right here.
“I wish you would've told me instead of going to such lengths, y'know.”
Another on his forehead. His neurons feel frayed, sent to death by overstimulation at your touch, his self-control tumbling further and further away, straight to the bear trap shut tightly around his heart.
“It's funny, isn't it?” Your laugh sounds like music to his ears — the crystalflies’ hum that floats around the grapevine at night, the songbirds that wake him up in the morning. “I guess anyone else would be worried about the logistics — how long you've been watching me, what you think about when you watch me, but…”
Your thumb brushes against his eyebags, faint and discolored. And your heart aches for him, because you know the countless hours and dedication he puts into his work, and you know what he puts his body through to keep you safe.
“I'm here worrying if you’re getting enough sleep like this. So now I’m wondering if we were made for eachother.”
He flinches as you kiss him right under his eye, right at the mole — your teeth scrape at his eyebags just lightly, and he shivers. You don’t separate from him completely this time — no, your head tilts until your forehead presses up against his, your noses bumping against the other, your breath on his lips.
You're brighter than the moon outside could ever be, and he can't help but stare with ricochet wonder.
“I just want you as you are. So please don't hide from me.”
Lohen used to imagine what it'd be like to kiss you. Hell, he was thinking about what it'd be like when he was watching you a few minutes ago — for you, he'd be a respectable man, the best he could be.
The second your lips actually touch his, though, the last thread of self-restraint snaps.
His fingers tighten at your shoulders as his face presses against yours, until the back of your skull hits the headboard and he's crawled up over you, caging you between the bed and his body.
It's a foreign feeling — his tongue licking the inside of your lips, teeth bumping awkwardly at how messy it all is — and he tries to keep his thoughts into reign again, tries not to think about how he'd unhinge his jaw to swallow you whole if he could, how he doesn't need another sip of wine ever again if it means getting drunk off of you for the rest of his life.
His partner, his precious partner, mewling vibrations against his lips, thunder in his heart and clouds in his head. Lohen could die happily here, he thinks — you could stab him in the back right now, and he'd have the pleasure of bleeding out in your arms. What an honor it would be to seep into the crevices of your skin, so that no amount of soap or water could ever rid you of him.
You're too sweet, though. Too good for him, so he'll have to stand to sticking his tongue down your throat instead, peeling you open from inside out until the nonsensical sounds you make with your lips learn to form his name instead.
Something carnal bubbles in your chest, like animal to animal alike, saliva in your mouth, melted iron on your tongue.
It's something in the way he laps up your attention, kisses you with a reverence only a devil could, like there's nothing else he'd rather do.
Lohen’s lips separate from yours far earlier than he'd like — his hands weaker on your wrists, chest heaving as he pants.
He's not nearly good enough at this yet, but he wants to be. He wants to be better for you in general, if you'd let him.
And it seems like you want to, with the way you lay your forehead on his shoulder, slowly gathering yourself the same way he is, letting him feel your uneven breaths on his collarbone. Your cheek feels warm on his skin as you turn, a contrast to the nip in the night air.
“So,” you look at him with all the unlocked adoration he used to dream about, “Was that everything you've ever wanted, my dear husband?”
He nods.
If he's being honest, he's still half-expecting you to throw him out now that you've had your fill of him at this point, to let him rot in the dungeons below you where he belongs — but you just laugh, and his heart skips a beat again.
Your lips curve into a teasing smile.
“… Stalker.”
Lohen flushes.
“I didn't—” His protest is cut off short by another kiss on his lips. Softer, this time. Sweeter.
Enough for him to want to go back in and capture yours properly again, but then you sigh contentedly, flopping back down on your mattress.
“You'll stay the night, won't you?” You ask innocently, running your hand up his thigh, “Unless you're content to just watch me until the sun rises.”
(As if on cue, one of the straps to your tank top slips off your shoulder, revealing your bare skin.
Lohen thinks that maybe he's been the one walking into the lion's den this entire time.)
“I…”
“Perfect!” Your hands promptly grab his forearm, pulling him down to you.
This is twice that you've thrown him to the mattress, he thinks, another three or four times more that you've manhandled him just this night alone. Is this what he should expect from married life from now on? Should he invest in a new mattress?
He scarcely has time to think before you're by his side again, arms wrapped around his waist, your lips pressing kisses to his clavicle.
“Y'know … we never consummated the marriage, Lohen,” you murmur, unable to hide the mischievous tone in your voice, “Shall we make it official tonight?”
You're going to be the death of him, but he doesn't mind.
lowkeyyyy hate the way this ended but couldnt think of anything else so . idk i just wanted to make out with him
i think the funny thing is that bro isn't sleeping when u share a bed either 😭 he just gets to stare closer now
I’m a firm believer that Lohen has beautiful handwriting. You never really get to see it because he avoids paperwork like the plague. He also rarely writes letters, opting to simply see you in person to tell you whatever he would have put in a letter. But if he gets sent on a longer mission and can’t see you, he’ll for sure write to you.
I’m telling you right now, his little:
My dearest [Name],
at the top of the letter is genuinely so stunning.
Summary : In which, you find a poisoned meal at your doorstep every morning. And so, you make it your life's motto to savor it and provide your thoughts.
Much to Lohen's dismay, you never seemed particularly impressed by any of his carefully crafted poisons.
While most love stories begin with flowers, yours began with poison.
Most people reacted poorly to poison. They cried, screamed, and maybe even succumbed to death.
You, apparently smiled.
Lohen had first heard the rumor by accident.
"Apparently the new medic (Y/N) has a strange fascination with toxins," a knight muttered over drinks.
He hadn’t meant to care. He really hadn’t. But something about the word 'fascination' lodged itself under his skin like a splinter that refused to be ignored.
So, naturally, he did what any reasonable man with too much curiosity and too little restraint would do—he investigated.
Two alchemists confirmed it later, whispering that you had once voluntarily tasted diluted snake venom just to observe its effects.
That further piqued his curiosity.
And what better way to find out the truth than test the rumor himself?
After a day of locking himself in his house, he had come up with his very own poison. Made from the remains of a dendro slime, mixed with a few crushed petals of Dendrobium, and a generous splash of expired alcohol stolen from the Cat’s Tail.
He didn't know if it was truly toxic. In fact, he just mixed random ingredients he found revolting.
He wasn't planning on truly poisoning you after all. In its current concentration, it would merely cause temporary numbness (maybe).
And so he placed a cute little package in front of your house (he stole the documents that held information of those working under the Grand Master to find your address). Inside the package was a plate of Hash Brown he had cooked himself.
Of course, the poison was sprinkled on top as well.
He knocked on the door to your house and hid in a bush nearby.
He watched the door open, a shiver of excitement going down his spine.
But when you stepped out, his eyes widened. You weren’t what he had imagined. Not old, not bitter, not hunched over with tired eyes and stained robes.
You looked... young and composed. Normal in fact.
You glanced at the package, shrugged, and brought it inside.
The next day, he had half hoped there would be some commotion. Instead, nothing happened.
Lohen found that significantly more unsettling than if you had screamed.
Did you not open it?
Did you die?
Worse, did you throw it away?
By the second day, irritation curdled into curiosity again, and curiosity dragged him back to your house.
He hadn’t even reached the door when something stopped him.
A box.
His box.
He stared at it, then at the note pinned neatly on top.
It read-
---
Observation Log
Possible dendro slime derivative.
Taste profile:
Slight bitterness.
Floral aftertaste.
Perhaps traces of alcohol.
Symptoms:
Tingling lips.
Mild numbness in fingers.
Onset approximately twenty-five seconds.
Conclusion:
Sloppily made poison.
---
He stared at the handwriting. The faint smell of alcohol lingering on the hastily ripped paper.
'..... Sloppy?' he scoffed, annoyance creeping up into his face. He crumbled the paper, staring at the door with a sadistic smile.
"Fine then. I'll show you real poison."
The next morning, another box appeared at your doorstep.
Like last time, you took it into your home. You had no idea who was delivering these, but the last package being drenched in a mild toxin made it interesting enough for you to open.
You tore open the box.
This time, it was a plate of mushroom pizza.
"Oh, that looks delicious." you muttered to yourself, noticing the unusual purple coloring on the crust.
You reached and held a piece of the pizza near your mouth. And without a care, you took a huge bite from the area where the coloring was the brightest.
The following day, Lohen returned to find another note on your doorstep. This time it was more detailed than the last.
---
Observation Log
Low concentration of Aconitum.
Taste profile:
Initial sweet-bitter note.
Followed by burning sensation.
Symptoms:
Numbness.
Dizziness.
Loss of strength.
Conclusion:
Good posion. Easily countered.
Although, I liked the taste of the pizza.
(attached are my other observations)
---
There were six pages attached.
Six.
Lohen stared, flipping through the pages with a smile. "God. She's insane."
This started the exchange of poisons and paper notes.
The next package that Lohen put on your doorstep had a small note of his own.
---
To the Medic
Firstly, fuck you.
Secondly, you missed a secondary ingredient. (Hint : It was Naku weed)
Thirdly, thank you for complimenting the pizza.
I made it myself.
---
Your response appeared the next morning.
---
To the Poisoner
1. Rude.
2. I did not miss the ingredient. Naku weed has no toxic properties. Just color.
3. The posion on the crust was obvious. Are you perhaps new to this poisoning thing?
---
Your responses pissed the Vice captain even more. Because how dare a lowly medic like you have the audacity to critic his cooking?!
He tried even harder after that.
More precise blends. Better masking. Controlled dosages. Carefully calibrated ingredients. Tried perfecting the recipe so you couldn't find any faults.
Everything.
After making sure everything was perfect, he delivered the next package. A plate of Northern Apple Stew.
The reply next day was written in a crumbled paper with messy handwriting.
---
Rules for Future Poisoning
1. No explosive diarrhea.
2. No permanent injury.
3. No organ damage.
4. No blindness.
5. No poisoning children.
6. Food should remain edible
---
Lohen rolled his eyes at the rules. "Killjoy." To him these rules just were unnecessary boundaries that ruined his fun.
But he never wanted to stop this exchange between the two of you. It was much too entertaining for him.
Unknown to him, that night ended with you locking yourself in your room. Having non stop diarrhea for hours.
Soon the notes became longer than the poisons themselves.
One morning, the package you opened had a plate of Cream Stew.
And this time the note attached had a list of ingredients used.
---
Current Theory
The toxin should produce localized muscle weakness.
Estimated duration:
Two hours.
Possible side effects:
Dizziness.
Drowsiness.
Complaining.
Will you be able to guess what I used (Y/N)? °^°?
---
Three days later Lohen received something he could only call a report.
A dossier.
Twenty-two pages which included diagrams, charts, annotated symptom timelines.
And corrections.
So many corrections.
---
Page 14: dosage error.
Page 17: please stop using kitchen spoons as lab tools.
Page 19: “Did you eyeball the concentration?”
---
Unfortunately Lohen had. And he hated that you noticed.
Months passed and somehow it became a routine.
Your medic colleagues grew increasingly worried seeing you drowsy every other day.
"Do you know who keeps sending you poison?" one asked.
You shook your head. "No, not really."
"Shouldn't that concern you?"
You looked confused. "Why?"
"Because they're poisoning you...?"
You blinked. Honestly, if the person wanted to kill you, they could have used other deadly toxins. Yet, they always made sure to use small doses and non lethal ingredients.
You smiled to yourself. "They are very considerate actually."
"... Oh." the medic froze.
You tapped a finger on your cheek. "They also have lovely handwriting."
"..."
The medic walked away. Unable to continue the conversation.
Lohen, meanwhile, was also not doing well.
Varka had his suspicions when he first saw the crazed man laughing while tasting the exotic plants he had ordered.
One day, while Lohen was away on a mission, he broke the lock of his drawer and read through all the papers in there.
Papers about toxic plants. Possible ingredients. And of course, all the notes you had written to him.
He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell is happening in Mondstadt?"
Varka immediately dragged Lohen by the collar and pushed him into the store you worked in to apologize.
You looked up from your desk and instantly recognized him as your mysterious poisoner.
Not by his face. But by his hands.
The stained fingertips. The chemical burns. The ink marks. The quiet proof of obsession.
"Oh," you smiled softly. "It's you."
Lohen blinked.
Varka shoved him forward. "Apologise to the lady Lohen."
Oh. So his name was Lohen.
The boy looked deeply offended. "I don't want to."
"Apologize." The Grand Master repeated, his gaze cold.
Lohen sighed dramatically. Then glanced toward you. "...Sorry for poisoning you."
You immediately shook your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. "There is so need for apologies. I should be thanking you actually."
Silence.
Even Varka froze.
You continued, brighter now. "The poisons were genuinely fascinating."
Varka looked horrified.
"I learned to make dozens of new antidotes!"
Lohen stared. Mesmerized.
"Also the toxins were quite creative! Honestly, every morning became something to look forward to."
Varka took a breath, and turned his gaze to the ceiling, perhaps praying to Barbatos why they allowed these two people to exist.
"Also the notes were fun!" you added, opening your drawer and placing the stack of notes you had carefully stapled on the table in front.
Lohen wasn't even listening anymore.
Because you were smiling.
At him.
Because of him.
Because he had poisoned you.
It was a stupid conversation. The girl in front of him was grateful for poisoning her. It was reckless, idiotic and yet...
At that moment his heart made some several terrible decisions.
He realised.
With a lot of hesitation...
That-
'Oh.'
'Oh no.'
'You were kinda cute.'
He had known your name for months. Known where you worked. Known your habits. Your favorite medicinal herbs. The way your handwriting became messier when excited.
But seeing you in person? Actually talking to you?
He was finished.
Absolutely in love.
That night he didn't sleep. Instead he sat at his desk surrounded by herbs, powders, vials, and failed formulas, staring at his next experiment like it might hold divine answers.
Most men wrote poetry.
Most men gifted flowers.
Most men confessed.
But Lohen was not most men.
He lifted a vial of deep red liquid, watching it swirl under lamplight with a manic smile. "If she barely liked the last one... I'll just make one that is even better."
And thus began the greatest romantic pursuit in history.
Not through gifts or heartfelt letters.
But through an escalating series of increasingly sophisticated poisons.
Lohen's new life goal was simple.
Create a poison so fascinating, so beautiful so perfect....
That when you tasted it—
You'd fall hopelessly in love with its creator.
Unfortunately for him, the only thing you fell in love with was the chemical composition.
Fin
Part 2, Part 3
😭 😭 😭 I CANT WITH THIS GUY. I FEEL LIKE HE'S SOMEONE WHO'D GIFT YOU A BOMB CUZ HE LOVES YOU.
Some of the ingredients used r actually toxic while others r just bs. I tried making it as Canon as possible but I'm sure there r some mistakes. Sorry abt tht.
Anyway! Hope you enjoyed! Let me know your thoughts.
Hi, I'm a new Nacht fan and I just found your blog. Can you recommend Nacht or Morgen fanfics written by you and other fanfic writers that you like ?
Hello there, Anon!
I'm happy to hear that Nacht has another fan in the world and I'm flattered that you're reaching out to me for recommendations.
I'll start off by being honest with the fact that my readings and writing of Nacht and Morgen related fanfic is very self-indulgent/limited. I keep to my own little circle and don't explore all that much (which I know is a bit of a weakness of mine) so my knowledge of Faust fanfics isn't going to be all that far reaching.
A lot of my fics relating to the Faust twins also includes by fan character Josele (she gets shipped with both at various points).
If you're okay with canon character x oc stuff, I do have a lot of it to offer. I even made a whole post linking to my various fics.
My friend Eternity ( @eternity-just-fangirls ) also has an oc she ships with only Nacht. She has a fic and is currently putting out mini stories about her oc (Astrea) and Nacht.
There's @thoughtfullyrainynightmare who has various x reader fics for Nacht and Morgen alike (though more with Nacht for kind of obvious reasons).
-Nacht x reader Date Night
-Nacht x reader Proposal
-Morgen x reader Cuddle time
-Fae Morgen x reader
@lyranova also has some Nacht x reader fics/headcanon posts but I'll point you to It's you. It's always been you as one with a fluffy tone.
For non-shipping related fanfics, I can recommend a few.
Laura and I collabed on a fic between Morgen and Nacht a few years ago. Apologies for the format but that's what happens when you write a collab via reblogs.
I also highly recommend this Nacht-centric whump piece done by Laura.
I've written a little angst about Nacht too.
I've also got a pair of fics which bring Yami's dynamic with the twins into play. One is a little more heartfelt (there is a one-off mention of a friend's oc but it's inconsequential to the fic as a whole) and the other is more humorous.
There's also this lovely fic about Nacht enlisting former EotMS members by @valtoswife.
If anything, my recommendations can be seen as a starting off point. You're sure to find fics by other people here on tumblr or other sites like ao3 with a little searching. Hopefully you enjoy the fics I shared here and can find more of what you're looking for~!
hugo meets his new stylist at a brand sponsor, he instantly falls in love and wants to keep in touch with her forever ... (click here for pt. 1 !)
a/n : PART 2 IS HEREE !! i actually love this troupe so much guys should i just make this into a whole ass series ... edit: IM SO STUPID I POSTED THIS WITHOUT ANY TAGS
a/n: my coworker gagged me when i couldn’t reach something so he did it for me and when i said thank you he said “you just had to stretch a little more” mind you i couldn't reach it at all. hoe.
synopsis: the kind of pictures they’d post of you on their instagram story that would make everyone feel single.
blurry candid of you laughing because he said something stupid.
i mean genuinely blurry. your face is half-moving. the table is crooked. the photo quality looks like it was taken during an earthquake.
caption: "proof she finds me funny."
song: love on the brain – rihanna.
the funniest part is that isagi posts this with his whole chest. no irony. no embarrassment. no self-awareness.
because in his mind? making you laugh is one of his greatest accomplishments.
he stares at this picture more than some of his match highlights.
fans immediately lose their minds once they zoom in and realize you're looking directly at him while laughing. not at the camera. not at somebody else. him.
comments become:
"girl blink twice if he's forcing you to laugh."
"he definitely told the worst joke imaginable."
"the way she's looking at him i'm going the fuck to bed "
and isagi is scrolling through the comments smiling like an idiot because nobody understands.
he remembers exactly what he said. it wasn't even funny. somehow you laughed for 5 straight minutes.
that's his favorite part.
itoshi rin
random photo he took of you looking out the bullet train window.
the lighting isn't special. you're not posing. your hair isn't even done. you're literally just existing.
caption: none.
song: nothing's gonna hurt you baby – cigarettes after sex.
by the time the post hits 3 minutes old, there are already edits.
by the time it hits 30 minutes old, there are essays.
because WHY DOES HE HAVE THIS PHOTO.
why was he looking at you? why did he save it? why did he post it? why does it feel so intimate?
everyone realizes you clearly didn't know he took the picture.
which means rin saw you sitting there and thought: yeah. i need to keep this forever.
the screenshot count becomes absurd. people start calling it "the train photo." entire fan accounts are dedicated to analyzing it.
rin does not acknowledge any of this. but when someone asks him why he posted it, he just shrugs.
"liked the picture." that's it.
little does everyone know that his camera roll contains approximately 800 more photos exactly like it. completely unposed. completely unnoticed.
his favorite version of you is the one that isn't trying.
itoshi sae
photo of you wearing his sunglasses while crossing a street somewhere in madrid. both hands wrapped around his bicep.
you're talking about something. he doesn't remember what. he just remembers looking down and thinking you looked cute. so he snapped a quick one.
caption: "thief."
song: telepatía – kali uchis.
the internet explodes immediately. because sae doesn't post. sae barely acknowledges humanity. sae posting a picture of somebody is already a historical event. sae posting a picture where you're clearly attached to him like a koala? global emergency.
comments become:
"HE’S SMILING." "SAE ITOSHI SMILING IN THE BIG 2026???" "somebody check on rin."
the funniest part? everybody is right. he is absolutely smiling.
he spent 10 minutes choosing between 3 nearly identical photos. 10 whole minutes. that's basically a marriage proposal by sae standards.
later, someone asks where the sunglasses came from.
he responds: "they’re mine."
then logs off. he wanted everyone to know exactly whose sunglasses they were. and exactly who stole them.
nagi seishiro
photo of you asleep.
that's it. absolutely diabolical behavior.
caption: "she's charging."
song: single – the neighbourhood.
people think it's a joke. it is. but it's also not.
nagi genuinely sees you as some kind of adorable electronic device.
you take naps. you need snacks. sometimes you stop functioning. therefore: charging. simple.
the photo itself is ridiculously cute. your cheek is squished against a pillow. you're holding onto his hoodie sleeve. one sock is missing. nobody knows where it went. not even nagi.
comments become:
"FREE HER." "bro posted her unconscious." "is she a girlfriend or a tamagotchi?”
nagi is confused by the backlash. "what? she looked cute."
that's literally his entire defense.
the worst part is that every few months he does it again. sleeping in the car. sleeping on the couch. sleeping on his shoulder. sleeping during movies.
fans have accidentally been given a complete sleep study over the course of your relationship.
nagi thinks this is perfectly normal.
mikage reo
photo of you standing in the middle of some luxury shopping district in tokyo. probably harajuku. maybe ginza. doesn't matter. somehow you look expensive just standing there.
you're not even doing anything. you're checking your phone. that's it.
caption: "that's MY muse."
song: fashion killa – a$ap rocky.
this post creates approximately 17,000 edits within the hour.
reo accidentally posted what looks like a luxury campaign advertisement.
people are convinced a magazine took the photo. but nope. just reo. who has approximately 6,000 photos of you in his favorites folder.
and yes. the folder is actually named "museum." because he thinks you're art.
fans discover this fact later and collectively evaporate. comments become:
"reo mikage i know that's you liking every edit." "he's refreshing the tag." "he wants that cookie so bad."
and they're right. reo posts the story. watches the views climb. searches your name. likes edits. saves edits. sends edits to you. comments "so true" under edits of his own girlfriend.
then acts completely normal when confronted.
the man is your biggest fan. everybody knows it. especially him.
bachira meguru
the photo is you running ahead of him through a festival at night. lights everywhere. lanterns overhead. people passing by.
the picture is slightly blurry because he was literally running after you when he took it.
caption: "wait for meeee!"
song: can i call you tonight? – dayglow.
the photo feels like a memory before it even becomes one. that's what destroys everybody.
it doesn't look posed. it doesn't look curated. it looks like one of those moments you don't realize is important until years later. like it’s nostalgic.
your hair is bouncing behind you. you're halfway turned around because he's yelling your name.
and somehow the picture captures exactly how happy he is just following you around.
comments immediately become:
"this looks like the ending scene of an indie romance movie." "why am i crying 💔” "he's literally following her like a golden retriever."
correct. bachira sees absolutely nothing wrong with this. he likes following you around.
you're interesting. sometimes you randomly stop to look at things. sometimes you drag him somewhere. sometimes you get distracted. it's fun.
later, he reveals there are approximately 47 photos from this exact night.
35 of them are just you smiling at him while standing exactly 3 feet away. because apparently that's his favorite view.
shidou ryusei
photo of you flipping off the camera after he spent the last 20 minutes being the most annoying man alive. your expression is murderous.
his laugh can practically be heard through the screen.
caption: "she wants me."
song: true – spandau ballet.
the internet collectively develops high blood pressure.
comments instantly become:
"that's literally not what that means." "she looks one inconvenience away from homicide." "ryusei i am begging you to read body language."
shidou is liking every single comment because he thinks they're hilarious.
what makes it worse is that you posted your own story immediately afterward. same photo. caption: "i don't."
somehow this only makes people more convinced you're soulmates.
the thing is shidou genuinely believes annoying you is a love language.
unfortunately though? every time you threaten him, he gets happier. nobody knows why. not even him.
karasu tabito
photo of you walking ahead of him at night. holding his hand. just the back of you. nothing fancy. no dramatic lighting. no expensive scenery. no special occasion.
caption: "favorite person to waste time with."
song: sure thing – miguel.
THAT'S THE ONE.
the post goes viral because it feels so unfairly intimate.
everyone expected something flashier. something more obvious. instead, he drops the most devastatingly romantic thing imaginable and leaves.
it makes sense. karasu's affection has always been sneaky. he's not the type to make speeches. but he is the type to remember your coffee order even after 3 years. the type to call when he knows you're bored. the type to stay on the phone with you while doing absolutely nothing.
and this picture? it feels exactly like that.
comments become:
"waste time?????" "that's somehow more romantic than an engagement." “this just raised my standards, thank you.” "he talks about her like she's his favorite hobby."
you are. and he'd never admit that out loud.
kaiser michael
mirror picture. you're wearing a dark blue dress that’s long, elegant, fitted in some places and loose in others. somehow both sophisticated and effortless. the kind of outfit that makes people stop scrolling.
caption: "art appreciation post."
song: art deco – lana del rey.
the internet loses its collective damn mind.
because everybody knows this isn't actually about fashion. this is kaiser publicly staring at his girlfriend. that's what this is.
comments immediately become:
"bro thinks he's at the louvre." "HE'S LOOKING AT HER LIKE A RENAISSANCE PAINTING." "somebody get this man a museum membership."
the answer is yes. absolutely yes.
kaiser genuinely believes beauty should be acknowledged. loudly. dramatically. repeatedly. and beauty is you.
he spends 15 minutes deciding which picture shows the dress best. then another 5 staring at it after posting.
if somebody asks why he uploaded it? he'll shrug.
"people should be allowed to admire art."
meanwhile ness is somewhere off-screen resisting the urge to throw his phone into traffic.
ness alexis
photo of you holding a huge bouquet. flowers in all your favorite colors. you're wearing pajamas. completely bare faced. hair still messy from sleep. clearly woke up less than an hour ago.
caption: "picked the right ones :)"
song: baby i'm yours – arctic monkeys.
the smiley face is important. extremely important. life-changingly important. because ness typed it. deleted it. typed it again. deleted it. stared at it. walked around his apartment. came back. stared at it some more. then finally posted it.
the photo itself absolutely destroys people. you're not dressed up that’s why. you're not posing.
it's painfully domestic. painfully real.
comments become:
"he bought her flowers before she even brushed her hair i’m crine.” "the smiley face is making me emotional." "this is the most boyfriend picture i've ever seen."
the thing is, ness doesn't even realize why everyone loves it. to him, the flowers are the focus. he spent forever picking them. he remembers every color you like. he wanted you to smile when you woke up.
and everyone else is staring at the picture thinking: oh. this man is absolutely gone.
completely. irreversibly. catastrophically in love.
chigiri hyoma
photo of you waiting for him on the other side of a crosswalk. huge grin. waving both arms at him like he disappeared for 10 years instead of 30 seconds. cars passing. city lights reflecting off the windows nearby.
caption: "and i'm supposed to be the faster one."
song: you are in love – taylor swift.
the internet immediately starts screaming. chigiri never really posts things unless they matter. and this? this matters. a lot.
the thing people notice is your expression. that's not a polite smile. that's a there you are smile. the kind you save for one specific person.
comments instantly become:
"LIKE OKAYYYYYY WE GET IT BRO YOU LOVE HER." "WE UNDERSTAND. MESSAGE RECEIVED." "HE POSTED A TAYLOR SWIFT SONG. SEDATE ME."
chigiri ignores all of them. he's too busy staring at the picture himself.
he remembers exactly what happened afterward. the second the light changed, you practically skipped over to him.
and honestly? no goal celebration has ever made him smile as much as that did.
yukimiya kenyu
photo of you adjusting his collar before some formal event. maybe a gala. maybe an award ceremony. doesn't matter. you're focused entirely on fixing his outfit. completely unaware he's staring at you.
caption: "found my favorite color."
song: sunflower – michelle leigh.
chaos erupts immediately. because he's wearing an orange tie. and you're standing right there.
comments become a battlefield. half the internet say: "he means the tie." the other half: "BE SERIOUS."
the answer is painfully obvious. the photo is literally centered on you.
yukimiya himself refuses to clarify. he finds the debate funny.
meanwhile every single one of his teammates knows exactly what he meant. this man has looked at you like you're the eighth wonder of the world since day one.
somebody eventually asks him directly. “when you said ‘my favorite color,’ did you mean the orange tie or your girlfriend?”
his response? "you tell me." which somehow confirms it more.
hiori yo
photo taken from his gaming setup. you're sitting beside him. half in frame. completely focused on your own thing. maybe you're reading. maybe you're drawing. maybe you're scrolling through your phone. nobody knows. hiori didn't bother explaining either.
caption: "co-op."
song: lovefool – the cardigans.
the comments are so confused. you're not interacting. you're not even looking at each other.
one comment with 50,000 likes says: "am i missing something."
but hiori understands perfectly. because in his brain? spending time together doesn't require constant attention. it's just existing in the same space. comfortably. peacefully. with no pressure and no expectations. just knowing the other person is there.
comments become:
"bro that's not co-op." "she isn't even playing." "hiori that's literally single-player."
and hiori reads them and goes: "um, nah."
because you sat there for 3 hours. and that's worth more to him than any multiplayer lobby.
barou shoei
.5 selfie. the most criminal and cutest camera angle known to mankind.
you're sitting on the kitchen counter, grinning directly into the camera. barou is cooking in the background. completely focused. serious expression. apron on. looking like he's preparing a five-star meal for a king and his queen.
caption: "the chef and his pretty taste-tester (written by [name] btw)."
song: fallingforyou – the 1975.
the second people see the caption? they start crying. everybody knows barou didn't write that. absolutely nobody believes it.
comments become:
"HE MADE SURE WE KNEW IT WASN'T HIM." "HE'S EMBARRASSED." "BAROU LIKE THIS COMMENT IF SHE STOLE YOUR PHONE."
the funniest part? he actually did make you add the disclaimer. he refused to post it otherwise.
but he still posted it. that's the important part.
despite all his complaining… despite pretending he doesn't care… the photo remains on his account. forever.
and every time somebody mentions it, he threatens them. which only confirms that he secretly loves it.
kunigami rensuke (post-WC)
mirror photo at a private gym. both of you are sweaty. exhausted. yet smiling. happy.
caption: "the only person i'd allow to be my spotter is you @yourusername.”
song: cupid's chokehold / breakfast in america – gym class heroes.
the internet genuinely doesn't know how to process this.
this is supposed to be the intimidating one. the serious one. the emotionally constipated one.
and yet here he is. smiling. voluntarily. publicly.
comments become:
"HE TAGGED HER." "HE TAGGED HER Y’ALL."
"EVERYONE STAY CALM."
but the real killer? the wording.
anyone can be a workout partner. anyone can train with him. but being the only person? that's different. especially coming from kunigami.
especially since after everything he's been through, trust isn't something he gives easily anymore.
so fans end up realizing the caption isn't really about the gym. it's about you.
and suddenly everybody is emotional.
kunigami is just sitting there wondering why people are acting like he proposed.
he only stared at the post for 20 minutes before uploading it. that's normal, right?
iglesias bunny
photo of you sitting at a restaurant. sunglasses on. outfit immaculate. posture immaculate. somehow making a menu look expensive. the kind of picture that makes people sit up straighter when they see it.
caption: "everyone clap."
song: 360 – charli xcx.
the funniest thing about bunny is that this is somehow both a joke and completely serious.
yes, he's being dramatic. but also? he genuinely believes applause is warranted.
comments instantly become:
"👏👏👏👏👏"
"THANK YOU BUNNY FOR BRINGING HER TO OUR ATTENTION." "he posted her like she just won an oscar AS HE SHOULDDD."
and bunny is sitting there liking every single comment. because exactly. finally. people understand.
somebody comments: "what are we clapping for?"
bunny replies: "look at her."
that's it. no further explanation. in his mind, none is needed.
he took approximately 100 pictures that night. this wasn't even the most glamorous one. it was just his favorite. especially because you were laughing at something right before he snapped the photo.
and even behind the sunglasses? he could tell. which somehow makes the entire thing 10 times worse.
the internet spends the next week making edits. bunny saves all of them.
hugo vivian
photo of you standing on a balcony at night. city lights glowing behind you. skyline stretching into the distance. the wind moving your hair slightly.
you don't know he took the picture. you don't even know he's looking at you.
caption: "badump, badump."
song: my destiny – delinquent.
that's it. no elaboration. no explanation. no context. only: badump, badump.
and somehow that makes it INFINITELY worse.
everybody immediately understands what he means with his little cyborg sound effects he does.
comments become:
"OH THAT'S TOO CUTE." "HEARTBEAT CAPTION. HEARTBEAT CAPTION." "HE LOOKED AT HER AND FORGOT WORDS."
which is basically what happened.
hugo had every opportunity to write something normal. something cool. or something clever.
instead, his brain saw you standing there and reduced itself to cartoon sound effects. like an actual malfunctioning robot. zoom. beep beep. badump, badump. finished. post uploaded.
the photo itself is gorgeous. but the caption is what kills everyone. it's so simple. so stupid. so painfully sincere. it feels less like an instagram story and more like somebody accidentally reading his thoughts.
and hugo never corrects anyone. he knows they're right. that really was the only thing going through his head when he looked at you. badump, badump.
Hiii! How are you?? (I'm kinda nervous cuz this is my first ask so) Could I pls ask for some New Gen 11 when their s/o makes a poem for them in their native language?? but like, reader's first language isn't the same as theirs so they had to learn their language to make it
Thank you so much and I hope you have a fantastic day!! ｡◕‿◕｡
Hella tired but here
@ilovefeitanfromhxh
Michael Kaiser
Kaiser accepts the folded paper with his signature confident smirk, expecting perhaps another compliment or shallow praise. As his eyes scan the German lines, the smirk slowly fades. He reads it once in silence, then a second time more deliberately, absorbing every carefully chosen word and metaphor. The flow is natural, the emotion sincere, and the effort behind it unmistakable.
“You learned German… just to create this for me?” His voice starts theatrical as always, but there is a rare flicker of authentic surprise in those sharp blue eyes. He sets the paper down and pulls you against him with possessive strength. “How bold. Most approach the Emperor hoping for a share of his glory. You instead chose to step into my world completely.”
He keeps the poem in a secure place and occasionally quotes lines from it during quiet moments, using them to tease you while revealing how much it truly moved him. The gesture inflates his ego in the best way, making him even more attached and determined to claim you as irreplaceable.
Sae Itoshi
Sae takes the poem without fanfare and reads it in complete silence. His expression remains neutral throughout, but his focus is absolute. The Japanese is accurate and poetic, showing clear study of nuance and rhythm that goes far beyond basic conversation. He folds it neatly when finished and slips it away.
“…You did all this.” The words come after a long pause. No dramatic declaration follows, yet the way he lingers near you that night, the subtle softening in his gaze, speaks volumes. Sae values dedication above flashy displays. Someone willing to master his language to express personal feelings reaches him on a level few ever have.
In return, he begins noticing details about your native language, offering quiet observations or even small attempts at it himself. It becomes one of the rare ways he shows reciprocity, strengthening the bond in his characteristically understated manner.
Julian Loki
Loki’s bright energy fills the room as he unfolds the paper. He starts reading the French poem aloud with his usual playful flair, but his voice gradually grows softer and more sincere as the meaning sinks in. By the end, his confident smile has shifted into something warmer and more vulnerable.
“You learned French for this? Specifically to write poetry for me?” He lets out a soft laugh, spinning you around lightly before drawing you close. “Most people see the talent and the spotlight. Very few ever try to understand the person behind it on this level.”
He treasures the poem openly, reciting favorite passages dramatically when the mood strikes and keeping a copy where he can see it often. The effort deepens his affection significantly, leading to more frequent displays of warmth and protectiveness. Loki becomes even more invested, viewing the relationship as something uniquely special.
Bunny Iglesias
Bunny’s eyes widen the moment he begins reading the Spanish poem. He reads it aloud with natural passion and rhythm, his voice rising with excitement before cracking with emotion halfway through. The realization that you dedicated yourself to learning his language purely for this personal expression hits him hard.
“¡Esto es increíble…!” He drops the paper mid-sentence and pulls you into a tight, enthusiastic hug, nearly lifting you off the ground. “You really studied all of this just for me? No one has ever gone this far.” His usual high energy mixes with genuine, heartfelt gratitude as he peppers you with kisses and praise.
He shows the poem to close friends later (with pride) and keeps the original somewhere meaningful. From then on, playful poetry exchanges in both languages become a regular part of your dynamic, and he spoils you with even more passionate attention and surprises.
Don Lorenzo
Lorenzo leans back with his typical lazy, eccentric smirk as he starts reading the Italian poem. The smirk remains at first, but it slowly transforms into quiet respect as he appreciates the artistry and the clear dedication behind each line. He finishes and sets it aside thoughtfully.
“Heh. You put in serious work here.” His cool exterior cracks just enough to reveal the genuine impression it made. “Not many bother trying this hard to reach someone like me.” He pulls you into his lap in that casual yet protective way, offering rare sincere praise and lingering closeness.
The poem stays with him as a private treasure. Afterward, he shows his softer, more attentive side more freely around you, becoming subtly more protective and invested in the relationship.
Vivian Hugo
Hugo approaches the poem with his usual analytical mindset. He reads the French carefully, noting word choices and structure almost like breaking down a strategy. Once finished, the analysis gives way to real warmth as the personal effort registers fully.
“Interesting… and remarkably well done.” A small, sincere smile appears. “You learned the language to this extent just to express yourself to me? That level of commitment is rare.” He sets the poem down gently and draws you close, his usual composure softening into deeper affection.
He keeps it as a valued memento and references it thoughtfully in conversations, using it as a way to understand you better. The gesture strengthens his respect and emotional connection, making him even more engaged in private moments.
a/n: happy mother’s day to all the mamas out there 🫶🏻 i’m still waiting for the day that i become yoichi’s baby mama (but we’re not ready for kids yet) 😔
also what is this hantavirus i’m hearing about………
synopsis: pranking them that they made you a mother on mother’s day. aged up! characters (boys are in their early to mid-20’s), suggestive content inside, mentions of unprotected sex.
you walked into the kitchen on mother’s day morning while isagi was making coffee with metavision focus. he looked half asleep, hair sticking up everywhere, shirt on inside out somehow.
you leaned against the counter. “aren’t you forgetting something today?”
he blinked. “uh… your drink order?”
“wow.” you let out a dramatic sigh. “on mother’s day, too.”
the mug in his hand stopped midair. “sorry?”
“yeah. because your pullout game is ass.”
silence.
then the mug slipped from his hands and shattered all over the floor.
isagi went FULL PANIC mode. eyes wide. face pale. you could literally see him die and come back to life.
“WHAT.”
he grabbed your shoulders so fast. “are you serious? are you serious right now? wait– no, no, hold on, we used protection– OH SHIT, WE DIDN’T!!! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME IMMEDIATELY???”
he was pacing now. actually pacing. mumbling soccer-strategy-level calculations under his breath.
“okay. okay. we can do this. i mean we’re young, but not THAT young. i can learn how to braid hair if they’re a girl. wait what if the baby hates soccer. oh my gosh what if i accidentally raise an ipad kid.”
you were CRYING laughing at this point while he was spiraling into fatherhood.
then you finally wheezed out, “yoichi, it was a joke.”
he froze. “a. joke.”
“happy mother’s day to me because your pullout game is ass.”
this man stared at you for five full seconds before sitting directly on the kitchen floor amidst the broken mug shards because his legs gave out.
“i just saw my entire future.”
“and?”
“i looked exhausted.”
itoshi rin
rin was already annoyed because he hated crowded stores and you had dragged him into one for “no reason.”
you were walking around the department store while he pushed the cart with the expression of a divorced father forced into weekend custody.
you suddenly stopped in front of the baby section.
rin narrowed his eyes immediately. “why are we here.”
you picked up a tiny sock. “thought i deserved something for mother’s day.”
“… what.”
“your pullout game is ass by the way.”
rin never gets scared, but this is the one exception.
he literally stopped moving. no blinking. no breathing. just staring at you like you told him his brother wanted to talk and have a heart-to-heart to him. but this might be worse.
“… you’re pregnant?”
you nodded solemnly.
this man looked genuinely offended by reality itself. “that’s impossible.”
“rin.”
“no because i’m careful.”
“apparently not careful enough.”
rin dragged a hand down his face and looked like he was moments away from entering cardiac arrest. then came the pacing. the muttering. the anger.
“this is bad timing.”
“wow.”
“not BAD bad.” he looked horrified at himself immediately after saying that. “i mean, obviously i’d take responsibility.”
he was already mentally rearranging his life. soccer schedules. finances. schools. tiny shin guards.
you could SEE the moment he imagined a toddler with his face staring at him. he looked genuinely terrified.
“what if it looks like sae.”
that’s what broke you. you burst out laughing so hard you had to lean on the cart.
rin slowly squinted. “… you’re lying.”
“happy mother’s day!”
the realization hit him and this man looked READY TO FIGHT. not even relieved first. just annoyed to the point where you might wanna run instead.
“you’re actually the worst person alive.”
meanwhile, five minutes later, while you were in the bathroom, he was still standing in the baby aisle holding the tiny sock because he got emotionally attached to the imaginary child.
itoshi sae
sae was chilling on the couch scrolling through his phone when you casually walked over and sat beside him.
“so what are we doing for me today?”
without looking up, he went, “what do you mean.”
“it’s mother’s day.”
now he looked up. slowly. “and?”
“your pullout game is ass.”
dead silence.
but sae’s face did not change AT ALL which honestly made it scarier. he just stared at you.
“you’re… pregnant.”
“mhm.”
another pause.
then he leaned back against the couch and covered his face with one hand. not dramatically. just deeply, madly irritated.
“you cannot be serious.”
you were fighting for your life trying not to laugh because he sounded like someone had personally inconvenienced him beyond repair.
“sae?”
“one second, i’m thinking.”
“about?”
“how i managed to ruin my own life.”
“EXCUSE ME?”
he pointed at you without looking. “don’t start. obviously i’d take responsibility. i’m just wondering how this happened.”
then came the interrogation.
“did the condom break.”
“we didn’t use one.”
“did you miss a pill.”
“i’m not on birth control.”
“fuck.”
you finally cracked and started laughing.
sae immediately stopped talking. his eyes narrowed. “… bruh.”
“happy mother’s dayyyyy–”
he looked SO pissed for exactly three seconds before sighing and dropping his head back onto the couch.
“i actually believed you.”
“for a hot minute!”
“that’s the embarrassing part.”
then he stared at the ceiling looking genuinely betrayed by himself.
“i was already thinking about how annoying stroller shopping would be.”
nagi seishiro
nagi was lying face down on the bed playing a game on his phone when you walked in dramatically.
“wow.”
“mm?”
“can’t believe you forgot mother’s day.”
without missing a beat, he mumbled into his pillow, “you’re not a mother.”
“well i am now because your pullout game is ass.”
…
then nagi slowly lifted his head like a zombie rising from the grave. “… huh?”
“i’m pregnant.”
his phone slipped directly onto his face.
“OW– wait what.”
you nodded seriously while this man stared at you with the most confused expression known to mankind.
“but i thought… wait… no because we– hold on…”
he genuinely started lagging. like his brain processor overheated.
“there’s gonna be… a baby?”
“yeah.”
“a small one?”
“usually.”
nagi sat up fully now which was already proof he was in crisis mode.
“oh no… that sounds troublesome.”
“WOW.”
“not in a bad way.” he rubbed his face. “just… babies cry a lot.”
then he got weirdly quiet. staring at the floor.
“… would it like soccer?”
you nearly lost it right there because he sounded so concerned. “maybe?”
“what if it thinks i’m lame.”
“it’s a baby.”
“still.”
then he suddenly flopped back onto the bed dramatically. “guess my gaming setup’s gone.”
you burst into laughter. FULL laughter. wheezing.
nagi slowly turned his head toward you. “you’re lying...”
“happy mother’s day!”
there’s a long pause.
then he pulled the blanket over his head completely.
“that was evil. i already started mourning my free time.”
mikage reo
reo was the ONLY one having a normal morning. flowers. breakfast. matching pajamas. this man was thriving.
which made what happened next even funnier.
you smiled sweetly at him while he handed you pancakes. “you know… i should actually be getting extra treatment today.”
reo blinked. “yes, of course, but may i ask why?”
“mother’s day.”
he laughed immediately. “baby, you’re not a moth–”
“your pullout game is ass.”
the smile DROPPED off his face.
“what.”
“surprise!”
reo stared at you in complete horror. then at your stomach. then back at you. then at your stomach AGAIN like he expected ultrasound images to appear through your shirt.
“… you’re pregnant?”
you nodded with the straightest face possible.
reo sat down very slowly.
“okay.” deep breath. “okay.”
this man IMMEDIATELY went into rich-provider mode.
“we’ll need to move.”
“reo–”
“the penthouse isn’t child safe.”
“reo.”
“we need pediatricians. and schools. wait, should we get a night nurse? no, i should learn how to do it myself.”
he was already planning the child’s entire future.
“sorry bae, but no more caffeine and raw fish for now–”
you were shaking trying not to laugh while he genuinely looked emotional.
“reo…”
“no no, i can do this.”
THAT’S when you lost it completely. you started cackling.
reo stopped mid-sentence.
“happy mother’s day!”
he stared at you in betrayal. actual betrayal. like how could you.
“i just started thinking of baby names.”
“WHAT WERE THEY?”
“… you don’t deserve to know after this psychological warfare 🙁”
bachira meguru
bachira was sitting upside down on the couch for absolutely no reason when you walked into the living room holding your phone.
“meguru.”
“hmmm?”
“aren’t you forgetting to celebrate me today?”
he blinked at you upside down. “for what?”
“mother’s day.”
“i texted my mom already, don’t worry. and… you’re not a mom.”
you sighed dramatically. “yeah, but your pullout game is ass, so...”
bachira slowly sat upright. “… eh?”
“i’m pregnant.”
you expected panic. fear. maybe screaming.
instead, this man narrowed his eyes at you like a conspiracy theorist.
“no, you’re not.”
“I JUST–”
“you hallucinated it.”
“… the pregnancy?”
“mhm.” he nodded seriously. “or the test had a ghost line.”
“a WHAT.”
“or maybe your eyes are tricking you. sometimes brains do that.”
he grabbed your shoulders now, completely committed to this nonsense.
“think about it. have you ever actually SEEN a baby form?”
“MEGURU.”
“maybe society made them up.”
you were crying laughing while he looked fully serious. then he suddenly gasped dramatically. “wait.”
“what…”
“did the monster tell you this?”
you collapsed onto the couch. “happy mother’s day, dumbass.”
bachira froze. then immediately pointed at you accusingly. “SEE? fake pregnancy. i knew it.”
“you thought i was hallucinating…”
“and i was right.”
then he started laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch again.
“you should’ve SEEN your face though. you looked so excited to ruin my life.”
“you were trying to gaslight me out of motherhood.”
“and it almost worked!!”
shidou ryusei
you approached shidou while he was shadowboxing in the kitchen because apparently normal people activities were too boring for him.
“aren’t you forgetting something today?”
“huh?”
“it’s mother’s day.”
he blinked. “okay?”
“your pullout game is ass.”
pause.
then the BIGGEST grin spread across his face.
“… NO WAY.”
you started losing it immediately because instead of fear, this man looked PROUD.
“YOU’RE PREGNANT???”
he grabbed you by the shoulders so fast.
“THAT’S MY DNA BABY!!!”
“RYU???”
“MY SPERM GAME’S ELITE.”
this man was CELEBRATING. chest out. pacing around the kitchen like he’d just won the world cup.
“GENETICS TOO STRONG!!!”
you were doubled over laughing while he kept going.
“no because our kid would actually be unstoppable. tiny demon baby. probably kicks holes in walls by age three.”
“why are you HAPPY.”
“because i’m built different.”
then he stopped suddenly. “wait.”
“what?”
“do babies cost money?”
“YES?”
“oh.”
first moment of fear. finally.
then he immediately shook it off. “whatever. worth it.”
you finally admitted it was a joke and shidou looked genuinely disappointed.
“… so no demon baby?”
“no demon baby.”
he sighed dramatically before pointing at you.
“still though. my pullout game’s probably ass for real.”
“RYUSEI.”
“i’m just saying.”
karasu tabito
karasu was chilling at the table scrolling through his phone when you sat across from him dramatically.
“you know… someone should appreciate me today.”
he didn’t even look up. “for what.”
“mother’s day.”
now he looked up slowly. “… yer not a mother though.”
“you sure about that? your pullout game is ass.”
the silence after that was DEAFENING.
karasu stared at you for so long you almost broke character.
“are ya serious.”
you nodded solemnly.
this man leaned back in his chair and covered his face with one hand.
“fuckkkkk.”
he looked genuinely stressed. not panicked. STRESSED. like a man who just got hit with taxes.
“yer pregnant?”
“mhm.”
“in the middle of my twenties?”
“people do that.”
karasu groaned dramatically. “i’m too young to be sayin’ stuff like ‘don’t eat that off the floor.’”
“a baby is not the same as a dog, tabi.”
then he got suspiciously quiet.
“… wait. did ya take a test?”
“yeah.”
“lemme see it.”
“... i threw it away.”
he squinted immediately. “yer lyin’.”
“what makes you think that?”
“because ya started smilin’ halfway through.”
you burst out laughing and karasu pointed at you instantly. “KNEW IT.”
then he leaned back again shaking his head.
“nah because i actually started thinkin’ about teachin’ a kid algebra.”
“why algebra specifically?”
“if i suffered, then they suffer, too. type shit.”
kaiser michael
kaiser was admiring himself in the mirror. shocking absolutely nobody.
you walked up beside him. “happy mother’s day to me.”
he smirked. “you are aware you are not a mother, yes?”
“well… your pullout game is kinda ass.”
the smirk vanished. INSTANTLY.
“… what.”
“i’m pregnant???”
kaiser stared at you. then at your stomach. then back at you.
and this man literally dropped to his knees.
FULL dramatic collapse. hand over heart. staring into the void. like a mii when they get rejected in tomodachi life.
“this… cannot be happening to me.”
you almost folded right there.
“mihya?”
“a child.” he whispered like it was a curse. “mine.”
he looked genuinely haunted. like a victorian man diagnosed with tuberculosis.
“my career. my sleep schedule. my expensive white furniture…”
“YOUR FURNITURE?”
“do you know what toddlers do to walls?”
then suddenly his expression changed.
“… hold on.”
he looked at you suspiciously. VERY suspiciously.
“you’re smiling too much.”
you started laughing instantly.
kaiser slowly closed his eyes. “you insolent little–”
“happy mother’s day!!!”
he stayed on the floor for another ten seconds in silence.
“i mourned my freedom.”
“you mourned your couch.”
“same thing, piss off.”
ness alexis
ness was making tea while humming to himself when you walked into the kitchen.
“aren’t you forgetting something today?”
he smiled. “good morning to you, too.”
“it’s mother’s day.”
“… yes?”
“your pullout game is ass, nessie.”
the spoon in his hand clattered directly into the sink.
“… what?”
“i’m pregnant.”
ness went WHITE.
“pregnant.”
“mhm.”
this poor man immediately started spiraling. “oh my gosh.”
he grabbed the counter for support. SUPPORT.
“oh my gosh.”
“nessie baby?”
“no. i’m too emotionally unstable to raise a child.”
you were already laughing.
“i can barely keep a cactus alive!”
then suddenly he looked at you with HUGE worried eyes.
“wait… aren’t you scared?”
THAT almost made you feel bad because he looked so sincere. already ready to comfort you while actively dying inside.
“we’d figure it out,” he mumbled nervously. “probably.”
“probably?”
“i’m trying my best here!”
then you finally cracked and started cackling.
ness froze immediately. “… you have to be kidding me.”
“happy mother’s day!”
he stared at you in complete betrayal before dramatically slumping over the counter.
“i just accepted fatherhood in under two minutes.”
“you were doing amazing.”
“i almost threw up.”
bunny iglesias
bunny was half listening to you while scrolling through football edits of himself on his phone. not even his own highlights. literally edits with slowed down audios and comments thirsting over him.
“bunny baby.”
“mm?”
“aren’t you forgetting to celebrate me today?”
“for what, princesa?”
“mother’s day.”
he finally looked up. one eyebrow raised. “you’re not a mother. yet, at least.”
you sighed dramatically. “i am now because your pullout game is ass.”
silence.
then this man BLINKED. slowly.
“… excuse me?”
“estoy embarazada (i’m pregnant).”
his phone slipped out of his hand onto the floor. neither of you acknowledged it.
bunny stared at you like his soul just disconnected from the server.
“… pregnant.”
“mhm.”
another pause.
then he stood up so abruptly the chair screeched against the floor.
“okay.”
“okay?”
“okay.” he was pacing now. “we can work with this.”
WORK WITH THIS??? like you just told him the restaurant got his order wrong 😭
you were trying SO hard not to laugh while he ran both hands through his hair.
“i mean… damn.”
“that’s all you have to say?”
“NO because i’m thinking.” he pointed at you seriously. “this is a life-changing event.”
then came the panic spiral.
“wait wait wait. am i mature enough to be somebody’s father?”
“absolutely not.”
“i knew it. i’m too melancholic.”
he looked genuinely distressed now.
“what if the baby gets my ego.”
“then society’s finished.”
“exactly.”
then suddenly he froze. eyes widening. “dios mío.”
“what?”
“what if it grows up to support real madrid.”
you BURST out laughing immediately. fully bent over wheezing while bunny stared at you suspiciously.
“why are you laughing like that.”
“happy mother’s dayyyy!”
his jaw dropped. “you little liar.”
“you believed me!”
“because you looked serious!”
he picked up a couch pillow and threw it at you dramatically.
“i was mentally preparing to become a dilf at 25!”
“AT LEAST YOU ADMIT YOU’D BE A DILF.”
bunny paused. fixed his shirt. grinned immediately.
I got chu boo. I had to finish that noel piece before pulling this from my archive. I have so many Bunny fics that are in my drafts waiting to be edited. I need more manga content for him. I need his Egoish Bible page, please.
There was no doubt that Bunny Iglesias liked to mess with people.
His manager knew it. The media definitely knew it. Reporters learned the hard way within minutes of interviewing him, and strangers often walked away unsure whether they’d just been complimented or insulted.
Even his teammates weren’t safe from it, though they pretended they were immune. To Bunny, provoking reactions felt natural, almost necessary. It filled that space between matches, between expectations, between the strange hollowness that followed victories everyone else celebrated too loudly.
Sometimes he wondered if that was why he did it at all.
Everyone around him seemed so happy playing football. Laughing in locker rooms, shouting after goals, grinning like children handed the world on a silver platter. He didn’t understand that overflowing joy. Watching it almost made his chest itch, like he was missing a rule everyone else had memorized.
So he poked at people instead. Teased them. Tilted conversations just enough to watch reactions unfold.
It was easier than figuring out his own emotions.
Lately, though, something had shifted. The usual subtle condescension and self-deprecating humor that slipped from his mouth had started redirecting itself elsewhere, toward someone far more interesting.
Really, he should have started messing with you like this sooner.
You had become his favorite victim, though the word never sat quite right in his mind. Victims didn’t get held this gently. Victims didn’t get looked at the way he found himself looking at you when you weren’t paying attention.
If you ever genuinely asked him to stop, he would, instantly. No hesitation. That alone should have told him something important, but Bunny chose not to examine it too closely.
Still, it was endlessly amusing watching you melt.
Red creeping up your cheeks. Eyes darting away. That soft, embarrassed smile you tried to hide every single time he said something affectionate. To reduce a perfectly functional, confident person into a flustered mess with nothing more than a few words felt absurdly powerful.
And entirely addictive.
In the end, it was your fault.
Half-drunk and nodding off with sleep, you had been rambling while he helped you get ready for bed after a team dinner. Bunny had silently handed you water, guided your arms through sleeves, patient in a way no one else ever saw from him. You were halfway through pulling his oversized sleep shirt over your head when you mumbled it.
“You know, Bun…” your voice came muffled through fabric before you emerged again, hair messy, eyes soft. “…it’s one thing hearing you talk in Spanish, but when you call me mi vida or mi amor…” You sighed, smiling to yourself. “I feel like I could die happy. I just want to melt.”
He hadn’t reacted.
Just hummed, helped you into bed, turned off the light.
But Bunny Iglesias remembered everything useful.
He filed that information away carefully, like studying an opponent’s weakness before a match. Then he let it sit untouched for a week, waiting. Not consciously planning, he told himself, just… waiting.
The opportunity came on a rare morning without practice.
You were in the kitchen, still half asleep, making coffee when he wandered in barefoot, hair unstyled, drawn more by habit than hunger. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pressing his face briefly into your shoulder.
“Buenos días, mi amor.”
You paused. It was small. Anyone else might have missed it. But Bunny felt it instantly, the slight stiffening before you relaxed again, the faint pink creeping up the tips of your ears.
Ah.
There it was.
That was when the experiment began.
At first, he kept it casual.
A soft cariño when passing you your phone.
A ver, princesa, when teasing you for stealing food off his plate.
A quiet mi vida murmured absentmindedly while scrolling through highlights beside you on the couch.
Each time, the reaction varied. Sometimes subtle, sometimes catastrophic, but always there. A hitch in your breathing. A shy smile. The way you leaned closer without realizing it.
Bunny observed carefully, internally satisfied. He never let on that he was watching.
His favorite discovery happened by accident.
After a late match, adrenaline still humming under his skin, he found you waiting outside the stadium entrance. The moment you saw him, your face lit up, not the loud, exaggerated happiness he disliked, but something that was excitement to be able to see him before anyone else.
You hugged him before he could speak.
He exhaled into your hair, tension draining from his shoulders.
“Jugaste bien,” you murmured.
Bunny smirked slightly. “Obviously.” Then, quieter, almost instinctively, he tilted your chin up and said, “Te extrañé, mi cielo.”
The effect was immediate. Your entire face flushed as if he’d scored another goal right there and hide your face against his neck.
And Bunny, sweaty and exhausted Bunny, felt something unfamiliar settle comfortably in his chest.
Winning matches was nice.
But this? This reaction? Far more interesting.
Soon, he escalated.
He’d murmur hermosa in the middle of kissing you, just to feel the way your lips faltered in surprise before chasing his again. Sometimes he’d pull back only slightly, eyes half-lidded, and whisper another nickname just to watch you forget what you were saying entirely.
“Bunny—stop—”
“¿Qué pasó, preciosa?” he’d ask innocently, fully aware he was the problem.
You never caught on.
To you, it probably felt natural, him slipping between languages, affection bleeding through casually. You didn’t realize he was testing timing, tone, proximity. Didn’t realize he was cataloging which words made you cling tighter, which made you hide your face in his shoulder.
Didn’t realize Bunny Iglesias had found a new favorite game.
The best moments, though, were the quiet ones.
Like when he returned home late, keys dropping into the bowl by the door, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. You’d barely look up from the couch before he crossed the room and pulled you into a hug, burying his face against your neck.
“Hola, mi vida,” he’d mumble, voice softer than anyone else ever heard.
Just truth disguised as habit.
You’d hum, arms wrapping around him automatically, and Bunny would think (briefly, privately) that maybe this was the joy everyone else talked about. Not loud celebrations or screaming crowds.
Just this.
You, warm and real in his arms. He’d press a kiss to your temple, hiding the faint smile tugging at his mouth.
You’re only here because of a friend. You don’t play soccer, you don’t train, and you definitely don’t care about formations or tactics. But the field becomes familiar quickly—the smell of grass, the repetitive rhythm of drills, the distant echo of shouting that fades into background noise.
And then there’s Hugo.
He doesn’t sit next to you at first. The first few days, he’s just… there. A presence on the field. Reading before matches. Watching everything like it’s already been solved in his head.
Then one afternoon, he sits beside you.
Not close enough to be intrusive, but not far enough to ignore either. It feels intentional, like he’s measured the exact distance needed to be noticed.
You keep your book open, even though you’re not really reading.
He glances at it once. Then again.
And then—
“Tu viens souvent ici?” Do you come here often?
You turn the page like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Silence stretches. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t fill it. Just… waits.
“…You don’t understand?” he asks in English, voice calm and even.
You glance up, blink once, and shrug. “Sorry?”
There’s a pause, just long enough to feel deliberate.
“…Interesting.”
You go back to your book, your heart beating a little faster than it should. You don’t look at him again, but you can feel it—his attention, steady and unmoving.
Internally, you are sweating.
It becomes routine in a way you don’t question until it’s already normal.
You arrive. You sit. Hugo eventually sits beside you.
Same distance. Every time.
It should feel strange. It doesn’t.
He starts talking more, too. Not in English—Never at first anyway.
“Tu es jolie aujourd’hui.” You are pretty today.
You freeze for half a second before forcing yourself to turn the page. Your eyes skim the same sentence three times without processing it.
“Tes yeux… ils sont magnifiques.” Your eyes… they are beautiful.
You cough lightly, like something caught in your throat. It’s fake. You know it’s fake. He probably knows it’s fake.
“Tu m’écoutes?” Are you listening to me?
“Hm? Sorry, I don’t speak French.”
“…Right.”
The thing is—you do understand him. Fluently. Effortlessly. And that’s exactly why you pretend you don’t.
Because Hugo doesn’t flirt like a normal person. There’s no hesitation, no awkwardness, no attempt to soften what he’s saying. He delivers compliments like they’re objective truths.
“Statistically, you are the most aesthetically pleasing person within my immediate radius.”
You stare very hard at your book.
Your ears are burning. Your face is warm. You refuse to look at him.
Who even says that?
And worse—why does it work?
Around the fourth month you start noticing things, and that’s when it stops being harmless.
You notice that Hugo always brings a book, and that he actually reads it—like the world doesn’t exist for a few minutes at a time. You notice the quiet sounds he makes sometimes—soft, mechanical little hums under his breath.
You notice the way he watches the field. Like he’s already predicted everything that’s about to happen.
And somehow, without realizing when it started, you begin to look forward to sitting down.
To the quiet. To him being there. Which is a mistake.
A very obvious mistake.
One afternoon, he leans closer than usual. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that your focus slips for just a second.
“Tu fais semblant.” You’re pretending.
Your heart stutters.
You lower your book slowly, carefully controlling your expression. “…Sorry?”
His face is neutral, but his eyes are sharp—focused entirely on you.
“You’re pretending,” he repeats in English.
You laugh, a little too quickly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you.
“You reacted three seconds too late when I said belle beautiful yesterday. That indicates comprehension.”
Oh.
Oh no.
You shrug, forcing yourself to stay casual. “Lucky guess?”
“You also flinched when I called you insupportable.”
“…That could mean anything.”
“It means ‘unbearable.’”
“…Well now I know.”
Silence settles between you, thick and deliberate. He keeps looking at you, and you keep pretending this is fine.
This is not fine.
Finally, he leans back.
“…Fine. We will proceed under your… hypothesis.”
Around the fifth month it turns into a game.
And Hugo treats it like one—structured, intentional, and very unfair.
“Tu es d'une beauté à couper le souffle” You are breathtakingly beautiful.
You hum lightly. “Sorry?”
“I said the weather is nice.”
You glance outside. It is very clearly raining.
“…Sure.”
He watches you more openly now. Less subtle. Less restrained.
“Tu rougis.” You’re blushing.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not—”
“You are.”
“I am NOT—”
“Your ears are red.”
You immediately cover them, which is the worst possible move you could make.
“…Shut up.”
There’s a pause.
Then—“…Ah.”
You freeze.
“…You understood that.”
“…No I didn’t.”
“You responded appropriately.”
“…Coincidence.”
“…Fascinating.”
You hate him.
Except you don’t.
Because now he’s getting bolder. Closer. More deliberate in the way he speaks, the way he leans in just slightly when he says things like—“Tu es adorable quand tu mens.” You’re adorable when you lie.
Your brain stops working for a second. You stare at your book, but the words blur together, completely unreadable.
Your heartbeat is loud. Too loud.
And the worst part is—you don’t want him to stop.
By month seven you don’t pretend as well anymore.
You still say you don’t understand. You still act confused. But your reactions give you away—just a little more each time.
You stay longer after practice now. You don’t rush to leave. Sometimes you don’t even pretend to read—you just sit there, aware of him beside you.
You’re packing your bag, but not very quickly. You’re stalling. You don’t acknowledge that you’re stalling.
Hugo sits beside you.
“You stayed longer today,” he says.
You shrug lightly. “Didn’t feel like leaving yet.”
There’s a small pause. Then—
“je t'aime bien.” I like you.
Everything stops.
You look at him, your brain lagging behind the words you clearly understood.
“…What?”
He tilts his head slightly. “I said that I like you.”
There’s no hesitation in it. No buildup. No warning. Just a statement.
“Yeah, I got that part—” you start, and then immediately freeze.
Silence falls hard.
Hugo’s gaze sharpens.
“…You got that part.”
You close your eyes briefly. You’ve made a mistake. A very obvious, very irreversible mistake.
“…No,” you say weakly.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“…Okay, maybe a little.”
“…A little?”
You drag a hand down your face, groaning softly. “This is so embarrassing.”
“For you, perhaps.”
“You’ve been flirting with me for months.”
“Yes.”
“And you KNEW I understood.”
“Yes.”
“And you still kept doing it.”
“Yes.”
“…Why?”
He actually thinks about it, like it’s a question worth analyzing.
“Because you never stopped me.”
You stare at him. “…That’s your reasoning?”
“Yes.”
“That’s terrible reasoning.”
“It is efficient.”
“It is NOT efficient—”
“You continued to sit next to me.”
“…You kept sitting next to me.”
“You didn’t move.”
“…I like that spot.”
“You like me.”
Your face heats up instantly.
“I—what—no—”
“You are a poor liar.”
You groan. “…I hate that you’re right.”
There’s a pause, softer this time.
“…So?”
You look at him properly then, and something in your chest settles in a way you don’t want to overthink.
“…So what?”
“Do you like me too?”
Of course he asks like that. Direct. No hesitation. No room to dodge.
You let out a small laugh, looking away. Your heart is beating too fast.
“…You’re so annoying.”
“That is not an answer.”
You glance back at him, and this time, you don’t pretend.
I like you too.
He pauses, just for a second.
“…Good.”
You stare at him. “That’s it??”
“Yes.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
And that should be it.
Except it isn’t.
You stand, brushing off your clothes, trying to regain some sense of normalcy—like your heart isn’t still racing, like your face isn’t still warm from everything that just happened.
He grabs your wrist. Not rough. Just precise.
You blink. “What—”
“You’re not finished.”
“With what?”
“You deceived me.”
“You were fully aware—”
“Yes. But I want compensation.”
“…Compensation?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds wrong.”
“It is not.”
“You’re insane.”
“You can attempt to escape.”
“…Excuse me—?”
He pulls.
You yelp as you’re dragged back onto the grass, completely losing your balance. You try to shove him, but he’s steady—grounded in a way that makes it unfair.
“You started this.”
“I did NOT—”
You grab his sleeve, trying to push him away, but it only makes things worse. Your balance slips again, and suddenly you’re both tipping sideways, landing awkwardly on the grass.
Now you’re half on the ground, half on him.
Your heart is racing. Your face is burning.
“Let go—!”
“Admit it.”
“NO—”
“And say it in French.”
“You’re insane—”
He shifts slightly, pinning your wrists—not forcefully, just enough that you can’t immediately shove him away.
You freeze.
He’s too close.
Close enough that your thoughts stop cooperating.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
“I hate you.”
“Incorrect.”
“I regret everything.”
“Also incorrect.”
You twist your wrists, trying to pull free, but it’s useless. He adjusts without effort, like he already predicted every move you’d make.
“Say it properly,” he says, quieter now.
You glare at him, stubborn. “No.”
A pause.
“…So you don’t like me.”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s not—”
“You hesitated.”
“I did NOT—”
“You did.”
You huff, turning your head away. “…You’re annoying.”
“That is still not an answer.”
Silence stretches, thick and charged. You can feel his gaze on you, steady and unrelenting, waiting for something you refuse to give.
“…Fine,” he says after a moment, almost thoughtfully.
You narrow your eyes slightly. “Fine what?”
Instead of answering, he shifts closer.
Closer.
Your breath catches.
“What are you—”
He leans in.
And for a split second—just one—you realize what he’s about to do.
Your brain short-circuits.
You panic.
“WAIT—”
You jerk your head to the side.
His lips brush your cheek instead of yours.
Everything stops.
Silence.
You freeze.
He freezes.
Slowly—very slowly—he pulls back.
“…You avoided me.”
Your entire face is on fire. “I did NOT—”
“You turned your head at a 37-degree angle.”
“WHY ARE YOU CALCULATING IT—”
“You rejected me.”
“I panicked!”
“That is equivalent.”
“It is NOT equivalent—”
He stares at you.
Then, very calmly—
“…That was offensive.”
You blink.
“…Offensive?”
“Yes.”
“You tried to ambush me—”
“It was not an ambush. It was a logical progression.”
“You don’t just progress into a kiss—”
“You confessed earlier.”
“That does not COUNT—”
“It counts.”
“It DOESN’T—”
You’re both still too close.
Still tangled awkwardly on the grass.
Still looking at each other.
And suddenly, neither of you is laughing anymore.
“…You hesitated,” he repeats, quieter this time.
Your chest tightens again.
You look at him—really look at him—and for once, he’s not analyzing. Not calculating.
Just… waiting.
And something in you softens.
“…I didn’t hesitate,” you say, softer now.
“You avoided it.”
“…I panicked,” you admit. “Because you do things like that out of nowhere.”
“That is efficient.”
“It is terrifying.”
A small pause.
“…Noted.”
You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself, your nerves still buzzing under your skin.
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he says, “you are still here.”
You are.
You haven’t moved.
You haven’t pulled away.
Your hands are still caught loosely in his, even though he’s not holding you down anymore.
“…You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”
“No.”
“…Of course you’re not.”
Another pause.
Then—
“…je t'aime bien.” I like you.
This time, it’s quieter.
Less like a statement.
More like something real.
Something that settles right in your chest.
Your heartbeat stumbles.
And you don’t look away.
“…You’re really persistent,” you murmur.
“Yes.”
“…That’s annoying.”
“Yes.”
“…I like it.”
A flicker—small, but unmistakable—passes through his expression.
You take a breath.
Your nerves are still there, fluttering, restless, but they don’t feel overwhelming anymore.
Just… warm.
“…je vous aime aussi.” I like you too.
The words come out softer than you expect.
But they’re real.
He stills.
Just for a second.
And then—he leans in again.
Slower this time. No sudden movements.
Just… giving you time.
Letting you decide.
Your heart is pounding, loud and uneven, but you don’t pull away.
You meet him halfway.
And when his lips finally press against yours, it’s soft. Warm. Gentle in a way you didn’t expect from him.
Your stomach flips, something light and dizzy blooming in your chest, spreading all the way to your fingertips.
It’s not rushed. Not overwhelming. Just… right.
When you pull back, your face is warm, your thoughts a little scrambled, your heart still racing.
“…Better,” he says quietly.
You stare at him, breathless, then shove his shoulder lightly.
“…Shut up.”
But you’re smiling.
Hellooo I am back ✌️
* I used Google translate - I don't speak french of any kind. :)
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ; when you call out for your pet rabbit, you don’t expect for someone else to respond instead.
𝐜𝐰 ; gn!reader, use of (y/n), swearing, guys don’t question this (i’m down bad🥀)
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ; yes it’s been a day since he debuted. no i don’t care.
“bunny? bunnyyyyyyy!”
you’ve never felt so embarrassed in your life. grass brushing against your ankles, you whipped your head back and forth, searching for your pet rabbit. you had just wanted to take her out for some fresh air like you always do; she was your baby after all. and suddenly, she saw another rabbit and jumped out of your arms.
and now, you find yourself in this situation, calling out for your rabbit like an idiot. you wondered if anyone nearby thought you were an exhibitionist calling out some weird ass pet name, which you technically were, but it was a different type of pet name.
“bunnnnnnnny!” you made sure to not shout too loudly; you loved your rabbit, but this was a public park, and you’d be fucked if you embarrassed yourself here. what if your classmates heard about it and made fun of your tomorrow during lecture? hopefully college students would be mature enough to not care anymore. hopefully.
and yes, your rabbit’s name is literally bunny. you weren’t creative enough to come up with a name other than “lady scrumptious fluff” or “emma”, and your friend had gave you the nastiest side eye when you told her. “you are not naming your rabbit ‘emma.’”
“what about lady scrumptious fluff?”
“that’s just setting her up for public humiliation.
in the end, you both ended up on the name “bunny.” it was technically true and it was cute, so what did you have to lose? and now, you’re caught up in this embarrassing situation. hopefully there was no one around named bunny; well, probably not. who in their right mind would name their child bunny? and even so, who in their right mind who allow themselves to be named bunny?
bunny iglesias tilted his hat down, enough to cover nearly the entirety of his eyes. was it another one of his fans? did you see his scar and recognize him? or maybe his hair was too obvious? either way, he hoped that he would be able to take a walk in peace. he managed to ditch the paparazzi, but seems like he can’t ditch his forever dedicated and devoted fans.
“bunnyyyy!”
he was too lazy to deal with fans right now. seeing their overly enthusiastic expressions when seeing him made him sick; enough for thoughts of death to cloud his mind. he didn’t want to see their sickeningly eager faces right after a long and tiring practice. and he had an interview tomorrow, which was even more to deal with.
“hey, um, excuse me,” you muttered, tapping on his shoulder. he turned around, expression bland. shit, did you catch up to him? “have you seen my rabbit? she’s small and white with floppy ears. she’s also very fluffy and has a pink collar.”
oh.
oh.
so he was overthinking it then? but seriously, who names their rabbit ‘bunny?’ “you named your rabbit ‘bunny?’” he asked, smile tugging at his lips. you blinked, noticing how his grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. this was probably the realest fake smile you had ever seen.
“yeah, long story. but anyways, have you seen her—“ you averted your eyes to the long patches of grass next to your feet, and your eyes widened, and smile stretching onto your face. “bunny! there you are!” you exclaimed, scooping the ball of white into your arms. she nibbled on your hand, perhaps mistaking it for grass.
bunny expected your enthusiasm to infect his mind with suicidal thoughts, but instead, it was almost humorous, considering how his name was also bunny. “looks like you found her.” he said, the sickening thoughts of death being dulled by his amusement.
“yeah, i did. by the way, i never got your name.” you said, sticking out your hand. he shook it, yet another tight smile on his face. “(y/n) (l/n). i go to college nearby.”
“bunny iglesias, and i’m a student too.” technically speaking, he was a student of the fc barcha team, right? he shook your hand. you froze, a fit of laughter suddenly coming over you.
“seriously?! you’re named bunny?!” you exclaimed. “sorry, that was rude.” you managed an apologetic smile.
“no, it’s fine. i get that reaction a lot.”
but he stared at you. why did he have no negative thoughts when he sees your smile, unlike how he is when he sees other smiles? that’s so fucking weird.
“well, i’ll see you later, bunny.” you stated, emphasizing the ‘bunny.’
the next day, you scrolled through tiktok, expecting more celebrity and political drama as usual. but instead, you stumbled across a tiktok from a famous late night show.
“FEATURING: THE NEW GENERATION 11’S BUNNY IGLESIAS!”
what.
“y’know, you’ve got a funny name. ‘bunny.’ have you ever had an incident related to your name?” the host asked.
“just yesterday, actually,” bunny said, a smile tugging at his lips. “someone had lost their pet bunny and was calling out for them. i thought that they were calling out for me, so it was very embarrassing.” the crowd laughed, the host patting him on the back.
oh god. he was talking about you. but something else was wrong; yesterday, when he first began to talk to you, only a fake smile glossed over his face. not only that, but before and after he talked about you on the show, his smile was fake as well.
so why was his smile so genuine when he was talking about you?
vivien hugo x reader / warnings : hugo is a YAPPER, hugo is blunt asf, hugo is cute, reader is lowk kinda mean to him 🙁, reader likes chiikawa, reader had a tough time making friends, reader doesn't do well under pressure, ignore the time it doesnt matter
synopsis : hugo saw his future wife during his shift as a pizza delivery guy ... hes down bad asf ...
the hot june sun was beating down on your back, and your feet were dead from the tens of thousands of steps from that day. you were only two days in out of your three month long trip—if this was how it was going to be the entire time, you were truly going to die.
your eyes were glued to the tiles on the streets, not realizing you had bumped into someone until you felt a dull pain on your head. “oh shit—i’m so sorry.” you stammered, phone and earbud case falling out of your pockets.
you groaned, crouching down to reach for your dropped items, but someone handed them to you before you could even blink. you glanced up, meeting deep burgundy—nearly black—eyes. “thank you.” you met messy and long maroon hair and a deadpan expression.
“i’m in love with you.”
you nearly choked, blinking rapidly at the words that had just exited the redhead’s mouth. yet he still looked as if this was just another day in the office, expression unchanging. your entire face burned, eyes wide. passerby probably didn’t know you were going through every single chemical reaction possible internally.
“oh, uh, i, um, what?” you asked, mind malfunctioning. you were still crouching down awkwardly, as was the stranger. yes, the stranger. you had no idea who the hell this guy was, nor did you know his age or his name or anything about him.
you stood up stiffly, and the stranger did as well, wind blowing in his maroon hair perfectly. he looked like a model. “as i said, i’m in love with you.” his gaze was observant, quietly unraveling every feature of yours, every inch of your body. yet there was a tiny glimmer in his eye that told you this was more than just logic.
love at first sight, maybe? cute, but you weren’t interested. you were here for three months, and you were here to lock in (to eat all of the french pastries). plus, you had to go home anyway. you didn’t want heartbreak. “no thanks, i’m not interested, sorry.”
he raised an eyebrow. how the hell is this surprising to him? “oh, i see.” you almost let out a sigh of relief; maybe he’ll back off now. then you could forget this hot, tall, nice guy you met in france randomly.
“guess i’ll have to try harder to convince you then.”
excuse you?
your jaw went slack—how the hell were you supposed to respond to this? “no, genuinely, i don’t think you understand. i’m a tourist. i’m here for three months and i’m gone.” your french wasn’t perfect, but hopefully, you got the message across. “plus, i don’t know you. like, at all.”
at that point, a few passerby stopped to stare, noticing your discomfort. the stranger tilted his head. “i’m vivien hugo. i’m seventeen, a member of the french u20 football team, and i currently play for pxg’s u20 team, though i’ll be transferring to play for arsenal soon.”
so this guy was famous as well? and likely rich? the thought of going home was getting farther by the minute with hugo in front of you.
“and i’m also your future husband, so i suppose it is important for you to know me better.” goddamnit, did this guy have any friends growing up? you were already red in your cheeks, but at his comment, your entire face was probably redder than his hair.
“sure, buddy. whatever you say.” you retorted, furrowing your eyebrows. “nice to meet you hugo. you live around here or something?” you were practically the same age, but since he was a pro player, he probably had his own living quarters.
“i do. i’m guessing you stay at a hotel?” he asked. you nodded.
“i’m not telling you which one.”
“i wasn’t interested in knowing anyway. we’ll meet again even without conventionally necessary information.
this guy was pissing you off. “alright. see you then, hugo.” paris was a city with far too many people for you both to meet again. that’d be ridiculous. with that, you turned your back on him and walked away.
of course, you just had to be wrong.
because when you left your hotel just two days later, your head ended up making impact with yet someone yet again. your earbud case and phone ended up falling out of your pockets again.
“i’m so sor—wait,” your eyes widened, mouth opening wide. “hugo?!” no way. there was absolutely no way such a coincidence could ever exist. and yet you were met with his familiar burgundy hair.
“oh, you’re staying at this hotel. my apartment complex is actually right next to it.” he pointed at the building next door, which you hadn’t even realized was an apartment complex until he said so. no fucking way.
“guess we’re fated after all. not that i doubted it in the first place.” hugo stated, picking up your case and phone casually.
“oh my days,” you breathed. “how?” you hated how steady his gaze was while you were having a meltdown. this guy, this creep, was stuck around you now!
“destiny.”
“not a good reason…”
“you can choose not to believe it, but we’re fated for each other.” hugo replied. “i was actually looking for you, but i suppose destiny decided to be kind and drop you right in front of me.”
you pressed your lips into a thin line. “okay, what is it?”
“you’re traveling alone, i assume. you’re also only here for three months, so i was just thinking that you might need a guide. i only have practice for a few hours five days a week anyway. it doesn’t matter to me.” hugo tilted his head.
“you want me to accept a stranger’s offer?” you asked. “sorry, i don’t have the survival instincts of a walnut. i barely know you.”
“it’s your decision. but just so you know, i am a celebrity by technicality. i have a reputation to uphold. i can’t just kidnap you or mistreat you. that’d be bad for the both of us.” hugo said. you had to admit, he did have logic in his argument. “again, your choice.”
your budget didn’t allow you to find a tour guide, so this was really your best shot. and despite stranger danger, you had to admit that your gut and instinct really sensed noting off about hugo.
“fine.” you sighed. “sure. i’ll do it. you can be my tour guide or my helper or whatever you wanna call it.”
“that’s a deal.”
you hated to admit it, but vivien was good company.
he was blunt and could be preachy at times, but the thing was that he was completely aware of the times he was being annoying…and he completely owned his it as well. you had to admit, he was pretty funny, even if his humor was unintentional most of the time.
when the final day came, vivien decided to bring you on a walk. it was the evening of a weekday, and the park was quiet. the sun was setting softly, and the loudest noise was a small breeze and crickets.
you sat on a swing, meanwhile vivien stood against the swing’s metal beam. you didn’t want to speak. what the hell were you supposed to say to him? you were probably never going to see him ever again.
“well?” vivien began.
“what do you mean, ‘well?’” you asked. he looked at you as if you got 1+1 wrong.
“do you love me?” he asked. you choked on air. “i told you when we first met that i was in love with you. that hasn’t changed, not at all. do you love me back?”
your cheeks dusted pink. “i, well,” you did. you loved him, definitely more than just a crush would ever account for. he was practically your only non-digital communication for the past three months.
but this was bound to end.
and you didn’t want to leave.
you didn’t answer, instead standing up from the swing and walking towards him. when you were in front of vivien, he tilted his head—which was perfect for what you were about to do next.
because your hands cupped both of his cheeks, and you brought his lips to yours without hesitation.
vivien reacted within milliseconds, bringing his hands to your waist and only pulling away to catch for his breath. his cheeks were scarlet, his mouth open for air, and pupils dilated, this was the most emotional you’d ever seen vivien.
and he was so, utterly, completely in love.
“stay here,” he whispered. “just stay with me. i can cover costs for everything. i’ll do anything for you if you just don’t leave.” his gaze softened. “marry me if you need to. just don’t go.”
a bitter smile made its way onto your face. “vivien,” you grazed your thumb across his cheek. “i wish i could, but you know, i’ve got a life to live. and i’ve got senior year waiting for me back home, and graduation, and my friends, and i’ve got so much ahead of me. i love you, vivien. i really do. but this was never meant to last long anyway. if someday we meet again, but in a place where we could be together for longer, i promise i’ll marry you.”
you didn’t expect to be met with dejection, and that wasn’t what you received in the least. because vivien looked more determined than ever.
“that’s a promise. no take backs.”
you kissed his cheek. “no take backs.”
even two years later, you can still vividly remember your plane ride home.
you didn’t cry in front of vivien. you forced yourself not to, not when he dropped you off at the airport or when he stayed with you all the way until you entered security check and he had to leave.
but you were absolutely bawling your eyes out on the plane ride. and it was pathetic, to get so emotional over a 3-month summer situationship over a boy you’d probably never see again.
but there was just something about vivien that you couldn’t get over.
senior year went and left faster than your previous summer. midterms, finals, winter break, midterms, ap testing, sat, act, finals, graduation.
the next summer just wasn’t the same without vivien. rather than go out every day and enjoy the sun, you instead rotted in bed and just scrolled on social media. you shouldn’t be so hung up over him. you shouldn’t even remember him.
yet you did.
you applied to 12 colleges, all within your home country except for one: a university in london.
though i’ll be transferring to play for arsenal soon.
you still remembered vivien’s words. you didn’t want to search him up; you didn’t want to see him without being able to love him. but if there was even the slightest chance that you could get into that university in london, then maybe, just maybe, fate was real.
the university in london was the only one you were accepted into.
so you packed your bags and left. only your freshman year of college was just lonely. you didn’t see vivien. not a single time. no hearing his name in the streets, no seeing him on billboards, nothing. and sure, you kept your grades up, but you were in an entirely different country with no friends.
even though your college was impossibly close to the arsenal headquarters, you were never once able to get tickets to any matches. they just sold out too quickly. football fans were scary.
you didn’t return home for the summer between freshman and sophomore year of college.
your fate was determined in the middle of summer.
the hot june sun was beating down on your back, and your feet were dead from the tens of thousands of steps from that day. you were only two days in out of your three month long summer break—if this was how it was going to be the entire time, you were truly going to die.
your eyes were glued to the tiles on the streets, not realizing you had bumped into someone until you felt a dull pain on your head. “oh shit—i’m so sor—“
this scene felt strangely familiar.
when you looked up, every single one of your dreams manifested.
because vivien hugo looked at you as if he saw an angel, and your earbud case and phone were the prayers that led him to you.
omg pls write a bunny version of ur clingy!sick sae oneshot
Happily <33
Sae ver.
It felt, honestly, impossible.
There hadn't been a warning. No real development to point back to and say 'oh, that's when it started'. Nothing Bunny had said or done that would've made you think this was coming.
Sure, maybe his cheeks had been a little too flushed after his morning runs the past few days. A touch too pink even for someone who pushed himself the way he did, and yeah, he'd slept in longer than usual yesterday. Only to somehow still manage to knock out for nearly three hours in the middle of the afternoon like it was nothing. But even then, it hadn't felt real. It hadn't felt like something serious.
Bunny didn't get sick.
That was just...a fact, one he'd reinforced so many times it had become truth to everyone around him, including you.
Except now.
Now his body burned in a way that felt wrong, heat clinging to his skin like it had nowhere else to go, settling deep into his bones until even breathing felt heavier than it should have. His face flushed a deep, stubborn crimson, the kind that didn't fade no matter how much time passed. And every inch of him felt weighted down, as if gravity had decided to double just for him alone.
If he didn't know better, Bunny might've genuinely thought this was what dying felt like.
He had, actually.
Around five in the morning, sprawled half off the bed, fevered and dramatic in that way only he could be when no one was there to hear it, quietly deciding that if this was how it ended, it was at least a little pathetic.
Not on the field, not in front of a crowd, not even during something worth remembering. Just...like this. Taken out by something invisible, something boring. His pride would've had a lot more to say about that if his brain had been functioning properly.
But it wasn't.
Everything felt slow, almost thick. Like his thoughts had to push through something just to form, and even then, they didn't come out right. Your voice, especially, felt distant. He could hear it, could see your mouth moving as you hovered near him, but the meaning of your words slipped through his grasp before he could catch them.
It was frustrating in a way he couldn't even properly react to, his brows pulling together faintly as you pressed a small cup into his hand, guiding it up to his lips with a patience he didn't deserve.
The liquid tasted awful.
Bitter enough that his face twisted immediately in weak protest, a quiet, hoarse complaint slipping out under his breath, something half-formed that even he didn't fully register. "Sabe horrible..." it came out rough, slurred at the edges, like the effort of speaking alone was too much, but he swallowed it anyway. Not when you were looking at him like that, with that barely hidden look of concern. And even in this state, he didn't quite have it in him to refuse you.
So, when your voice pulled through his sluggish mind again.
"-sleep."
That word stuck.
Something simple enough for his brain to latch onto without struggling, and he didn't argue. Sleep sounded right. Sounded easy. So, he let himself fall into it, just like that. His body gave in almost instantly, like it had been waiting for permission.
Bunny Iglesias slept like the dead when he was sick.
Not the kind of sleep where he'd stir if you shifted beside him, or crack an eye open at the sound of movement.
No.
This was a complete shutdown, like someone had pulled the plug entirely. It took effort, actual effort, to wake him, to get him to drink water or take more medicine or eat even a few bites of something you'd made. His body had simply decided it was done participating, done cooperating, and there was very little you could do about it expect work around him.
Well, almost entirely. Because somehow, some freaken how, one thing didn't shut off.
That football strength.
What was once a carefully controlled matter of mass was now pure instinct without thought behind it. Muscle memory acted on its own while his mind lagged somewhere far behind. But it was still there, enough to be a problem.
Because when you leaned over him again, trying to adjust the blanket slipping off his shoulder, maybe to check his temperature or wake him just enough to get more water into him, Bunny moved.
Not intentionally. His arm lifted sluggishly, uncoordinated, you could say, but it still found you. Hooked around your waist like it had done a hundred times before. Only this time, without any awareness behind it, dragging you down with him in a slow, unsteady pull that you didn't have time to react to before his full weight followed.
Sudden enough that the air left your lungs in a startled wheeze as he settled on top of you, all heat and dead weight, like he'd decided you were simply where he belonged now.
"Bunny-" you tried, breath catching as you pushed weakly at his shoulder, but it barely did anything. "Get-off-"
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
Instead, his grip tightened. Just enough to keep you there as his face pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he shifted closer, like he couldn't quite get close enough, no matter how much space he closed. His leg hooked over yours in the same half-conscious motion, anchoring you more firmly beneath him, trapping you in a way that would've been intentional if he'd been awake. But he wasn't. Not fully anyway.
The low sound slipped from him, something soft and slurred, words tangled together in Spanish as his fingers flexed weakly against your side. “Quédate… aquí… no te vayas…” The syllables blurred together, barely audible, but the meaning was there. Stay here… don’t leave…- mumbled like a plea he didn’t even realize he was making.
And then he snuggled closer.
Aggressively.
There was no grace to it, no awareness of how much weight he was putting on you or how little room you had to breathe as he shifted again, dragging you tighter against him like you were something he could tuck into himself and keep there.
His face pressed fully into your neck, nuzzling in a way that would've been embarrassing if anyone was around, his arm tightening just enough to make sure you couldn't go anywhere even if you tried.
"Bunny- I can't- breath-" you wheezed out, half-laughing despite the situation, but there was no response.
