can I get headcanons for Ethan or Hal with a very doting and motherly girlfriend, please? :333
of course!! these two don’t get nearly enough recognition in this fandom i fear 🥲
Ethan Robinson and Hal Esposito x motherly, doting GF!Reader
Ethan Robinson:
- Ethan Robinson has always lived halfway inside his own mind. One foot in Bullworth Academy, the other planted firmly in an endless reel of low-budget kung fu movies that color everything he sees. In his head, there’s dramatic lighting no matter the time of day. The halls of Bullworth stretch wider than they really are, every bell ringing like a cue, every shove or side-eye translating into a challenge that must be answered. He moves through school half-expecting a rival to leap out from behind a locker, or a slow-motion showdown to break out by the bike racks.
- You learn this pretty quickly. He talks big — about the Crane, the Tiger, the Frog, whatever style he’s “perfecting” this week — and throws himself into practice with wild enthusiasm and very little self-preservation. To most people, it’s all bluster. A Bully acting tough while throwing the same wild and sloppy punches as the rest of them. But Ethan isn’t lying. He believes it. Every dramatic word, every exaggerated story, every half-remembered movie quote stitched into his own life. Belief is how he survives. Belief is how he makes sense of a world that’s never truly taken responsibility for him.
- Every interaction in his life has been reactive — people responding to the noise he makes, the spectacle he creates. People only notice him when he’s swinging or shouting, so he learned early that pain is the price of being seen. He views his body as something expendable, something to throw into lockers and concrete and other kids’ fists in exchange for a moment of relevance. He never stretches, never rests, trains until his knuckles split and his shoulders lock up, then tapes himself together and calls it discipline. Still, no one ever looks at him and thinks this boy needs to be taken care of. Until you.
- You don’t come crashing into his life. You don’t challenge him or laugh at him or ask him to prove anything. You just notice things. You notice how he forgets to eat when he’s been “training” all day. How he never warms up, never cools down, never gives his body a break. One day there’s a snack pressed into his hand. Another day, a bottle of water. Then a calm, steady voice saying, “Sit. Five minutes. Then you can go back to whatever it is you’re doing.” He listens before he even realizes he’s decided to.
- There’s something about you that short-circuits his usual expectations. You don’t tease. You don’t scold. You don’t sound impressed or annoyed. You talk to him like his body matters — like it’s something to take care of, not just throw into walls for fun. Ethan has no defenses for that. None at all.
- You see the details no one else does. The way he rolls his shoulders like they ache. How he flexes his fingers between classes, jaw tight, like he’s counting down the minutes until he can hit something again. The scabs that never quite heal because he keeps reopening them. “Ethan,” you murmur one afternoon, gently catching his wrist before he can pull away. “Your hands are a mess, baby. Let me help you.” He goes completely still. Not tense—frozen. Like he’s waiting for the punchline. “…I’m good,” he says automatically, softer than he means it. Less sure.
- You don’t argue. You don’t rush. You guide him to sit, pulling bandages from your bag and wrapping his hands carefully, like this is normal, like he’s allowed to need this. He watches your fingers the whole time, heart loud in his ears, afraid to move in case the moment breaks.
- After that, the little things start adding up. You straighten his collar when it’s crooked. Brush lint off his shirt. Tug his gloves onto his hands in winter because he always forgets them. When he complains, it’s half-hearted. “C’mon, I’m fine.” “I know,” you answer gently. “Still.” That word sticks with him. Care without conditions. Care without payment.
- His obsession with martial arts isn’t really about violence. It’s about control. Order. Becoming someone worthy of respect. Kung fu movies taught him that warriors are disciplined, focused, honorable — that suffering is a path to meaning, and he’s held onto that lesson for years. You listen when he rambles about chi and fighting styles, nodding like it all matters because it matters to him. You ask questions. You let him talk himself in circles. Sometimes you gently suggest safer ways to practice, or movies that actually explain technique, and he takes it seriously — because it came from you.
- He practices near you, always within eyesight as he shows off new “moves”, glancing over mid-pose to see if you’re watching. His heart races every time he catches your eye. When he wobbles or nearly eats pavement, your hands are already there to steady his shoulders. “Slow down,” you tell him softly. “Breathe first.” No one has ever framed restraint as strength for him before. The idea settles deep, heavy and strange, and he thinks about it long after you’ve gone.
- Once Ethan realizes your care isn’t a joke or a trick, he stays. Soon, he walks you between classes without comment. Stands close enough that your shoulders brush. He never says why, he just feels better when you’re near. At night, when he’s worn out and quiet for once, he leans into you like he’s still surprised you don’t move away. You smooth his curls back absentmindedly, let him rest his head on your shoulder. Sometimes you press small kisses to his cheek or his jaw, gentle and unassuming.
- Little by little, Ethan’s bullying starts to feel off to him. Less satisfying. When you talk about strength as protection instead of domination, he latches onto the idea fiercely. He still postures, still talks big — but now there’s hesitation. When the Bullies push someone too far, Ethan pauses. He starts redirecting himself. Putting distance between the chaos and the kid who doesn’t deserve it. Dressing it up as “discipline” so he can live with it — but the change is real.
- One evening, half-asleep beside you, he murmurs, barely audible, “One day… I’ma master my style for real. The Devastator ain’t just for hurtin’ people. I’ll protect you from anything.” You kiss his forehead and tell him he already does. He hums, thoughtful, and drifts off with his weight warm and solid against you.
- Ethan Robinson has always lived in fantasy because reality never offered him gentleness. With you, he doesn’t have to perform. He doesn’t have to bleed to be worthy of care. He learns — slowly, clumsily — that being looked after doesn’t make him weak. It gives him somewhere safe to lay his strength down and let himself soften, suddenly a boy rather than a warrior.
Hal Esposito:
- Hal Esposito learned early that if the world believed it was entitled to opinions about bodies like his, he might as well beat them to it. So he moves fast. Faster than people expect. Loves that exact moment when someone underestimates him and reality snaps back into place — the surprise when he charges, when his weight turns into momentum instead of mockery. He cracks jokes about his weight before anyone else can. Leans into the threat of it. Makes it absurd, makes it funny, makes it his. If people are going to stare, he’ll give them a show worth staring at.
- But confidence like that doesn’t come from nowhere. The leather jacket’s always a little too tight, the cigarette tucked behind his ear like he’s auditioning for some old-school tough guy role. It’s all deliberate. Armor, really. Built layer by layer, joke by joke, until the soft parts are buried deep enough that nobody can poke them. What no one ever asks is how tiring that gets.
- Hal is used to feeding himself. Emotionally as much as physically. If something hurts, he eats. If he’s uncomfortable, he jokes. If the world presses in, he makes himself bigger — louder, harder to move, impossible to ignore. It’s instinct now. Survival dressed up as bravado.
- Then there’s you. You don’t approach him like he’s a spectacle or a threat. You don’t test him, don’t hover, don’t look like you’re bracing for impact. You just sit beside him. Close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm, casual like it’s always been that way. Like his presence doesn’t need explaining or justifying. That alone throws him.
- You don’t pretend his size doesn’t exist — but you don’t make it the point, either. You pull him into conversations naturally, share space with him without hesitation, talk to him instead of around him. He notices that you don’t pause before leaning in, don’t adjust yourself like you’re unsure. You just belong there. And somehow, by extension, so does he.
- You never police what he eats. Never turn food into a moral issue. You don’t watch his hands or comment on portions. Instead, meals become something shared. Sometimes you bring him his favourites — cheeseburgers still warm in their paper, fries tucked in the bag like an afterthought you remembered because you care. Sometimes you just sit close while he eats, leaning lightly into his side like his weight is something you trust. When he reaches for food because he’s hurting, you don’t stop him. You check in. A soft, easy, “You okay, babe?” that gives him room to answer — or not.
- The first time he admits, half-joking and half dead serious, that he eats to “mask emotional pain”, he expects you to laugh it off. Or get awkward. Or start worrying out loud like it’s a problem to fix. You just nod. Maybe squeeze his hand. “That makes sense,” you say gently. “A lot of people do.” That simple acceptance hits harder than any reassurance ever could.
- Hal’s used to attraction being weird around him. Either people fixate on his size in a way that feels invasive, or they won’t look past it at all. He knows the categories. He learned not to ask for softness because softness rarely comes without strings. But with you, his body isn’t a spectacle.
- You touch him like you expect him to be solid — like that solidity is comforting. Your hands rest easily on his arm, his back, his waist. When you hug him, you don’t hesitate or adjust; you sink in. Sometimes you lean your full weight into him without thinking, trusting he’ll hold you. He always does. Every time, it does something small but powerful to his chest.
- Hal’s never really had someone take charge of him gently. Authority usually comes with judgment — rules, lectures, expectations. With you, it’s different. You notice when he’s had a bad day before he says anything: his jokes get sharper, his appetite quicker, his posture more rigid. So you sit him down. Pull him close. Run your hand slow and steady over his back until his breathing evens out. He melts every single time, like his body’s been waiting for permission to rest. It’s only afterward that it hits him how badly he needed that.
- His care, in return, is practical and sincere. Food is his first language of affection. He notices when you haven’t eaten and offers something without thinking. Over time, you gently teach him that sometimes what you need isn’t a meal — it’s rest, or reassurance, or him sitting beside you, solid and unmoving, so you don’t feel like you’re holding everything alone. He learns, slowly but earnestly.
- Hal isn’t the type to make big emotional speeches, but the important stuff slips out anyway when he’s relaxed — between bites of a burger, or when you’re leaning against him somewhere quiet. He admits he knows people judge him. That he jokes first because it gives him control. That sometimes he wonders if he’d be easier to love if he took up less space. You don’t rush to contradict him. You answer honestly. You tell him you like the way he fills rooms. The way his laugh carries. The way his presence makes things feel grounded and safe. He goes quiet after that — not upset. Just sitting with it, turning it over, letting himself want to believe it.
- Once he feels secure, his affection turns deeply domestic. He likes being useful — bringing things, hovering when you’re tired, checking in — but he also likes being looked after. Likes when you tell him to drink water. When you check his temperature with your hands. When you rest your head on his chest and sigh like that’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.
- With you, he doesn’t have to armor up so hard. You’ll tell him if something’s wrong — and you’ll still stay. When he admits small truths about shame or doubt, you listen. You kiss his temple. You tell him he’s safe. That he’s good. It steadies him in a way nothing else ever has. “You make me feel like I don’t gotta prove anything,” he says once, voice low.
- Hal Esposito built a life around being impossible to ignore — bigger, louder, harder to hurt. With you, he doesn’t have to perform or deflect. He can be big and soft and stubborn and affectionate all at once. A boy who eats his feelings, loves deeply, and is finally learning what it feels like to be cared for without conditions. And he returns that care the only way he knows how: consistently, solidly, and with his whole heart.