Sorry if this a sensitive one, but could you do a story or headcanons on their reactions to their girlfriend wanting to abort their baby?
Conflict between logic and emotional attachment
Emotionally distant on the outside, but quietly grieving the “what could’ve been.”
Wonders if he could have done something to make her feel ready.
He respects her choice. Completely. But he does wonder if it means something about him.
He doesn’t dwell in guilt, but he studies her more often afterward, wondering: Did I miss the signs?
He’d never say it, but a part of him mourns the loss of a life he never realized he could want.
Would he try to change her mind? Not forcefully—he'd ask thoughtful questions, both wanting to be sure she fully understood her choice and because he knows she has to at least think it was her idea.
Calm, but eyes sharpen immediately
He’d pause, sitting with her in absolute silence for a beat, then say softly, “Are you sure this is what you want? I need to understand your reasoning.”
He’s not emotionally immature—he knows it’s her body, her choice—but he does feel the need to understand it fully.
If he had started to grow emotionally attached to the idea, he'd withdraw slightly, trying to suppress that grief.
He wouldn't guilt her, but he’d say something like,
“You don’t need to protect me from your decision. But if you're afraid, don’t be alone in it.”
Yes, he would grieve—but quietly, intellectually, and alone.
He wouldn't cry. At least, not where anyone would see.
He might run calculations about how old the baby would’ve been, or what kind of statistical future they could’ve had. It's not for control—it's how he processes grief.
Late at night, he might look at his girlfriend differently—not with blame, but with reverence. She made a hard choice.
One he’ll never fully forget.
There’s a part of him that stores the loss like a sealed folder in his brain—always accessible, never touched unless he’s alone.
The apartment was quiet. Just the ticking of the analog clock and L’s spoon tapping against the side of his teacup.
You sat on the arm of the couch, back hunched slightly, fingers gripping the hem of your shirt. “I’m pregnant,” you said. “And I’ve decided I’m going to terminate.”
L didn’t speak right away. His dark eyes lifted from the cup to your face, scanning with quiet intensity.
“I see,” he said. “May I ask... when did you decide?”
“About a week ago. I needed time to be sure.”
“Do you want me to try to change your mind?” he asked plainly.
“Then I won’t,” he said, reaching for your hand. “I trust your judgment. But I hope you’ll let me support you through it. Whatever that looks like.”
He didn’t cry. He didn’t flinch. But he held your hand the entire time like it grounded him to the moment—and you.
Protection from Protesters
Subtle, calculating, and utterly unbothered.
He walks right beside her, body just slightly in front like a barrier.
As the protesters yell, he studies their faces with a slow blink—calculating, memorizing, silent.
“Don’t engage,” he murmurs to her, voice soft but firm. “They want your fear.”
If someone steps too close, he simply moves—cutting off their path with eerie calm.
He files a civil lawsuit against the clinic harassers anonymously the next day. You don’t find out until months later.
A subtle, still moment—like time pausing in his mind.
He feels relief. Both because he wanted the baby desperately and because you trusted him enough to tell him.
Protective instincts kicking in, masked under a calm: “All right. Let’s prepare properly.”
Inwardly, he starts shifting his entire world structure to account for her, and this child.
Buys parenting books and medical journals. Leaves them around casually.
Doesn’t say “I’m happy,” but stays closer than usual, watching her, adjusting for her needs before she even says them.
Whispers to her once, while she’s almost asleep: “I’ll make sure they grow up safe. That’s a promise.”
His ego is bruised and he feels his control is threatened.
Feels betrayed. Out of control. Deeply wounded but unwilling to admit it.
Light equates children with legacy and control. Her decision strips that from him. He sees it as rejection of his future, his perfection, his bloodline.
Underneath he is seething, he feels entitled to a child, even at his partner's expense. How dare she reject him.
Would he try to change her mind? Yes—but in a logical, manipulative way. He might even convince her it was her idea to keep the baby.
He might say, “I understand you’re scared. But don’t make a decision you’ll regret based on fear.” (Even if she’s not afraid, he’ll frame it that way.)
He might act calm, but beneath it is silent resentment—not because he wanted the baby for love, but because she dared to make a huge life decision without his permission.
He’d hide his disappointment behind calm reasoning and try to emotionally maneuver her with "what if" scenarios.
At his worst, he might take it personally, "Is this really about you, or is this about not wanting a piece of me?"
Would grieve but not in a pure way. He grieves the idealized version of that child.
Light would grieve not the life, but the vision of it: a perfect child with his intelligence, her beauty. A family that cements his legacy.
He sees it as a death of control, of his imagined greatness.
He’ll dream about it sometimes and wake up angry—not at her, but at fate.
If the relationship continues, he might treat her like a living reminder of what was lost. Cold, distant.
If it ends, he romanticizes what could’ve been, telling himself, 'If she hadn’t done that, everything would’ve been different.'
You told him in the car. Parked beneath amber streetlights, silence thick between you.
His grip on the wheel tightened.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked, tone perfectly even.
He exhaled hard through his nose. “Have you considered what this means? The chance we were given? A family. A legacy.”
You flinched. “Light, I—”
“You’re not thinking clearly,” he cut in. “This is fear talking. You’re afraid of losing control. But I can handle this. We can.”
Your throat tightened. “This isn’t about control. It’s about my body.”
The air cracked between you like tension held under glass.
For a moment, his mask dropped—just enough for the hurt to show through.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “But don’t ask me to pretend it doesn’t matter.”
Protection from Protesters
Polished, furious, and scarily commanding.
He’s got his hand on the small of her back like a shield.
When someone screams “Murderer!”, Light turns with a smile sharp enough to bleed, “I’d suggest you step back. You clearly lack the moral authority to speak to her.”
His tone is cold, lawyer-clean. Terrifying.
If they try to follow, he raises his phone. “That’s harassment. My dad's an officer.”
Once inside, he wipes a speck of dust off her coat like nothing happened—but his jaw stays clenched for hours.
A long pause, then a slow smile—almost like he knew this would happen.
He feels vindicated. Proud. A little too much.
Relieved, yes—but also immediately strategic.
This is the future he envisioned. Now, he feels powerful again. But there’s a deeper, real part of him that’s just… quietly joyful.
“We’ll do this right. You won’t have to worry about anything.”
Starts planning everything: their finances, the baby’s education, even where they’ll live.
Touches her stomach often, casually at first. Then more seriously.
Says “Our child is going to change the world.” And for once, he doesn’t mean that like a god. He means it like a dad.
Feels rejected, panicked, unsure how to process
Feels gutted. Unworthy. Furious at the universe—not at her, but at how powerless he feels.
Mello feels everything at once.
He doesn’t do calm, he does chaos.
He spirals into what ifs. He was raised in a place where nothing was ever truly his—not love, not safety.
So the pregnancy felt like something meant to be his.
Her choosing to end it makes him feel like he failed before he even had a chance.
He's hurt, not because she made the choice, but because he wanted to be someone she could feel safe choosing with.
Would he try to change her mind? Yes—passionately, maybe recklessly
Explosive emotional reaction—grief masked as anger
“What? No—wait, slow the f**k down. You can’t just drop that and expect me to be fine.”
He might pace, raise his voice—not to her, but into the void.
Deep down he might feel like this is a sign he’s not enough—as a man, partner, protector.
Would beg her to talk it out, to wait a few days, just to make sure.
He might say something like, “I never thought I'd have anything good in this world. You think I don’t want this? That I wouldn’t fight for it?”
It breaks something in him. He doesn’t just grieve the loss—he feels it in his bones.
He might punch a wall, scream into a pillow, disappear for a few days.
He mourns the version of himself he thought he could be—a better man, a protective father.
Mello has a martyr complex. He probably blames himself and thinks, 'If I was more stable, maybe she’d have kept it.
He might carry a tiny item with him—a baby sock, a sonogram printout, a charm—just to remind himself it was real.
He stared at you like he misheard. You hadn’t even finished the sentence before he stood up, pacing with hands raking through his hair.
You repeated it—quieter this time.
You’d expected him to shout, but he didn’t. He just stopped, fists clenched, like his whole body was fighting to stay still.
“Say you’re not sure yet,” he muttered. “Just say it.”
“No. You don’t get to just—” His voice cracked. “You don’t get to drop this and walk away from it like it’s nothing.”
Your eyes burned. “It’s not nothing. It’s killing me. But I’m not ready.”
He stood in the doorway for a long time, jaw tight, before saying quietly, “I would’ve tried. For you. With you.”
And then he left the room—because if he stayed, he’d beg.
Protection from Protesters
It would take everything in him to make himself go with you, but even though he doesn't agree with your decision, he's not going to make you do it alone.
Unhinged, intense, and absolutely ready to throw hands.
He shows up in a leather jacket and combat boots. He’s not even trying to be lowkey.
Protesters barely start yelling before he’s in their face, “Say one more thing. I dare you. Touch her and I swear to God you’ll need a f**king dentist.”
You have to physically tug him away before he starts swinging.
Inside, his hands are shaking—not from anger, but adrenaline and protectiveness.
“I couldn’t let them make you feel small,” he mumbles. “Not today.”
Stunned. Staring. Then, a crack in his voice he never lets anyone hear.
Overwhelmed, but so damn hopeful.
Feels like he was just given a second chance at something he didn’t know he needed.
Scared. God, terrified. What if he screws it all up?
Pulls her into a hug like she’s the last real thing in the world.
Asks “Are you sure?” ten different ways.
Starts leaving chocolate on her nightstand, packing snacks in her bag, reading about prenatal vitamins in secret.
One night, holds her belly and says, “I swear I’ll be better than what I had. I swear.”
Sad, but introspective and supportive
Feels quietly heartbroken. Protective. Detached at first, then reflective.
Matt doesn’t lash out, but he feels the weight.
He internalizes it—thinking maybe it’s for the best, maybe they dodged a bullet.
But there’s a moment later, alone with a game paused on the screen, where he stares at nothing and thinks, “Damn. That was almost a little life with her.”
He would never pressure her—but he'll carry that sadness like a private relic.
Would he try to change her mind? Only gently, once. Then he’d accept it
“Okay... um. Can I ask why?”
He’s heartbroken, but Matt doesn’t push. He tries to understand, not control.
He'd smoke, go for a drive, play games just to think. When he comes back, he'd hold her and say, “I’m not mad. I just wanna make sure you’re okay. That we’re okay.”
If he felt strongly, he might gently open a conversation later, “If it were up to me, I’d want to meet them one day. But I get it, babe. I do.”
He grieves privately. He holds it in his chest like a secret bruise.
He won’t cry in front of anyone. Not even her. Especially not her.
He’ll grieve when he’s alone. Maybe while gaming. Maybe while high.
There’s a quiet ache when he sees a father with a kid, or when he thinks about what it would’ve felt like to teach someone how to hold a controller.
He might say something soft to her weeks later, like, “Hey… if you ever wonder if it mattered to me… it did.”
But otherwise, he just carries it.
Matt didn’t react at first.
He blinked. Vaped. Looked away. “Damn.”
You waited for more. He gave you silence.
You hesitated. “Not really.”
He nodded. “Cool. Then I’m sticking around.”
You looked at him. “You’re not mad?”
He rubbed his eyes. “I mean, I’m... sad. A little. I think I let myself picture what it might’ve been like. But I get it. If it’s not the right time, it’s not the right time.”
You sat on the floor and he sat next to you. He passed you the vape. You didn’t take it.
“I’ll drive you. Wait in the lobby. Hold your hand if they let me. Just say the word.”
And that was it. That was love.
Protection from Protesters
Chill on the outside, sniper-mode focused underneath.
Hoodie up, vape in hand, arm looped through hers.
Doesn’t respond to a single insult. Just keeps walking, smooth as hell.
But his eyes? Scanning everything. Calculating distance, exits, faces.
One protester gets too close and Matt mutters, “Back the hell off, bro.”
And if they don’t? He gently pulls his girlfriend behind him and stares them down until they shut up.
Afterward, in the car, he lights up and says, “Next time, I’m bringing pepper spray and noise-canceling headphones.”
A long exhale. Then, a small smile, quiet and real.
Calm joy, the kind that creeps in and sits beside you in silence.
He’s scared, but he’s got a gamer’s logic, you play the hand you’re dealt. And he wants to play this one.
Guilt from when he tried to act detached before. But now? He’s in it. All in.
Puts his headphones on her belly and plays music for the baby.
Builds a crib from scratch. You didn’t even ask.
Rests his hand on her stomach and whispers dumb, gentle things like “Hey little bean, your mom’s the coolest.”
Late one night, when he thinks she’s asleep, “You changed your mind. And you changed mine too.”
Quiet devastation masked by neutrality
Feels disoriented. Empty. Surprisingly sad.
Near doesn’t understand the emotions at first. He feels... cold, then guilty for not feeling enough.
But at night, he holds one of his dolls closer than usual and realizes, he did want that future, quietly.
Not for control. Not for pride. But because he wanted to build something with her that no one else could touch.
He’ll never say it, but he’ll always remember.
Deep stillness, expression unreadable
Would he try to change her mind? No—not his place, but he’d ask questions
“You’ve made a decision. I assume you’ve thought about it thoroughly?”
Near doesn’t emote easily. But this would rattle something deep in him—something soft and rare.
Would probably ask things like, “Was it fear? Logistics? A lack of support from me?”
If he realizes she feels unsupported, it haunts him. He’ll promise to change, but won’t push.
“I trust you to do what’s best."
His grief is dissociated and delayed.
At first, he doesn't grieve. He intellectualizes. Accepts. Moves on.
But months later, he finds himself building tiny cradles out of dice. Naming stuffed animals after hypothetical babies.
He keeps a mental version of the child—a tiny ghost in his quiet world.
One day, he says something out of nowhere like, “I think they would’ve liked puzzles.”
That’s the closest he’ll ever come to saying, 'I still think about them.'
He was silent for a long time. Sitting in a white room with grey clouds outside the window, hands tucked in his sleeves.
You’d told him gently, plainly. No frills. No build-up.
“I’ve already made the appointment,” you said.
Near looked at you, head tilted slightly. “Do you still trust me?”
You frowned. “Of course.”
“Then trust that I won’t abandon you for this.”
Your chest tightened. “You’re not upset?”
“I don’t process loss the way others do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.”
He looked at your stomach. Then your face.
“I’m not angry. Just... learning what goodbye means.”
Protection from Protesters
Quietly terrifying. Underestimated, but cold-blooded.
Near looks like he doesn’t belong—too delicate, too still.
Protesters try to yell over him. He doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he turns to the most aggressive one and says,
“Do you believe in God?” They stammer. “Then you should worry about how He’s going to judge your cruelty today.”
No yelling. Just eerie calm, unwavering eye contact.
He makes her feel like nothing can touch her. Because when Near’s protecting you, nothing can.
Blinks slowly. Nods. Then softly says, “That is… important news.”
Quietly overwhelmed. But honored.
Doesn’t understand how to express the soft thrill building in his chest.
Starts mentally restructuring his life to make space. Not just for the baby. For all three of them.
Sits cross-legged beside her and starts talking in soft tones to her belly.
Asks her how she feels. Every day. Keeps track.
Buys a single baby rattle and places it next to one of his toy robots. Doesn’t explain.
One night, says softly, “I have never had a family. But I think I could… learn.”
Feels devastated. Powerless. Grieving, like she lost a piece of herself.
Misa is incredibly emotional and idealistic about love and motherhood.
She probably daydreamed names and nursery colors the moment you missed your period.
So when her girlfriend says no, Misa feels a deep, aching loss.
She supports her girlfriend because she loves her, but Misa quietly cries in the bathroom, asking herself, “Was I not enough to make her want to keep it?”
She grieves like it died in her arms.
Even if she supports her girlfriend’s choice, Misa will feel like a part of her was taken.
She’ll cry in the shower. Write poems she never shows anyone. Keep the first test in a tiny box under her bed.
She talks to it sometimes, in her head. “You would’ve had your mama’s smile. I hope you’re somewhere soft.”
Misa doesn’t recover quickly. But she channels the grief into fierce, devoted love for her girlfriend—because if they’re not going to be moms, she’ll at least be the best damn partner in the world.
Misa stared at you in complete silence.
“But... it was ours,” she whispered. “Ours.”
You reached for her hand. She let you take it, barely.
“I can’t,” you said softly. “Not now. Not like this.”
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks.
“I wanted to buy baby shoes,” she said, voice cracking. “I wanted to name them something stupid and sing to your belly.”
“It’s your choice,” she said. “I know it is. But... it still breaks me.”
And then she crumbled into your arms. Not because she was trying to change your mind.
Protection from Protesters
Fiery, emotional, and dead set on love armor.
She wears bright colors, cute shoes, full glam makeup. She wants people to see her.
When protesters shout, she clutches her girlfriend’s hand tighter and says loud enough to be heard:
“You’re brave. You’re strong. I love you.”
Someone calls her a sinner and she spins on them, voice cracking, “You don’t know us. You don’t know what this cost. So shut the hell up.”
The protester keeps yelling, so Misa turns back around, pulls her girlfriend close, and says, “Ignore the noise, baby. You’re doing what’s right for you. That’s sacred.”
Tears. Real ones. She holds her girlfriend’s face and just smiles through the crying.
Overjoyed. Elated. Like fate just rewrote her ending.
Feels honored to be part of her girlfriend’s transformation—from scared to brave, from unsure to ready.
Wants to protect this love with everything in her.
Buys matching baby clothes before they even know the gender.
Doodles little hearts and baby names in her journal.
Constantly touches her girlfriend’s belly like it’s sacred.
Tells her, “You don’t have to do this alone. We’re in this together. I promise, I won’t let go.”
