Ofblcssxms​:

Spencer can’t look at him. He knows he should, knows Miguel deserves at least that much, but it’s too hard. If he looks, he’ll see the frustration, the disappointment, the hurt—and Spencer isn’t sure he can handle that. Not from him.

So he stares at the floor instead, at the scuffed-up toes of his sneakers, at the way his fingers twitch uselessly at his sides. He wants to shove them into his pockets, but that would make it too obvious how bad they’re shaking.

“I tried,” he says finally, voice quieter than he wants it to be. “I— I did. I asked, and he said no. Told me to get out.” His throat feels tight, but he swallows past it, grips the hem of his hoodie like it’ll hold him together. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

It’s not enough. He knows it’s not enough. But it’s all he has.

He can feel Miguel waiting, expecting something more, but Spencer doesn’t have the right words. The truth is tangled in his throat, too raw, too ugly. He knows what Miguel must be thinking—that he should’ve planned better, that he should’ve just called and asked for more time, that it’s that simple.

But it’s not. It never was.

“I can’t call him.” The words slip out before he can stop them, too sharp, too fast, and he immediately regrets how defensive they sound. He clears his throat and forces himself to steady. “It’s not that simple.”

The weight of it settles heavily in his chest, but he doesn’t let it linger. He can’t. He won’t. He forces a shrug like it doesn’t matter, like it’s all in the past, and he’s fine now. “It doesn’t matter. He’d just say no again anyway.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either. Because the truth is, Spencer is terrified to call him. Just the thought of hearing his voice again makes his stomach twist. He doesn’t want to give him any reason to think he still has power over him, doesn’t want to hear the way his name would curl like a warning in his mouth.

So, no. He can’t call. But he won’t say that, won’t give Miguel a reason to look at him like he’s something fragile.

Instead, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Look, I just—I just need a place to crash for a couple days. I’ll figure something out, I swear. I just—” His voice catches, and he hates it. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

He won’t go back to his parents. That was never an option. Not after they told him he wasn’t their son anymore. Not after they looked at him like he was something shameful.

He's already concerned about the fact that Spencer can't quite look him in the eye, though he supposes having to come running back to your ex with your tail tucked between your legs would be kinda humiliating for anyone. And, to be fair, Miguel never expected this------- he'd assumed that Spencer had washed his hands of their entire relationship, even after agreeing to be friends later when they'd broken up. Miguel couldn't deny how badly the sudden disappearance (and knowing that Spence left him for better) had hurt, but eventually, he pretended that it was all for the best, just to snuff out any lingering hope for them. So, of course he didn't know all the right words to say the moment Spencer resurfaced out of goddamn nowhere, homeless and seemingly helpless. "Yeah, you say no," Miguel snaps like it's fucking obvious what should've been done, "you say no so you have enough time to look for a new apartment. Call his ass up and tell him you need more time."

Jeyda’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t move to take the mail right away. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked from the envelopes to the woman standing before him—Aylin. 4B. Too many words, too much warmth. He wasn’t used to either.

A beat passed. Then another.

Finally, he reached out, taking the stack from her hand with deliberate slowness. The legal firm's gold lettering gleamed in the sunlight, but he didn’t bother looking at it. He already knew what was inside.

His voice, when he spoke, was low, rough from disuse. "Thanks." Nothing more. No welcome, no acknowledgement of her offer. Just that.

Jeyda turned the mail over once in his hand, then tucked it under his arm. His gaze settled on her, not quite meeting her eyes but near enough. Aylin was still watching him, waiting—for what, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t have anything else to give. Not pleasantries. Not reassurances. Definitely not friendship.

Closed starter for @littledaydreamers based on this:

"Excuse me! Are you… Mr Arslan?"

Aylin held out a small stack of mail, the afternoon sun catching the gold lettering on the return address of a legal firm. "I think I might have accidentally grabbed your mail. 4A, right? I’m so sorry! I was in a rush, trying to beat the heat… and honestly, these boxes are practically prehistoric. I'm Aylin, by the way. I live in 4B." She offered a tentative smile, one practiced for calming anxious brides and soothing stressed mothers-of-the-groom.

She took a closer look at the man in front of her. He was… imposing. Tall, broad shouldered but there was an intensity in his eyes, a haunted quality that sent a shiver of unexpected concern through her. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. He didn’t speak, didn't even acknowledge her. He just stared, his eyes fixed somewhere just past her shoulder.

“Look,” she continued, her voice softening. "I really am sorry. Here." She extended the mail again, pushing it gently towards him. “I'm sure you’re expecting these. Welcome to the building. I hope you… settle in okay.”

She hesitated, a sudden impulse tugging at her. Against every ounce of self-preservation, Aylin added, "If you need anything… anything at all… please don't hesitate to knock. I'm usually home, knee-deep in tulle and seating charts, but… I wouldn’t mind a break. Just let me know if there's something I can do." And then, she waited, holding her breath, wondering if she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.

Rory let out a soft laugh. He shook his head, still grinning as he glanced down at the empty space where his coffee should have been.

“Ah, well,” he said, looking back at her with a teasing glint in his eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, I have somewhat of a life outside of performing. Oat milk lattes are a big part of that life. Well, it's vanilla latte, if we're being pedantic but that's neither here nor there.” He joked with another laugh. He started to say something else when a group of fans approached, asking for autographs and photos. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face—pausing mid-conversation felt a bit awkward—but he obliged with practised ease, signing and smiling before turning back to Ember with an apologetic smile. As the fans walked away, their hushed whispers lingered in the air, curiosity evident in their voices as they wondered about the redhead by his side.

Rory let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he glanced toward the café. "Well, technically, yeah," he teased, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "But I'm in no rush. I reckon the latte can wait. I like being able to have these moments with my fans." He replied honestly. "Just make sure you get a photo or something before I go. I'd feel terrible if I forgot and left you with nothing to remember from our chat... that's if you even want to remember this -- I probably shouldn't assume. I'm not that arrogant, I promise." He ran a hand through his hair, laughing.

Ember's cheeks burned brighter under Rory's playful gaze. He thought she was flustered, not making a fool of herself? Well, that was… marginally better. Relief washed over her, quickly followed by the realization that she still had to say something.

"No, no crisis!" she blurted out, a little too fast. Ember immediately cringed internally. Smooth, Ember, real smooth. She forced a small, shaky laugh. "An existential crisis might be a bit dramatic," Ember managed, her voice a touch breathy. "Just... a bit surprised. You're... you're usually on stage, not, you know, buying oat milk lattes." She gestured vaguely with one hand, hoping she didn't look like a complete idiot. The fact that Rory was smiling at her, a real, genuine smile, made her want to melt into the tarmac. She just hoped she wasn't making him regret ever leaving his house for caffeine. "Oh my goodness, am I stopping you from getting your coffee?"

Kai let out a low whistle, slow and mocking, as he watched her order her drink. Whiskey. Cute. Like she was trying to prove a point.

"Relax, Pia," he drawled, stretching out the name he heard her friend use as if it amused him. "I never said you had to bat your lashes at me. Trust me, sweetheart, my ego doesn't hinge on validation from girls who hate that they’re intrigued." He smirked, tapping his fingers idly against the counter.

He shifted slightly, watching her with that lazy, knowing look, like he’d already figured her out. "And yeah, I make assumptions. It’s called reading people. You walked in here already hating me, princess, so let’s not pretend this is a one-way street. I think you'll find you were the one who began with the stereotypes" He cocked his head, eyes flicking to her drink. "Whiskey, huh? Daddy’s favorite. Real original."

He leaned in just a fraction, voice dropping into something low and dry. "But hey, don't worry. I'm sure ordering the strongest thing on the menu totally proves you can ‘handle’ me." He smirked, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Really shattering stereotypes tonight, huh?"

"i'm sorry did you want me to come in here all googly eyed for you? because that's clearly something your used to. just because girls tend to favour the bad boy i have abandonment issues card doesn't mean i'm gunna be fluttering my lashes at you. not to mention i've been here.. five minutes and you have already made countless assumptions about me when i have barely breathed a word about you, so who really is uptight here? got nothing better to do than to insult girls for kicks? 50% split on whether they can handle your sarcasm or they'll crumble but news flash.. but i am bothered by you. other than your ultimately charming conversational skills." she shifted to gaze away from him, looking around as the bartender stopped infront of her and she ordered a whisky. something she loved the taste of because her dad drank it so much it was a wholesome thing really for her. and probably the less likely option for the male next to her to make a snarky comment.

Kai just stared at her for a beat, unimpressed, before letting out a short, gravelly laugh. Damn, she was wound tight. The scowl, the eye roll, the clenched jaw—yeah, he was getting under her skin already. Not that it was hard. People like her? They were used to admiration, not indifference.

"Relax, princess—" and yeah, he said it again, slow and deliberate, just to watch her bristle, "—it was just an observation. And congrats on the brunch trivia, really riveting stuff." His lips twitched, but he stayed leaning against the counter, unfazed by her little outburst.

"And nah, I don't tend to piss people off," he said, dragging a ringed hand through his inky black hair before flicking his gaze back to her. "Just the ones who come in here with a stick so far up their ass they could double as a coat rack." He tilted his head, studying her like she was some fascinating little science experiment. "You got something to prove? ‘Cause it’s real obvious you want me to know you can ‘hold your own.’” He smirked again, dark and lazy. “So what’s the deal? Daddy’s money not buying you enough respect these days?"

oh, she did not like him already. there was something about him that immediately had her on the defensive. the pet name alone had her features hardening with a scowl. "i'm sorry what did you just call me?!" you could tell by her tone she was far from impressed, and he may have thought he was being funny but she certainly did not agree. "it's mimosas for brunch, not champagne actually." her orbs rolled with bemusement as her lips pursed and with that her jaw began to clench. "oh, so what you're saying is that because i am not.. what? covered in ink and wearing a leather jacket i can't possibly be seen anywhere like this? talk about stereotyping me. well done. great first impression. do you tend to piss off all the people you first meet or am i just a special exception?" just because she didn't look rough around the edges didn't mean she wasn't allowed to step foot in the bar. pia was very much the type who could hold her own, and he was just about the learn that little fact just by opening his mouth.

someone do an au with me like he’s a photographer and she is the model like a playful one that is always being cheeky and he’s just serious. she knows what she wants in life and he’s just lost in life since his girlfriend died 5 years ago and he doesn’t know what to do but she just a ball of sunshine and he was just instantly attracted to her but scared that he was going to forget about his dead gf and ends up loving her

"What? James, I haven't been with anyone." Violet argued back surprised by his reaction. "Come on, you know I was at work."

open to: f (mutuals only)

muse: James Junior Rennie, 21-28, cis male, straight

cw for: toxic relationship, extremely obsessive and possessive behavior

"You taste like cigarettes." He pulled away, breaking the kiss, his face contorted in disgust. "Who have you been with?" James demanded, glaring.

strijdsromee​:

someone should give me a plot with this big bad gang leader and his super soft and cute girlfriend that has him wrapped around her finger. like he’s a feared man, which she doesn’t really care about. and she’s there to patch him up and while he usually tries to hide her away from the cruel world he’s in whenever he isn’t there with her, she just patiently waits for him when he’s out and about doing his business and he’s so fascinated by her and no matter how much of a bad guy he is, he’s just so soft for her and he’d do anything for her!!! and then his most precious possession gets kidnaped and shit goes down snsnsns

Closed Starter || @ofblcssxms​​

“Did you miss me?” Asher asked cheekily, a smirk clear as day on his features. He knew turning up unannounced wasn’t ideal, but he had few options left and so he found himself on their doorstep, hoping their last encounter wasn’t one that ended badly. “So, uh, I kinda need a place to crash for a bit.“

Astrid stared at the door, from the couch. Waiting to see if her visitor would disappear. The knocks sent a dull thud through her skull, each one landing like an unwelcome heartbeat. She knew it was Roman.

Of course, it was Roman. No one else cared enough to physically come to her apartment to check on her.

She hadn't meant to disappear—not really. But the weight of everything had settled in thick, pressing her into the couch, into the mattress, into the silence. Days blurred. Maybe weeks. She couldn't remember the last time she responded to a text.

Another set of knocks. His voice, firm but not unkind. Her fingers curled tight around the edge of a blanket she hadn't realized she dragged from the couch as she made her way over to the door, still not opening it.

Her throat was dry. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked. “what do you want?”

- open to: f / nb (mutuals and non-mutuals) - muse: roman serrano, mid-late twenties, twitch streamer who's just gotten pretty popular, lover boy, golden retriever type of guy. - based on this prompt. feel free to dm me if you'd like to plot !!

knuckles wrapped at his neighbor's door. it's out of the ordinary for roman to have the confidence to go to someone's door unannounced. he's always been the type to shoot a text when he's on his way and usually expected his guests to do the same. he was a private guy. roman couldn't help but worry, though, when his neighbor seemed to stop coming around. he hadn't even seen them at the mailboxes or in passing aside from once or twice and they didn't look good. while he used to hear laughter, talking, and more than one voice. he can only assume that there's been some sort of break up. he hates to think the worst, that the other person is dead, but he hasn't ruled it out. roman sighs and slides down the wall beside their door, sitting down. another three knocks. "i don't care what you look like or if there's cups all over the apartment -- can you just open the door?"