#...should I be putting these behind a cut?

[sudokufriend]

not putting this in the tags only because character limits make me soo sadsies but yeah idk maybe you guys don’t know anyone whose entire culture subscribes to a ‘family is the rock of your life and your father and grandfather etc etc are essentially venerated and never disrespect your elders/authority figures no matter how wrong they are.’ because you don’t have non white friends. and it’s actually really refreshing to hear someone push back against the idealistic idea that there could be a system in which the family unit is preserved that does not have these problems.

hella anecdotes beneath the cut

i’m 20. my nigerian parents ascribe to these beliefs, and indeed the foundation of igbo culture rests upon these values being intrinsic facts. i’m not going to say that therefore the igbos deserved to be colonised or anything like that, but christianity and particularly catholicism took such a hold in igbos and we are so fervent about it because of and not despite the authoritarian nature of its teachings.

your parents are always right easily translates to god is always right. my parents constantly say to me that the three questions i should ask myself before doing something are ‘what would god do? what would my parents do? and what should i do?’ i shouldn’t need to point out the issues with that.

my igbo parents are wrong. looking at this evidence, this is just true. they are bigoted in a lot of ways, from being ableist, fatphobic and transphobic towards wider society and me, to being abusive towards all of their children who they view as their subordinates. they are healthcare workers who despise their vulnerable patients, and they are racist towards every culture, including dialects of their own language. they are islamophobic and they hate refugees despite us essentially being refugees ourselves. but we are not allowed to disrespect them in any case, in which disrespect is defined as disagreeing with anything they say. both igbo culture and religion and catholicism condones and encourages the unquestioning support of your parents.

when i was in primary school and struggling with social interactions and exhibiting signs of developing ocd regarding my grades at the age of six and obvious autism, my parents’ problem was that i threw a tantrum and disgraced our family, not that i was unhappy in school.

when i reported them to my teacher for abuse in year seven with my sister supporting me, they didn’t care that their children were so unhappy that they would take such drastic action as to talk about their family when it had been drilled into their heads that it was ‘wrong’ to ever let people know your family dynamics, they instead cared that we would dare go behind their backs and complain about them.

they now often wonder why i never came or indeed still don’t come to them for emotional support and advice. when i used to complain, or my siblings used to complain, my parents would take it as a personal insult that we would dare find issue with their parenting. as far as they’re concerned, i was just a weak willed child, who refused to fall in line. but if you ask them how they could’ve produced such a child if their parenting was ‘perfect’ they don’t have an answer.

this is just my immediate family. more broadly, when we are at home in nigeria, my father and grandfather must be greeted first in the morning. if we do not greet every single ‘adult’ (by which this is defined as the previous generation, not every person eighteen and over) before we start preparing breakfast for these adults, we are talked about and loudly insulted.

my grandmother on my dad’s side lives away from my grandfather because she cannot stand him. but she will not divorce him, and hell be upon you if you say a bad word against him, because that is her husband and your grandfather, and you will show him deference at all times.

my grandmother on my mother’s side was married at sixteen, and my grandfather (36 at the time of their marriage) financially and physically abused her. but my mother has not a bad word to say about my dead grandfather, and my grandmother talks fondly about the man who abused her.

my brother, a thirteen year old child, is a titled chief in my village. my two sisters and i do not have any such opportunity because we were born girls, and therefore born in servitude to the men in our lives. when we become ‘of marrying age’ (my mum is on the lookout for a suitable partner for my twenty two year old sister) we are expected to leave our birth family and not be involved in their domestic affairs, or to inherit property. the idea is that your husband will inherit property from his father and then you will rule it ‘together’ (if that husband dies without producing a son, all of the land he inherited is given to his next oldest brother). when we visit nigeria, we spend 5-6 weeks with my fathers family. we spend less than a week with my mother’s family, and my dad does not stay, because it is ‘not right’ to spend time with my mother’s family, except to pay deference to the older generation.

slavery was in part so successful at infiltrating igbo villages because of the problems inherent to such a system of inheritance. younger brothers eyeing their older brothers’ inheritances would collaborate with transatlantic slave traders to sell their brothers to their certain deaths. the igbos are not the first you meet on your way into nigeria from the coast. and yet we make up a shockingly high percentage of the historically enslaved population.

most igbos are conservative, not because conservative policies necessarily benefit them, and indeed we have been subject to ethnic discrimination in nigeria and pogroms, but they are so because you do not question the system, and the authorities who enforce it. yes, missionaries disrupted and destroyed our culture. but ultimately they brought catholicism and it reinforces our own ways of thinking, so it must be correct.

this obsession too with finding the perfect victims of colonialism is interesting. in search for the perfect victim, liberals will often twist discriminatory indigenous practices to make them seem retroactively queer. there was nothing queer about certain igbo women who chose to live like men in order to access the rights granted to said men. again this isn’t to say that the igbos deserved to be colonised and our practices and language poisoned at the root, but by swinging hard the other way, it erases the very real oppression inherent to some cultures.

I'm still fucking thinking about people advocating neo-Confucian ~extended family~ as a better alternative to western nuclear family. like girl i know there's that assumption that everyone is a white yankee but have you literally never talked to anyone who grew up in a family like that?

our barbarous system where children are the property of their parents vs their glorious system where children are the property of their parents (mystical oriental)

it's like that broader thing where people try and thin down a criticism like "you mean organised religion", "white western nuclear family", "this is such a white people thing" etc to try and weasel their way out of association with an issue.

Misogyny is not a western invention lol, the way it manifests in a lot of societies is a product of certain cultural manifestations of misogyny being exported elsewhere, but the control and ownership of women is not a "white people thing" or a western thing.

the issues of the family are not limited to the anglo saxon protestant yankee middle class nuclear family, misogyny is not unique to one group of people, racism is not unique to one group of people, homophobia is not unique to one group of people, terfs are not all middle class white women, etc etc etc etc

it's just so frustrating and kills any fucking attempt to actually talk about issues because they get drowned out with people appending on specific identities as if that issue is unique to one fucking group of people and the rest of the world is sunshine and rainbows.

[hottiesforhockey]

may the best brother win pt 3 ⏐ h.brothers

pairings: jack hughes x afab!reader ⎜ luke hughes x afab!reader ⎜quinn hughes x afab!reader ⎜ genre: romance ⎜angst ⎜friends-to-lovers ⎜smut? ⎜ warnings: starts off nice and sweet ⎜ luke is giving possessive ⎜ oral (f!recieving) ⎜ more of jack saying dumb things ⎜ prepare for tense brotherly relationships moving forwards ⎜ synopsis: you had spent every summer with the hughes brothers since you were ten years old ... why does this summer feel so different? word count: 10.7k authors note: this is luke's chapter - it's a little steamier then the original so I hope you all enjoy.

part 1 ⎜ part 2 ⎜ part 3 ⎜

(unedited)

“He’s been out there for twenty minutes now.” Luke grumbles as he pauses the movie on your laptop, the sudden silence making the air feel heavier, more suffocating. He shifts, placing the laptop off to the side before rolling onto his side, elbow digging into the mattress as he glares at the shadow pacing back and forth in front of your bedroom door.

The two of you had bundled up in your bedroom for movie night - Quinn down stairs with a few of his friends and neither of you wanting to interrupt the oldest Hughes ‘chill’ time. You had extended an invitation to Jack not wanting to cut him out of your weekly hangouts but honestly you didn’t even expect him to show up. 

You held your chin in your hands as you glance over at Luke, his position casual as he lounges on your mattress, the two of you had been lying on your stomach watching Happy Gilmore for what seems like the hundredth time this summer, but neither of you could ignore the slow shuffle outside your door any longer. 

You don’t move. You try not to look. You just stare blankly at the frozen screen, eyes unfocused, fingers curling against the blanket as your pulse thuds steadily beneath your ribs. Loud. Unrelenting.

Because you knew. You felt it.

The weight of Jack’s presence had been pressing against the door for the last twenty minutes, stretching the space between you into something unbearable. A quiet plea. An unspoken question.

And you hated that you could hear it.

Luke exhales sharply, flopping onto his back with a theatrical groan, arms folding behind his head as he stares at the ceiling. "He either needs to come in or leave, because this? This is pathetic."

Your throat tightens, words tangling behind your teeth. "Luke—"

"No, seriously." He shifts again, this time propping himself up on one elbow, his sharp gaze flicking toward yours with a knowing smirk. "This is the guy you’ve been stressing over? The guy who doesn’t even have the balls to knock?" The tension between the two brothers had become more obvious since your last proper conversation with Jack, aside from the average two word responses you’d get out of him when you asked him a question. 

Luke despite being over friendly and welcoming to all, was loyal to a fault, even if it meant being mad at his own brother. 

His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge beneath it—a challenge. A test. A quiet prove me wrong. You inhale slowly, resisting the urge to pull your blanket higher, to shield yourself from the truth that Luke, as always, is so quick to dig up.

Jack wasn’t like Luke.

He wasn’t the type to barrel into a room, crack a joke, demand attention just to see you react. Jack hesitated. Jack overthought. Jack pulled away when he should have leaned in.

But he was still here.

Still pacing.

Still trying to figure out what to say.

And for some reason, that was almost worse.

Luke clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers against his stomach before sighing dramatically. "Alright, Princess." He turns his head just enough to look at you, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. "Your call. You gonna put him out of his misery, or should I go out there and give him a reason to leave?"

Your stomach twists.

Because deep down, you already know your answer, and you think Luke did too, which is why you weren’t surprised when he gave you a rough shove, your body hitting the floor with a thud as he flicks his head towards the door. 

“Get it over with.”  Your palms press flat against the carpet, breath caught in your throat as you shoot a glare up at Luke, who only grins in response, completely unrepentant.

"You're the worst," you mutter, though there’s no real heat behind it. Your pulse is pounding now, a steady drumbeat in your ears as you push yourself upright, shaking out the sting from your elbows. Luke just shrugs, tossing an arm behind his head once more, settling back into the pillows with an infuriating smirk. 

"Yeah, yeah. Just open the damn door." You hesitate for a second too long, nerves a tight knot in your stomach. Because once you open that door, once you let Jack in—what then? But he’s still out there. Still waiting.

With a sharp exhale, you shove yourself to your feet, swiping your hands against your pyjama pants before gripping the doorknob. It’s cold beneath your fingers.

One last breath. Then, you twist it open. Jack freezes mid-step, his sock-clad feet nearly colliding with yours. His head jerks up, wide eyes locking onto yours, and for a moment, neither of you say anything. The hallway light casts soft shadows against his face, the sharp angles of his jaw softened by hesitation, by uncertainty. His hair is a mess, ruffled like he’s been running his hands through it over and over again.

Your heart clenches.

"Hey," you say, barely above a whisper.

Jack exhales sharply, like he’d been holding his breath this entire time. "Hey."

Behind you, Luke snorts. "Oh my God. This is going to be painful."

Jack’s eyes dart over your shoulder, expression shifting instantly. "Luke, shut up."

"Make me." You shoot Luke a warning look, but he just grins, completely content with his role as the instigator. Jack sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face before dropping his arms to his sides. His fingers flex like he wants to do something—reach out, maybe—but he doesn’t. He just stands there, jaw tight, shoulders drawn.

You bite your lip. "You wanna come in?" 

Jack hesitates for only a second before nodding. You step back, making room as he crosses the threshold, shoulders tense as he slips past you. His presence fills the room instantly, the air shifting with something heavy, something unspoken. You shut the door softly behind him, leaning against it for a second longer than necessary before turning back to find Jack standing awkwardly near the foot of your bed, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Wait, I told you to talk to him, not invite him to crash our movie night." Luke whines from the bed, your eyes rolling before you shoot him a glare. 

"Luke, shut up." You hiss, mimicking jacks earlier frustrations. Luke watches you with a lazy kind of amusement, still sprawled across your mattress, arms folded behind his head like he’s watching a sitcom unfold in real-time.

"Well," Luke drawls. "This is cozy."

Jack shoots him a glare. "You don’t have to be here."

Luke’s grin is all teeth. "Yeah, but I want to be." You sigh as you move back to perch on the end of the bed, Luke’s hand automatically smoothing across the mattress and tangling in the hem of your loose t-shirt, a show of silent support. 

A promise. 

“Someone has to make sure you don’t accost her again.” 

“I didn’t acco— how do you even know what that word means?” Jack faces his attention towards his little brother, not noticing the way Luke’s fingers slide under your shirt, the cold tips brushing against the burning heat of your skin, a lazy smile on his face as he just shrugs as his brothers question. 

“Some of us are just naturally smart, Jack.” Luke teases and you can see the irritation bubbling under Jack’s skin - Luke always had a way of frustrating his brothers, and while Quinn usually just found it amusing, Jack was known to get caught up in the antagonising chides. 

Jack exhales through his nose, clearly biting back a retort, his jaw tight. His fingers twitch at his sides again, like he’s still fighting the urge to reach out, to do something, anything other than just stand there and let Luke get under his skin. But he doesn’t take the bait—not this time. Instead, he looks at you, his expression shifting, something uncertain flickering across his face.

You swallow hard. "Jack, what did you—"

He shakes his head before you can finish, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. "I don’t know," he mutters. "I just—I didn’t wanna leave things weird."

Luke snorts. "Buddy, you’ve been making it weird for weeks."

"Luke," you say sharply, shooting him another glare. He only shrugs, fingers still idly playing with the hem of your shirt like he has all the time in the world, like he doesn’t realise—or maybe he does—that every second Jack stands there, looking like that, makes your stomach twist tighter and tighter. Jack sighs again. His hands dangle between his knees, shoulders curled inward as he stares at the floor. 

"I didn’t mean to ignore you." Your breath catches in your throat. Jack’s voice is quieter now, rough around the edges. "I didn’t know what to say. And every time I tried, I just—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I dunno. I guess I thought if I gave it time, it’d get easier. But it didn’t." Something in your chest clenches painfully. Because you understand. Because you’ve felt the weight of that silence too, pressing in from every angle, thick with things left unsaid. And now that it’s finally breaking, the pieces falling between you like scattered glass, you’re not sure how to pick them up.

Luke hums from beside you, tilting his head. "So, just to clarify," he says, tone deceptively light, "your genius solution to dealing with your wrong doings was to avoid her completely?"

Jack groans, tipping his head back. "Luke—"

"No, no, I’m just making sure I’ve got this right." Luke’s smirk is sharp, eyes glinting with amusement. "Like, instead of actually talking to her, and explain why you kissed her and then ditched her not once but twice, you decided the best move was to pace outside her door like a stray dog and hope that she’d do the hard part for you?"

Luke, shut the fuck up," Jack snaps, frustration spilling over.

"Or what?" Luke challenges, lifting a brow. "You gonna throw a punch? C’mon, man, can you even reach that high?" Jack’s hands curl into fists, but he doesn’t move. You see the moment his anger flares, the moment he almost rises to it—but then his shoulders sag, exhale sharp as he forces himself to let it go. You shift, your hand shooting behind your back, taking hold of Luke's pausing his fiddling as you give his fingers a squeeze before moving them away from you.

"Enough." you say softly.

He glances at you, then back at Jack, before finally relenting with a dramatic sigh, flopping back against your pillows again. "Fine, fine. I’ll be good."

Jack mutters something under his breath, something suspiciously close to "doubt that," but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he turns his attention back to you, his expression guarded, hesitant. "Can we talk..." he hesitates, "privately?"

Luke groans. "Oh my God, just say what you need to say and go so we can go back to enjoying our night." You swat at him blindly before nodding at Jack, trying to steady your pulse. Luke makes a big show of sitting up, stretching his arms overhead before throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Well fine, if you two are gonna get all serious, I’m out."

You blink. "Wait, really?"

Luke grins, already halfway to the door. "What? You want me to stay?"

"No!" you and Jack say at the same time, and Luke barks out a laugh, hands up in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright. I’ll be in my room if you need me. Try not to kill each other. Or make out...for the third time" He winks at you, then at Jack, before ducking out the door, closing it behind him with an exaggerated click. Silence settles over the room.

Jack exhales, rubbing at his jaw. "He’s such a dick."

"Yeah," you murmur, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite everything. "But he’s not wrong."

Jack looks at you then, really looks at you, and for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like there’s a wall between you. Just hesitation. Just uncertainty. Just Jack, finally willing to stop running. "I fucked up," he says quietly. "I know that. And I know I probably don’t deserve to fix it, but—"

"Jack." You swallow hard, heart hammering.

“I just want to be friends again.” Jack says quickly, “Go back to how things were before I fucked everything up by kissing you.” Your stomach twists, frustration bubbling hot in your chest. Your fingers clench into the fabric of your pyjama pants as you take a slow breath, trying to steady yourself. "It wasn’t the kiss, Jack," you say, voice tight, controlled. "It was how you reacted."

Jack blinks, caught off guard. "What—"

“ I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again.” You whisper under your breath, “You kissed me, and then you acted like- " The words are sharper than you intend, and you pause for a minute, taking a deep breath before continuing "You pulled away like I was something you regretted. You avoided me for days. You made me feel like I was the only one who cared about what happened and wanted to fix things. And now, you just want to hit rewind like none of it mattered?"

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders stiff. "That’s not—"

"That’s exactly what you’re doing," you interrupt, shaking your head. "You want things to go back to the way they were, but they can’t. Not when you keep pretending like nothing happened. Like there is nothing going on.” Jack’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He looks away, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The silence stretches between you, thick, heavy. You don’t know what you’re expecting him to say.

Maybe an apology. Maybe an admission. Maybe just something real for once. But instead, Jack just stands there, like he’s waiting for you to tell him how to fix this. And you realise, maybe for the first time, that you can’t be the one to do that for him.

"Jack, I appreciate you trying to come and apologise, and maybe that means that a little bit of what I said last week sunk in, but you're still missing the point." The reminder of your argument with Jack last week was still fresh in your mind, the same way the feeling of his lips searing against yours still keep you awake in your bed some nights. 

"We can still be friends - we will always be friends, but we can't go back to how things were before, because you can't change what happened." Jack nods slowly, his body deflating as he takes in your words. 

"I really am sorry." He sighs and you nod, your own shoulder slouching forwards as you try to shoot him a reassuring smile. 

"I know." 

+

+

Luke had noticed Jack’s arrival to movie night in your bedroom, well before you did — the currently annoying shuffle of his older brother outside the door distracting him from paying attention to the way your face lights up when Adam Sandler does something funny. 

Luke notices when you notice Jack - your shoulders tense, your head flicking towards the door with a frown, Luke’s eyes rolling as he watches the shadow pause for a moment, almost as if his brother has finally worked up the courage to come inside before the pacing restarts. 

“He’s been out there for twenty minutes now.” Luke notes, pausing the movie as sliding the laptop across your bed so it’s out of the way, your body still frozen as he rolls on his side, propping himself up on his elbow. You silence in the room was suffocating, the image of you tensed on the bed, your chin in your hands as you refuse to tear your eyes away from the still shot no the screen of his laptop, his head tilting as he takes you in.

Luke wishes that you’d go back to ignoring his brother, and refuse to play into Jack’s mind games, restarting the movie and going back to laughing with him over the hilarity that is ‘Happy Gilmore’ but Luke’s knows you better than anyone and he knows you can’t let things go. 

He knows he’s being a little harsh as he spits soft insults to you about his brother, your tone chastising as you frown at him, but he can’t help it. As much as Luke loves his brothers, he’s never been afraid to tell them when they’re in the wrong, and Jack is so in the wrong right now. Luke shoots you a quick look before he’s putting a light expression on his face, your body automatically relaxing a little as he does. 

He watches as your eyebrows raise, your mouth letting a small squeak of surprise slip as he shoves your off the mattress and onto the floor, shooting you an amused look as you glare up at him. “Get it over with.” He grumbles with a shrug, pretending to not notice the way you dream of his gruesome murder as you push yourself off the floor and over to the door. 

Luke knows he’s antagonising his brother as you both step back into the room, your body quickly shuffling back over to the bed as you perch on the edge, Luke’s body shifting a little bit closer. 

"Well," Luke drawls. "This is cozy."

Jack shoots him a glare. "You don’t have to be here."

Luke’s grin is all teeth. "Yeah, but I want to be." Luke watches as you let out a small shiver as his cold fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt, the cold skin on his finger tips just grazing the hot skin of your back. Luke’s not sure why he’s touching you, grazing his fingers up and down the bare skin against your spine, still spitting harsh words at his brother as he watches the way you subconsciously relax into his hand, your skin pressing more and more into his own as he hurls another insult at his brother, your hand twisting around your back to get hold of his fingers. 

He stops his movements waiting for you to shove him away — which you do — but not before giving his fingers a tight squeeze, releasing them slowly, hesitantly as you softly hiss at him over your shoulder, “enough.” The word has him nodding, pulling his hand ever so slightly away from you. 

He glances at you, then back at Jack, before finally relenting with a dramatic sigh, flopping back against your pillows again. "Fine, fine. I’ll be good."

Jack mutters something under his breath, something suspiciously close to "doubt that," but Luke doesn’t push anymore — he doesn’t want to upset you.  Instead, he watches as Jack turns his focus back to you, a soft simmer of rage bubbling under Luke’s skin “Can we talk..." Jack hesitates, glancing briefly over at his brother, "privately?"

Luke groans. "Oh my God, just say what you need to say and go so we can go back to enjoying our night." His lips tilt upwards as you swat at him blindly before nodding at Jack. Luke makes a big show of sitting up, stretching his arms overhead before throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Well fine, if you two are gonna get all serious, I’m out."

Luke watches as you turn to blink at him. "Wait, really?"

Luke grins, already halfway to the door. "What? You want me to stay?"

"No!" you and Jack say at the same time, and Luke barks out a laugh, hands up in mock surrender — but he can see the small way your expression falters, your confidence shrinking as he walks to the door way, his eyes shooting Jack a silent warning. 

"Alright, alright. I’ll be in my room if you need me. Try not to kill each other. Or make out...for the third time" He winks at you, then at Jack, before ducking out the door, closing it behind him with an exaggerated click. He lets out a long breath, heading down the hallway to his bedroom, keeping the door open as he waits for any signs that he needs to return to your side, to protect you from his idiot brother. 

Luke had barely settled into his chair when he heard your door creak open again. His eyes shot to the hallway, his hand hovering over the remote control, fingers itching to turn the volume up on the TV and drown out whatever was happening. The sound of footsteps, light but steady, signalled that Jack had already made his exit.

He didn't expect the weight of the quiet in the room to hit him like a truck. He stood and took a few quick steps down the hallway, his heart quickening when he reached your door. The soft click of the door as it pushed open was followed by a sigh that told him exactly what he needed to know. "Luke," your voice broke through the stillness, so quiet, but there was a palpable tension there. "I—I'm fine." 

You weren’t, and Luke knew that. He could hear it in the way your words trembled, in the way your breathing had gotten just a little more shallow. His brother had left you upset again, and though Luke had done everything to push his presence between you both, Jack still managed to worm his way into your thoughts.

Luke stood there for a moment, staring at the door that still hung slightly ajar but not fully opened, his sight of you still sitting on the edge of your bed slightly blocked. He knew you didn’t want him to witness the aftermath, but he also knew you weren’t going to shut him out.

Not now.

Not after everything.

Without knocking, he pushed the door open. You didn’t look up at first.

"You didn’t have to come back,” you said, the words coming out a little flat. Luke didn't respond immediately. He just took a step inside, his eyes scanning the room for any hint of what you might need. When he found none, he sighed and crossed the room toward the bed, sitting down beside you without waiting for permission.

"Of course I did,” he muttered, though there was no malice in his voice, just a quiet understanding. "You think I’m going to let you sit here alone.” His eyes softened as he turned to you, and he let his gaze linger, watching the small frown tug at your lips.

"I didn’t want to make it worse," you whispered, your voice strained. "I didn’t want to cause more trouble." Luke’s lips twisted into a small, knowing smile as he reached forward, brushing a lock of hair away from your face, his thumb briefly grazing the skin along your cheek. 

"You’re not the one causing trouble. He is." His voice was steady now, more protective, almost possessive, as he leaned back, his arms folding behind him on the bed to settle in. “Look, you’ve been through enough. Jack doesn’t get to leave you in pieces like that. Not when I’m around.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “What are you going to do?”

Luke’s smirk widened as he shifted to a more comfortable position on the bed. "What do you think? I’m staying." He grinned, stretching out lazily, and without hesitation, threw an arm behind you on the mattress, just a little too close, but close enough to make sure you felt the weight of his presence. “You need to calm down, right? I’m not going anywhere movie night is becoming an all night event.” For a moment, the tension in the room seemed to settle. His proximity, the quiet assurance in his voice, started to have the desired effect. Your shoulders loosened, just a little, and the frown on your lips softened as you leaned back against the pillows.

Luke didn’t move, still keeping a watchful eye on you, ready to fight anyone who dared to upset you again. “Jack’s been an idiot for a while and he’s my brother,” he added, his voice growing more serious. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you deal with his crap alone.” You didn’t reply right away. Instead, you let out a small sigh, your body inching just a little closer to him, instinctively seeking his comfort, you hands sitting besides each other on the bed between you both, Luke using his other hand to pull his computer back onto his lap. 

Luke smiled as he stretched his hand, his fingers brushing against yours in an almost absent touch, not expecting a reaction from you. 

He didn’t need one anyway. 

He wasn’t going anywhere.

+

+

The sound of “Eye of the Tiger” blaring in your dark bedroom and the heavy arm draped over your waist makes you groan softly, stirring against the warmth pressed into your back. Your eyes crack open just enough to confirm that you are, in fact, still in your own bedroom. But something feels... off. Your brows furrow as your gaze drifts downward, landing on the unfamiliar sight of a larger hand entwined with yours, resting against the comforter. Your fingers shift slightly, testing the grasp, and the movement earns you a sleepy squeeze in return.

You blink, momentarily confused, until the deep, steady breathing behind you registers.

Luke.

His arm is still heavy around you, his long fingers loosely tangled with yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “No wonder my hand is so sweaty,” you mumble, attempting to shift without disturbing him.

“Mm, what?” Luke’s voice is thick with sleep, his grip on your hand slackening as he turns onto his back with a deep exhale. His other hand fumbles blindly across the mattress, smacking at his phone until the blaring music cuts off. He groans and stretches before turning his head to look at you, a sleepy grin tugging at his lips.

“Nine AM, sugar cookie. Rise and shine.” His voice is low and rough, the last remnants of sleep clinging to his words.

“Sugar cookie?” You arch an eyebrow, shifting onto your side to face him.

“I know, it’s just not right, is it?” He hums, rubbing at his face before sitting up, his curls an absolute mess from sleep. His T-shirt is rumpled, the fabric sticking to one side of his shoulder in a way that makes him look impossibly endearing. He turns to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“We gotta get up, though. Can’t let date day go to waste.”

Date day. The words settle between you, and your stomach twists with something uncertain. Excitement? Nervousness? You’re not sure. What you do know is that Luke is grinning at you like he’s been waiting for this all week.

“Time for us to get our game faces on,” he teases, reaching out to flick your forehead gently. “The bet’s not gonna win itself.”

You roll your eyes, finally pushing yourself up into a sitting position. “This is ridiculous. I don’t even know why you’re this invested.”

Luke scoffs, rolling off the bed in one fluid motion. “You’re just mad ‘cause Jacky made a boo boo.” He shoots you a knowing look before sauntering toward the window, grabbing onto the curtains.

“Luke, don’t you dare—” He dares. He rips them open, flooding the room with blinding sunlight. You groan dramatically, flopping backward onto the mattress as he chuckles, arms crossing over his broad chest.

“You don’t think I’m gonna let jack just coast to forgiveness, do you?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it. A spark of something deeper. “He thinks he can just kiss you out of nowhere and act like it’s nothing?”

You swallow hard, caught off guard by the shift in his voice. There’s something unreadable in his expression, his gaze sharp and unwavering. But before you can even think of a response, he’s grinning again, the weight of the moment vanishing as quickly as it came. “Pfft, not on my watch,” he declares, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. “I’m gonna make this the most fun you’ll ever have on a date.” You snort, shaking your head.

“Actually, scratch that,” he continues, leaning in slightly. “You’re never going to go on another date ever again because you’ll be so enamoured by me.” You laugh despite yourself, shoving at his chest. He barely moves, his grin widening as he winks.

“Very funny. Now get out so I can get ready for whatever you’re going to enamour me with.”

“As you wish, m’lady,” he says with an exaggerated bow, turning toward the door. The second he pulls it open, Jack is standing there, his expression unreadable as his eyes flick between you and Luke.

Luke doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, and wear something comfy,” he adds, nodding in greeting to his older brother before ruffling his already messy curls and strolling down the hall. Jack steps inside, leaning against your doorframe, his gaze steady.

“He has a lot of energy,” Jack notes, his voice quieter than usual.

“He’s excited,” you reply, smoothing down your pyjamas as you stand.

Jack hesitates, then exhales. “Listen, I think about last night...” Something in his tone sends a shiver down your spine. You chance a glance at his face, expecting a smirk, but his expression is blank.

“Can we do it later?” you ask, forcing a light tone. “I have a feeling if I’m not ready in fifteen minutes, Luke is gonna drag me out in my pyjamas.” Jack lingers for a second before clearing his throat. 

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, whenever suits you.” He shoots you a small smile before clapping his hand against the doorframe and walking away. You watch him disappear down the hall, the soft click of his door sending a ripple of unease through you. Maybe Luke was right.

“Fifteen minutes, princess!” Luke’s voice rings out, and you huff, rolling your eyes. Right now, you had a date to focus on.

You dress quickly, tugging a soft, thin white sweater over your head before slipping into your muted green overalls. The fabric is comfortably worn, the straps adjusted to the perfect fit after countless wears. Your favorite pair of white Converse—scuffed, broken in, and softened with time—find their place on your feet as you sling a small crossbody bag over your shoulder, making sure it holds only the essentials: phone, wallet, chapstick, and a few stray hair ties.

A sharp knock echoes against your door. “I’m coming,” you hiss, hurriedly pulling your hair into a ponytail. A few loose strands stubbornly slip free, framing your face no matter how much you try to tuck them away.

Luke stands just outside your room, his arms crossed as he pointedly glances down at his watch, exaggerating his impatience. He’s dressed in black athletic shorts and a faded blue concert tee, the fabric worn thin from years of washes. His dark hair is freshly showered, air-dried and—shockingly—brushed, a rare effort on his part. He wears his own white Converse, just as battered as yours, and as soon as his eyes land on your feet, a smirk creeps across his face.

“Look at us, twinning,” he announces, stretching his arms out dramatically. “We’d make the cutest couple, wouldn’t we?” He sing-songs, casting a playful glance at Quinn.

Quinn, unfazed, simply slides a plate of freshly cut fruit toward you as you settle onto a barstool at the kitchen counter. “Here.”

“Thanks.” You spear a slice of crisp red apple with your fork, savouring the juicy crunch as Luke plops into the seat beside you, reaching for a piece of fruit with his bare hands.

Quinn watches as his younger brother rummages through a small black backpack, stuffing it with Gatorade bottles and assorted snack packs. “He’s got a lot of energy,” he comments dryly.

You hum in agreement, déjà vu washing over you as the moment mirrors your earlier encounter with Jack. “He’s excited.”

“So what’s your plan for today?” Quinn asks, leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he observes Luke with mild curiosity. Luke zips up his bag with a mischievous glint in his eye. 

“Why? Trying to keep your enemies close?” He slings the bag over one shoulder, though it looks almost comically small against his broad back.

Quinn barely reacts. “I just like knowing what disaster I’ll have to deal with later.”

Luke ignores the jab, turning toward you with an impish grin. “We may or may not be going to one of your favourite places.”

Your brows knit together as you tilt your head. “There’s a fair nearby?”

Luke nods, swiping an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a large, unceremonious bite.

“Since when? How did I not know about this?” You exclaim, more excited than offended.

Quinn smirks knowingly. “Didn’t your friends from Umich invite you to hang out with them there?”

Your excitement falters, a frown creeping onto your lips. “Wait... so you’re using this date as an excuse to see your friends?” Luke immediately shakes his head, bending down slightly so his breath tickles the shell of your ear.

 “No, I’m using it as an excuse to show you off to my friends.” You roll your eyes, but the warmth in his tone and the shameless grin on his face make it impossible not to smile.

He nudges your shoulder. “Now, come on, we’ve got an hour drive ahead of us.” He’s already ushering you toward the front door, offering Quinn a casual wave over his shoulder. “See you later tonight!” Before Quinn can respond, the door slams shut behind you.

The one-hour drive melts away into laughter and lazy conversation. The windows are rolled down just enough to let in the warm breeze, ruffling the ends of your hair as you absentmindedly flip through Luke’s playlist. The car smells faintly of pine air freshener and the remnants of fast food fries, and every few minutes, Luke sneaks a glance at you from the driver’s seat, his hand resting comfortably between the two of you on the centre console.

Before you know it, you’re pulling into a grassy lot beside the fairgrounds, the vibrant atmosphere already seeping into your senses. The scent of fried dough, caramel popcorn, and freshly cut grass lingers in the warm evening air, interwoven with the distant hum of carnival music. Strings of golden lights illuminate the fairgrounds, flickering like fireflies as the sun begins to dip below the horizon.

Luke parks the car and is out the door in an instant, jogging around the hood before you even unbuckle your seatbelt. He swings the door open with a flourish, grinning down at you.

“What a gentleman,” you tease, stepping out and adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Only the best for my date,” he shoots back, punctuating his words with a wink as his fingers wrap around yours, lacing them together like it’s second nature. The fair is already alive with movement—kids dashing past, their sticky fingers gripping oversized stuffed animals, couples strolling hand-in-hand, the glow of neon lights reflecting off their smiling faces. The sounds of carnival games, the distant rumble of roller coasters, and the occasional shriek from the drop tower all blend into the air, a symphony of excitement and nostalgia.

Luke doesn’t hesitate as he pulls you into the crowd, his grip firm but gentle, ensuring you never stray too far. “Alright,” he says, turning to you with a smirk, “where to first?”

You nudge Luke with your shoulder, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “I don’t know... you’re the one who planned this, remember?” He grins, hands stuffed in his pockets as he scans the fairgrounds. 

“Right, but it’s all about what you want.” He gestures dramatically to the sea of colourful booths and flashing rides. “Games? Rides? Food? Name it.”

Your gaze drifts over the chaos until it lands on the Ferris wheel towering above it all, its lights twinkling even in the bright midday sun. There’s something about it—the way it stands apart from the noise, offering a brief escape into the sky.

“That,” you say, pointing.

“The Ferris wheel? Starting strong, I like it.” Luke’s grin widens as he starts leading you toward it, but he suddenly halts, tugging gently on your hand.

“Hold up,” he says, eyes locking onto a ring-toss booth lined with giant stuffed animals. His expression turns mischievous. “I’ve got to win you something first. It’s tradition.”

You arch a brow. “Tradition?”

“Obviously.” He gestures toward the rows of oversized plush toys. “No fair date is complete without a ridiculously large stuffed animal you have no idea where to put later.”

Before you can protest, he hands a few bills to the booth operator, rolling his shoulders like an athlete about to perform. You bite your lip to keep from laughing as he lines up his first shot, brows furrowed in concentration.

The first two tosses miss. Barely.

“Oh, laugh it up,” he says, cutting you a sideways glare as you try to stifle your giggles behind your hand. “I’m just warming up.” The third ring lands perfectly around the bottle, and Luke lets out a triumphant shout, throwing his arms up. The booth operator sighs in defeat and hands over an enormous stuffed bear, almost as big as you are. Luke turns to you with a proud smirk, holding it out like an offering.

“For you,” he declares dramatically.

You can’t help but laugh as you take it, hugging the soft toy close. “This is completely impractical, but thank you.”

“Impractical?” Luke scoffs. “No way. It’s the ultimate prize.” He leans in slightly, voice dipping lower. “Besides, it’s my excuse to get people going 'wow he must be a great date'.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin betrays you. “Smooth.” As you near the Ferris wheel, your hand brushes against his. It’s accidental at first—a fleeting touch in the shifting crowd—but then Luke makes the choice for you, slipping his fingers through yours again like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your heart stutters slightly, but you don’t pull away.

When you step into the carriage, the world below begins to shrink, stretching out in bright, sunlit hues as the fairgrounds sprawl beneath you. Luke settles beside you, his knee grazing yours as the seat rocks gently. You can feel the warmth of him, even with the summer breeze drifting through the bars on the carriage. 

He exhales slowly, taking in the view. “Okay, you were right,” he murmurs. “This was the perfect first stop.” You glance at him, catching the way the sunlight softens his features, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the flecks of gold in his eyes. He’s not looking at you, too distracted by the endless stretch of blue sky, and it gives you a moment to simply... admire him.

He must feel your gaze because he turns, catching you staring. A slow, teasing grin tugs at his lips. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

Your heart jumps, and you quickly look away. “No,” you mumble, a little too fast. “I just—yeah, it’s a good view.” 

Luke chuckles, shaking his head. “Busted.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Just enjoy the view, Hughes.”

"Oh trust me, I am." The ride slows as you reach the very top, pausing briefly to let the passengers below unload. The world feels quiet up here, separate from the lively fairgrounds below. Your knees brushing against his as you sit on opposite sides, both looking over the growing crowds in awe, and this time, neither of you moves away. When you finally step off the Ferris wheel, the fair is in full swing, and Luke’s hand finds yours again, grounding you.

“Alright, most important part of the fair: food,” he announces.

“Corn dogs and lemonade?” you guess.

“Obviously.” He feigns offence. “But also, giant pretzels. And deep-fried everything.” Luke insists on ordering for both of you, and soon, your hands are full of hot, sugary funnel cake and an absurdly large lemonade. You find a spot near the carousel, sharing bites of the warm, sticky dessert. At one point, Luke gestures vaguely toward your chin.

“You’ve got some—”

“Where?” You swipe at your face with a napkin.

“Nope, missed it.” He reaches out, brushing the powdered sugar away with his thumb. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers, sending a warm flutter through your chest. His fingers stay just a second too long before he pulls back, clearing his throat. You open your mouth to say something, but before you can, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks it, then tucks it away with a sigh.

“Your friends?” you ask.

Luke nods. “Yeah. They’re somewhere around here.”

You tilt your head. “I thought you wanted to meet up with them?”

His fingers drum against the table. “I did,” he says, but there’s something hesitant in his voice. Then, under his breath, he mutters something too quiet to catch.

“What was that?” you tease, leaning closer.

He exhales, finally looking at you. “I said, I’d rather spend today with you.” Your breath catches. There’s a flicker of vulnerability in his expression, like he’s not quite sure what you’ll say.

“Okay,” you reply softly.

“Okay?” His lips twitch like he’s trying to suppress a grin.

“I like spending time with you too, Luke.”

His grin breaks free, warm and unguarded. “That’s good.” He pauses. 

“Yeah, you’re like my best guy friend.” You tease, watching Luke’s face drop a little, the infamous Hughes pout spreading across his lips.

“Great, this is great.” He groans, running a hand down his face in despair before dramatically slumping against the table. His head drops forward, forehead nearly hitting the surface, as a muffled groan of defeat escapes him. You let out a snort of laughter, unable to help yourself at his exaggerated misery. Shaking your head, you slide out from your seat, grabbing the oversized bear that’s become your new companion and making your way over to his side. He stays put, unmoving, still wallowing in self-pity. You bite your lip, fighting the grin threatening to take over your face as you set the bear down, perching one knee on the bench beside him.

“I’m kidding, Luke.” Your voice is soft, laced with amusement, as you lean forward and press a featherlight kiss against his cheek. The warmth of his skin lingers against your lips for a fraction of a second before you pull back, barely dodging as he jerks upright, eyes wide.

“Oh, now you’re just messing with me,” he accuses, squinting at you, though his mouth twitches at the corners. You can tell he’s fighting a smile.

“Are we gonna continue this date or not?” You challenge, tilting your head. 

Luke stares at you for a beat before exhaling through his nose, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” Still, he stands, sliding out of the booth with ease, and reaches a hand behind him without hesitation. His fingers curl, expectant, waiting. You don’t make him wait long. As soon as your palm slides against his, he squeezes, firm and warm, grounding. The rest of the day seems to blur together, the heat of the sun beating down as the hours slip by. The fair is still alive with colour and noise, but the crowds begin to thin, the air cooling as the afternoon fades into early evening. Your arms are now filled with both your giant bear and a more reasonably sized unicorn—Luke’s hard-earned prize after six frustrating attempts at the basketball game.

“I still say that hoop was rigged,” Luke mutters, eyeing the unicorn with an air of resentment.

You laugh. “You just don’t want to admit you’re bad at basketball.”

Luke gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, I’ve seen better.” You shrug, struggling not to laugh at the utter betrayal on his face.

“You take that back right now.”

“I take nothing back.” Luke groans dramatically but doesn’t press it further. Instead, he glances over at you, his expression shifting slightly. 

“You’re looking a little tired.”

You sigh, rolling your shoulders. “A little. I just need to use the bathroom before we head out.”

He nods, immediately reaching for the stuffed animals in your arms, pulling them into his own with ease. “I’ll wait right here.”

You shoot him a grateful smile before making your way toward the restroom sign. It takes longer than expected—the line stretching farther than you’d hoped—but eventually, you finish up, carefully manoeuvring your way out without touching the questionably grimy walls.

When you step back into the fairground, Luke is exactly where you left him, but now he’s not alone. A small group has gathered around him, and it only takes a second for you to recognise them—his friends. The ones he’d pointedly avoided meeting up with all day, the ones he had chosen you over. You hesitate, slowing your steps, not wanting to intrude. Instead, you pull out your phone, finally checking the notifications you’d ignored throughout the day.

least favourite hughes : Let me know when you guys are heading home.

least favourite hughes 😈: I hope you had a lot of fun on your date.

least favourite hughes 😈: I’m sorry if I made things weird between us.

favourite hughes 😇: I think you broke my brother.

You blink at the last message, the edges of your lips twitching as you glance up. Luke is still deep in conversation, laughing at something one of his friends said, but as if sensing your gaze, he suddenly turns.

His eyes find yours immediately, and his face lights up. “Hey, what are you doing over there?” Your head pops up at his voice, catching the attention of the whole group. Your eyes widen slightly at the sudden spotlight.

“Just catching up on my messages,” you reply quickly, awkwardly holding up your phone as if to prove your point. The gesture earns a few polite nods from his friends before they turn back to their hushed conversation, though whatever they’re whispering about clearly pleases Luke, if the smug, boyish grin on his face is anything to go by.

Then, without hesitation, he lifts his hand and motions for you to come closer. When you don’t immediately move, he starts making exaggerated grabby motions, fingers curling impatiently, like a toddler. You roll your eyes but step forward, slipping your hand into his. Luke exhales softly, his grip tightening around yours as he pulls you close to his side. Then, with a slowness that makes your breath hitch, he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles—soft, lingering, like he’s savouring the moment. Your heart stumbles, beating an erratic rhythm against your ribs as you glance up at him in surprise.

He only grins. “It was good seeing you guys,” he says, effortlessly redirecting the conversation. “We need to do a lake trip soon.”

His friends nod, offering their own goodbyes and promises to catch up soon, and then, just like that, Luke is steering you away, his strides slow and unhurried as if he has no desire to rush the moment. By the time you settle into the car, the day’s warmth still clinging to your skin, Luke glances over at you, his expression softer now, a little hesitant.

“So...” he begins, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Was this a good first date?”

You smile, leaning your head against the window. “It was perfect.” Luke’s grin is instant, wide and unguarded. He reaches over, placing a hand against your thigh, his touch featherlight. He doesn’t move it, doesn’t let go. Instead, his thumb begins tracing soft, absentminded circles against your skin, a quiet, unconscious motion that makes warmth bloom in your chest.

His hand stays there the entire ride home.

+

+

Luke parks the car and turns off the engine, but neither of you moves. The air between you hums with an unspoken energy, a quiet intensity settling in the small space of the vehicle. His hand remains on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. The simple touch is grounding, yet it sends a shiver up your spine, making you acutely aware of every nerve in your body. He finally looks over at you, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re not going to make me walk you to the door like a proper gentleman, are you?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something deeper, something simmering just beneath the surface.

You chuckle, un-clicking your seatbelt with a soft click. “Well, you did earn some serious points tonight. But sure, let’s see just how gentlemanly you can be.” He exhales dramatically, shaking his head as if put upon, but he’s out of the car in an instant. You barely have time to gather yourself before he jogs around to your side, opening the door with an exaggerated flourish.

“M’lady,” he quips, offering his hand. Laughing, you take it, his fingers curling around yours as he helps you from the car. The night air is crisp against your flushed skin, and without thinking, you step in closer to his warmth. His arm finds your waist with an ease that feels effortless, pulling you in as you make your way to the door. His presence is intoxicating, the scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering sweetness of cotton candy from earlier at the fair.

But when you reach your doorstep, Luke doesn’t stop. He presses forward, hand still entwined with yours, his pace unhurried but deliberate.

“Where are you going?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, watching as he steps inside, only to glance back at you with a devilish smirk.

“This is the door, but not your door.” His meaning is crystal clear, your pulse quickening as he keeps walking, guiding you upstairs until you stop outside your bedroom. The air shifts, the teasing edge fading into something heavier, something charged. His boyish grin softens, a flicker of nervousness dancing in his eyes as he rubs the back of his neck.

“So… I had a really good time today,” he murmurs, his voice rougher now, more vulnerable.

“Me too,” you say, matching his tone, your breath catching as he lifts a hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch is featherlight, yet it leaves a trail of heat in its wake.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he admits, fingers grazing along your jawline, his eyes locked on yours.

“It was.” Luke exhales, something shifting in his gaze as his fingers slide to cup your cheek. There’s a brief hesitation, like he’s waiting for you to pull away, to stop this before it goes too far. But you don’t. Instead, you tilt your chin up, wordlessly giving him permission.

That’s all he needs. His lips find yours, firm yet reverent, like he’s memorising the way you taste. Your fingers tighten around his shirt, gripping onto him as you rise onto your tiptoes, pulling him closer, deeper. He grunts softly against your lips, the sound sending a delicious shiver through your body.

With a deft movement, his hand finds your door handle, twisting it open as he carefully guides you inside. The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly, the air feels thicker, heavier. His hands remain gentle as they cradle your face, but there’s an urgency in the way his lips move against yours, a hunger that neither of you can ignore.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “Is this too much?” The question barely makes it past your lips before he shakes his head, thumbs stroking along your cheeks.

“Not unless you think it is.” His voice is rough with restraint, his breathing uneven. Your lips part, hesitation flickering in your eyes as a thought crosses your mind. 

“Is this not kinda crossing the line? I mean, this didn't work out well for me last time.” You let out a nervous laugh. 

"You're comparing me to Jack?" He asks softly, your head quickly shaking, your eyes widening in surprise as he looks down at you with one brow raised. Instead, he leans in, his breath warm against your lips.

“Do you want to kiss me?” he asks, his voice husky, deliberate. You swallow, nodding slowly. A smirk tugs at his lips. “Then fuck the line.” And with that, he claims your mouth again, his grip firm as he walks you backward toward the bed. He sinks down onto the edge, pulling you into his lap with ease. The moment your legs straddle him, he exhales sharply, his hands gripping your waist like he never wants to let go.

Luke only pulls away long enough to yank his shirt over his head, his toned chest rising and falling with deep breaths. His fingers grip your hips, encouraging you to press closer, his lips latching onto your neck, leaving trails of heat in their wake. Your hands slide up his arms, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch before threading into his hair, tugging slightly. He lets out a quiet groan, his grip tightening in response.

“Why did you have to wear fucking overalls?” he grumbles, voice rough with frustration, his hands fumbling at the buttons. You laugh breathlessly, reaching up to undo them yourself, letting the top fall from your shoulders.

He watches you with darkened eyes, his fingers twitching as they trace the bare skin of your sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your sports bra. He hesitates, waiting for your nod before pulling the fabric up and over your head.

“I wasn’t really going for aesthetic this morning,” you murmur, glancing down at yourself.

Luke shakes his head, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “I’ve never been one for aesthetics,” he murmurs, his hands slipping around your back, trailing warmth wherever he touches. He pauses just as his fingers find the clasp of your bra—

Knock, knock.

“Are you in there?” Jack’s voice cuts through the thick haze in the room, your head snapping toward the door. Shadows shift beneath the crack, and your stomach drops.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Luke growls, his grip on your hips tightening briefly before he lets out a sigh. His forehead presses against yours, a chuckle escaping his lips. “Just ignore him, maybe he'll go away,” he murmurs. You huff, burying your face in his shoulder as he places another kiss to your jaw, then another, before reluctantly shifting to help you back onto your feet - knowing his brother wasn't going to just go away if his pacing last night was anything to go by. He hands you your sweater, pressing one final kiss to your nose before pulling his own shirt over his head.

When Luke finally yanks the door open, his curls are a mess, his lips are red and swollen, and his chest rises and falls like he’s barely caught his breath. Jack’s eyes widen slightly before narrowing, suspicion flaring in his gaze as he glances between you both. “I have a feeling I interrupted something,” Jack mutters, his voice edged with amusement, but there’s something sharper underneath.

Luke rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “You did.” His voice is clipped, edged with irritation, but he doesn’t back down.

Jack’s smirk is slow, mean. “Going after my sloppy seconds, huh?” The words land like a slap, the air in the room turning suffocatingly thick. Your mouth parts in a sharp inhale, a soft gasp slipping out before you can stop it. Luke’s whole body tenses, his shoulders snapping back, muscles coiling tight with barely restrained fury. His jaw locks, nostrils flaring, and when he takes a single step forward, Jack barely has time to react before Luke’s palm slams against his chest, pushing him back a step.

“The fuck did you just say?” Luke’s voice is low, lethal.

Jack scoffs, recovering quickly. “Come on, man. You don’t think this is a little pathetic?” Your stomach twists, heat crawling up your neck—not from desire this time, but from humiliation, anger.

Luke shakes his head, letting out a humourless laugh. “You think she’s some kind of leftovers?” He takes another step forward, voice dropping to something razor-sharp and dangerous. “That just proves you never deserved her in the first place.” Jack’s lips press into a thin line, jaw ticking. 

“I’m just saying, she’s kissed two of us now, you don’t think she’s going to go for the whole colle—” Luke doesn’t let him finish. The door slams in Jack’s face with enough force to shake the walls. The echo of it rings in the silence that follows, the tension between you a live wire, snapping and crackling with raw emotion.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. Your breath comes fast, heart hammering against your ribs. Luke stands still, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s still itching to throw a punch. Then, finally, he turns to you, his expression shifting, something unreadable flickering in his darkened gaze.

Luke exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his chest still rising and falling in controlled, shallow breaths. His jaw tightens, a flicker of frustration crossing his features before he speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice lower, rougher, edged with something dangerous. “He’s a fucking idiot.”

You swallow hard, a lump forming in your throat as you nod. “Yeah. He is.” Luke studies you for a long moment, his gaze intent, searching. He’s looking for the damage Jack might have caused, for any sign that his words have seeped under your skin, leaving wounds that can’t be seen. And then, as if making the decision for both of you, he exhales slowly and shakes his head.

“Forget him. Forget all of it.”

And then he’s on you.

The kiss is different this time. It isn’t just heat or need—it’s desperation, possession, an unspoken plea to erase every single doubt Jack tried to plant in your mind. His hands find your waist, fingers pressing in like he’s terrified you might slip away. His lips move against yours with a slow, intoxicating hunger, coaxing, taking, reclaiming. When his tongue brushes against yours, a soft, needy whimper escapes you, and he groans into your mouth like he’s been starving for this, for you.

He walks you back, step by step, his grip unyielding, until your knees hit the bed. For a moment, he hesitates, like he’s giving you one last chance to stop him, to tell him this is too much, too fast. But you don’t. You don’t want to.

His grip tightens, and he lowers you down, his body following without hesitation. His weight presses into you, solid muscle and warmth, grounding you, reminding you that you’re here, that you’re his. The world outside ceases to exist; there is only this, only him.

“Tell me he’s wrong,” Luke murmurs, his lips ghosting over your jaw, down the column of your throat. His breath is warm against your skin, his voice rough with something raw, something unshakable. "Tell me you won't believe a single thing he said."  His teeth scrape over your pulse point, and you shudder, your fingers threading into his curls, tugging him back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, stormy, filled with hunger that has nothing to do with anger anymore.

“He’s wrong,” you whisper.

A low sound rumbles from his chest, pleased, satisfied. “Good.”

His lips crash against yours again, deeper this time, a slow, consuming burn that steals every thought from your head. His hands roam your body, tracing, exploring, memorising. He touches you like he’s trying to rewrite every terrible thing Jack ever made you feel, like he’s replacing them with something sacred, something unshakable.

“You need to tell me to slow down, ” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. "Because I can't do it myself." His lips skim over your collarbone, his hands sliding down your sides, his fingers making slow, reverent work of every layer of clothing on you, till you lay bare beneath him, goosebumps prickling along your skin at the cool summer air. “You deserve to be worshiped.”

The words steal the breath from your lungs. Your body burns under his touch, anticipation curling tight in your stomach as he maps a path lower, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

When his hands part your thighs, his gaze flicks up, holding yours as he murmurs, “Will you let me?” Your answer is a breathless, desperate nod. And then he’s there, his mouth on you, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate strokes that send a sharp jolt of heat through you. A gasp breaks from your lips, fingers twisting into the sheets as pleasure crashes over you in waves. Luke hums against you, the vibration sending another spark of pleasure through your core. He’s relentless, thorough, savouring every shudder, every tremor, like he has all the time in the world.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groans, his voice ragged, needy. His arms wrap around your thighs, pulling you tighter against him, like he never wants to let go. “I could die a happy man down here.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he dives back in, his tongue moving with slow, devastating precision. His name spills from your lips in breathless, desperate whispers, your body arching against him, losing yourself in the pleasure he gives so willingly.

When you finally break apart beneath him, your body trembling, his hands smooth over your thighs in soothing strokes. His lips press soft, lingering kisses against your skin, his touch reverent, grounding.

He moves back up, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and satisfied. He grins against your stomach, then higher, trailing heat all the way back to your lips.

“Told you,” he murmurs, voice rough, pressing a final, lingering kiss against your parted lips. “The bare fucking minimum.” His gaze never leaves yours as he shifts above you, a silent promise lingering in the air, heavy and unspoken. His hands gently push your hair back from your face, fingertips tracing the outline of your jaw, his expression softening as if you're the only thing that matters in the world. The moment stretches, drawing you both into a space where nothing else exists.

You meet his gaze, a flood of emotions rushing through you, some familiar and some new. There’s comfort in the way he looks at you, in the way he holds you like he’s willing to erase every shred of hurt and doubt.

And in that quiet intimacy, you find a peace that Jack’s words had threatened to steal. You breathe in deeply, pressing your lips to his again, slower this time, savouring the quiet, the warmth between you. Luke’s hand slips over your side, the touch gentle now, a stark contrast to the fire that burned between you moments ago. His lips curl in a half-smile, and he presses a final kiss to your forehead, his body still pressed against yours, as if grounding you both in this moment, in this time where the world is nothing but the two of you.

Well for a little while. 

“You two better not be fucking while I’m in the house.” Quinn’s voice cuts through the silence as Luke reaches over his head pulling his shirt off before handing it over to you, a mischievous smile on his face, as you glance towards the door in panic. 

“Not fucking.” Luke confirms, “Just eating a snack.” He adds, a laugh bubbling out of his throat as he hears his older brother grunt before his heavy footsteps trail down the hallway, your hand smacking over his shoulder as he throws his hands up in defence. 

“What it’s not like I’m lying.” 

“You really are insufferable.” 

[rose-writes-for-march]

March for More: Little Prince

MASTERPOST

If there was anything Phantom hated the most about being crowned king—

“Your Eternity, it is with great respect that I summon you here today for a formal audience.” Ra’s al Ghul says, bent over in a formal bow from where he stands just beyond the barrier of the summoning circle.

—it was this bastard.

“al Ghul.” He greets with a scowl, “What a surprise. I thought you might’ve gone and Ended already, given how long it's been since you bothered me last.”

The man jerks upright from his bow, a frown on his face though Phantom knows it isn't directed at him, and waves a hand behind him in a 'come here' gesture. Phantom follows the movement, spotting a boy in... armor(?) being forcibly escorted forward. Phantom is almost impressed by the fight the boy is giving, having at least ten men trying to so much as move him beside the old man.

"Ra's. We've talked about this, haven't we? I don't take sacrifices." Phantom growls, voice edging into ghost speak at the blatant disrespect the old man is showing. "I should kill you for bringing one before me—"

"Apologies, Your Eternity, for interrupting, but this boy is no sacrifice." Ra's cuts him off, body angled to glare at the boy while keeping the King in his sights. He moves his hand slightly, and the escorts reluctantly back off. As soon as one man's hold slackens, the boy growls and forces the rest off of him with an impressive efficiency. As the fight continues, Ra's addresses the king again, "This is my grandson, Damian al Ghul, I trust you remember him?"

And, unfortunately, Phantom does.

It wasn't that long ago for Phantom, thanks to time shenanigans. A summoning not unlike this one, when Phantom was freshly crowned and still finding his footing, had seen Phantom in this very room before this very boy—only many years younger than he currently is. Phantom is as livid now as he was then when presented with a kid and a marriage proposal.

"Is this some joke to you, Ra's al Ghul? Surely you understand your offense." Phantom can feel his features distorting, fingers blackening into claws, eyes thinning into slits, crown flaring from a soft borealis to a piercing ice. "My demands were simple, were they not? My patience is not as eternal as my reign, and should you offend me further, it will become as nonexistent as you'll find yourself."

"Your Eternity—"

"Your demands were met," Damian interrupts, standing tall under the full force of Phantom's misplaced ire as his eyes whip toward him. He stands beside his grandfather willingly, despite the earlier fuss, looking much more put together than the disgrace beside him.

He seems to have straightened out his suit, and at his feet sit the majority of his escorts, all properly knocked out. Phantom considers him for a moment, "Met, huh? And how is that? I remember my demands were to never be bothered with such a thing again, and yet here you both stand."

Ra's seems properly subdued under Phantom's ire as he always is by the end of their talks. It's gotten almost fun to watch the man back down when he knows he's lost. But Damian, for some Ancients-damned reason, seems to want to force the issue. "I admit you're right; the demands of that summoning were met. However, the requests of this summoning have changed."

Now curious and somewhat impressed by the boy, Phantom lets his features fall back into uncanny rather than monstrous. Plus, he is kind of required to hear the requests, no matter how much he'd rather skip it and get this over with. "Fine, let's get this over with, I suppose."

Damian bows and Ra's follows his lead a second later. Once they are both in position, Damian speaks, "Great King of Eternity, Savior of the Dead and Forgotten, I offer my body and soul to you in full trust and respect." He lifts his head, meeting Phantom's as he continues the formal spiel, "Allow to me the honor of your name and title, the right to you and your people, and your trust so that I may ask of you a favor in return."

Phantom can feel the proposal just beyond his skin, like the whisper of wind playing in his hair and spelling out shivers on his spine. It is an honest proposal, proper etiquette and intention behind every word. It makes Phantom even more curious.

"You must be desperate or stupid," he says, not yet accepting the whispers on his skin, not until he knows the favor, "You are no longer a child and are now doing this willingly, or as willing as you can. Tell me your wants, and I will consider."

Damian fully raises from the bow, Ra's doing the same before walking forward to take Phantoms attention. "Your Eternity, I wish to—"

Phantom holds up a hand, "I did not ask you. You'd be a fool to think I'd let you ask me of anything, vermin, regardless of the summoning rules." He turns back to Damian, offering a hand to tell him to continue where he was so rudely cut off.

Damian glares at Ra's as he sulks, but doesn't pay him any mind as he steps forward and meets Phantom's eyes again. "I fight under Lady Gotham's name to protect her and her people from those that would cause harm." Oh, Phantom knows of them. Lady Gotham's Knights, a famous bunch among the ghosts of Gotham, for good reason. "Recently, she has come under attack from a foe that neither my allies nor I can defeat. For giving myself to you, I would ask you to rid of this foe."

Phantom almost laughs. Such a small favor, such a silly thing to ask for a practical god of the underworld. He lets his mouth tilt into a grin, "So the answer is desperate, huh. I do not accept." With an easy motion, Phantom removes the proposal from his skin and with it the binding of the summoning.

Damian seems to lose the composure he's kept such good control of, a deep glare on his face and a growl splitting his lips. Before he can get too angry, Phantom speaks again, "I will help Lady Gotham without the need of your sacrifice. She is one of mine and has claimed you, Little Prince, which makes you mine as well. Now, what am I fighting?"

[chrrific]

綺麗 IT’S A BAD IDEA, RIGHT? 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 & 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎

slytherin! 엔하이픈 x 𝑓. gryffindor! reader wc 2.005k ─── fluff forbidden relationship au est. relationships l’avis kissing pda pining nicknames like ‘doll’ & ‘pretty’

for : love 💌 mick’s coming back from the dead ?? this one’s for my love ai ( @jjennuine ) >< she’s mine y’all !!!! stay away 😾😾 and go support our collaboration series — lovestruck ! — @lovestruck-show-official

read more fleur

LEE HEESEUNG forbidden relationship

“y/n?”

a whisper echoed through the silent astronomy tower, the only source of light being the moon glimmering through the small window and the stars glimmering above, clearly visible through the enchanted ceiling; it wasn’t enough for heeseung’s eyes to adjust to the dark.

you tiptoed out from your hiding place, and gave him a silent wave and a smile. his lips instantly tugged up sat the sight of you, and he stepped forward, arms finding their home on the nape of your waist as he looked at you.

the look in his eyes was lovesick; wistful.

he hoped and dreamed so hard of the day when the two of you wouldn’t have to hide your relationship, and when you wouldnt have to meet in secret at night.

because this wasn’t right. slytherins and gryffindors just didn’t belong together.

the way you looked in the moonlight was breathtaking, so much so that he swears you’d put amortentia in his porridge that morning. but no, he knew you didn’t. that’s just how much he was in love with you.

PARK JONGSEONG hot boy x unnoticed

jay was the it guy of your year. girls would probably fall at his feet even if he didn’t ask them to. and for some, totally random, unknown reason, it made you almost jealous.

you could almost feel your gaze hardening whenever you saw him with another girl; a girl thats not you. I mean, it’s not like you like-liked him, right? he’s just hot. that’s all it should be, and that’s all it can.

but is that really true?

with the way he’s been shamelessly staring you down from the other end of mcgonnagal’s classroom, you’re sure he can hear your heart pounding from where he’s sat, arms crossed against his chest and gaze set on you in a way that made your breath hitch.

your gaze locked with his, the confidence in his eyes almost intoxicating.

you sighed in relief as the bell rang, snapping him out of your little staring competition before he shoved his stuff into his bag and got off his chair, almost lazily.

just as you were about to walk out of the classroom, a hand wrapping around your wrist stopped you from moving ahead.

“what class do you have next, pretty?”

needless to say, you could feel the ghosts of his fingers around your wrist the entire week.

SIM JAEYUN cocky rival

“good morning, class. today, we are going to be making the love potion known as ‘amortentia’. anyone who knows what it is?”

snape’s cold voice rang around the room, the sound monotonous. everyone knew — of course they did, they were just too scared to answer. there were only two people who were willing enough to answer his question; you and jake sim.

“ah, l/n, yes. so tell me, what is amortentia?” snape asked, shooting jake a glance from rhe corner of his eyes, as if to get him to shut up; like he wanted to see you fail, like he thought all gryffindors did.

you cleared your throat, making sure your voice was loud and clear, wanting your stone-minded, biased professor to see you shine. “amortentia is the most powerful love potion, that is characterised by its—”

you were cut off by another voice, that came from behind you.

“the scent. it is multifaceted, with the scent varying with different people”

a slight frown found its home on your lips, annoyed that jake just had to cut you off in between. “yes, professor. it’s scent.” you muttered, giving jake a glare.

“alright, since the two of you seem to know a lot about the topic, you two will be partners for the entirety of this class.”

you almost wanted to combust right then and there, from those words. why him? why not karina, or jungwon — your friends. at this point, you’d even go to the length of partnering with pansy parkinson, the slytherin girl who acts like she owns the world.

after a reluctant sigh, you shifted your things so jake could move next to you.

as you began to make the potion together, you found yourself struggling with one thing, just one; measuring the pearl dust.

it was so iridescent and was flying all over your workstation, creating a sheen layer that shone even in the dimly lit dungeon.

“need some help, doll?”

PARK SUNGHOON shy x tease

the smell of books overtook your senses as you stepped into the large library, overflowing with shelves upon shelves.

the library was surprisingly full today, and from what your eyes could catch, there was only one seat left; a seat next to a slytherin.

he was focused on whatever he was reading, and it was honestly kinda cute to you. you caught yourself staring for a moment before you got yourself out of it, reprimanding yourself inwardly for a second, before you gathered the courage to go talk to him.

“hey,” your voice rang through the somewhat silent library, even though it was relatively soft. “can i sit here?”

his eyes shifted from his book to you, before he gave a small nod.

you put your bag at the bottom of the chair, and sat down on the seat, not paying much heed to the discomfort the hard cushion underneath brought.

you pulled out a thick book on transfiguration out, starting to read it. it wasn’t like you really liked the subject like rei did, but you had to; you were very close to failing.

as you were starting to get into the book, you felt a pair of eyes on you. you glanced up, only to see said boy sitting next to you being the one looking.

he quickly looked away, pale skin undeniably flushed, staring at the table as if it was an art piece in a museum.

you smirked inwardly, before looking back at your book. maybe sitting next to a slytherin wasnt so bad after all.

KIM SUNOO sunshine x grumpy

sunoo; he just had a way with his persona. that is, he knew exactly how to trick anyone into doing absolutely anything for him, without them realising what trap they fell into.

as you tried to take a step into flitwick’s charms lesson, another person entering made you stop. you glanced behind your shoulder to see who it was, and it was sunoo — cheery smiles and all.

“go ahead,” you murmured, stepping back to let him go ahead. you were met with a too bright ‘thank you!’ before you stepped in yourself.

your eyes scanned the room, only to find that your usual seat at the back was taken already, and the last seat remaining was the one next to him. bracing yourself for the cheery sunshine-ball that sunoo was, you took a step to the desk, plopping down on the seat with your facical expression screaming uninterested.

the class began, with sunoo happily answering flitwick’s questions and taking his notes; meanwhile, you sat, barely able to keep yourself awake because of the all-nighter-study-session you did the previous night.

he shot you a glance from rhe corner of his eyes, his bangs getting in the way of his view ever so slightly. without thinking, he picked up a scrap piece of parchment, scrawling something on it in his overly near handwriting.

it was only because of the parchment being cautiously slid to you that you didn’t nod off, but the words were a bit blurry due to lack of sleep as you tried to read. yet, the second you read it, your brain immediately snapped to its senses.

“hey, you look tired. have you been sleeping well?”

YANG JUNGWON prefect x troublemaker

“another time?” his groan of frustration echoed off the walls, his fingers running through his hair. how many more pranks could you pull? well, considering your new attack, the number of times you could go again would be innumerable.

there you stood in front of his desk, slightly sheepish, but your signature smirk was still on — the one that irked him oh, so much.

“you see, your little warnings really won’t do much. in any case, they make me want to do it more.” the confidence in your tone got under his skin, causing him to look up at you with a glare, as firm as he could muster.

you couldn’t help the laugh that slipped your lips at his attempt to look intimidating, and for some odd reason, it made your heart stop slightly.

you paused, cockiness wavering for just a few seconds, before it came back stronger. “you do know that look it just making it easier to laugh at you, right?” you teased through a chortle, but the way your eyes softened a minuscule amount didn’t go unnoticed by jungwon.

and for a second, it all stopped.

the room went silent, the spirit of your laughter dying down until all that was left was a tension filled with unspoken emotion.

it only lasted a couple moments, though, before he locked back in and looked at you again, voice firm but with a hint of something else lingering at the back.

“just.. keep yourself out of trouble for a bit, yeah? you don’t wanna get yourself suspended before the school year ends.”

NISHIMURA RIKI quidditch rivals

the stakes were high, as the first slytherin vs. gryffindor quidditch match was about to begin.

niki — being the slytherin captain, and you, the gryffindor captain — had always had some sort of issue with you simply existing.

he always found ways to talk to you, always teasing and making fun of you until you’d snap and do something about it.

it just annoyed you so much; the ever-cocky smirk, the smugness layering onto his words, and the way his confident aura that made your heart stutter slightly in your chest each time you spared him a glance.

you couldn’t like him: it’s not right. you’re quidditch rivals from two different houses, and that’s all it would ever be.

but the way his gaze would trail towards you during matches, in the great hall, in the middle of classes, it all made you second guess everything you knew about him and how you felt.

the air was filled with a static kind of energy as the two teams hopped onto their broomsticks, shooting upwards into the sky as madam hooch blew her whistle.

the snitch was set free, and both your and niki’s eyes immediately locked for a moment, a hint of challenge and something else lurking beneath.

as the game went on, slytherin was winning by 130 points, and it felt like continuing to play was a lost cause. the only way you could win was if you were able to spot the sneaky little snitch.

it was all so sudden; you saw the snitch and so did he, and both of you dive bombed towards it. the next thing you knew, you were in the hospital wing with a broken arm and a pounding headache.

apparently, you and niki had hit each other in your speed, and you fell off your broom while he caught onto his somehow.

the second your eyes opened, you were met with the sight of two things; an overly bright light above your head and an apologetic niki sitting on the visitors chair next to your bed.

“hey, you feeling okay? i am so sorry about what happened.” the second he noticed you look up, trying to sit up with a disoriented and confused expression, the guilt crept back in even stronger, and he just word-vomited whatever came to mind: to hell with the so called ‘I hate you’ tag.

“o-oh, it’s fine. ill be alright.” you said, trying to ignore the fact that it felt like someone drove a drill through your skull.

yet, the guilt didn’t leave him at all.

in fact, it came back stronger, along with a weird thump in his heart.

it was probably today’s breakfast, right?

PERMANENT TAGLIST ✉️ 𐔌 ﹒ @liya07v @strvvy-anniee @flufflights @eunandonly @hannamoon143 @irasvr @ateez-atiny380 @amoressb @ikeulove @gudkc @mrsjohnnysuh @sol3chu @nerdywitchcrown @sol3chu @puma-riki @xeee334 @suhiiiies-blog @haerinheartss @layzfy @manaah02 @ijustwannareadstuff20 @enoclockz

likes + reblogs are appreciated !!

[sematarygirls]

⠀    ⠀⠀♯┆marshgirl!reader x rafe ⏤ part ii.ㅤ ۪ ୧

ᰋ. ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎“ i witnessed a girl dragged under by the current once; i wanted to help her, but my father pulled me away. he told me there was no justice for drowning girls ,, ‎‎ ‎ ‎ : ‎‎ ‎ ‎IN WHICH . . . a strange boy shows up at the marsh unannounced.   ─── ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆🌾

THE AIR SEEMED different that day. The wind blew harder, swaying the leaves and making an eerie moaning sound that echoed through the marsh, a warning call that you should have picked up on. The air, usually a dusty blue in the evening, was a dark, suffocating grey that weighed down the atmosphere, making everything seem sinister and ghostly.

You were sitting in the window, gathering your dried herbs into bundles to hang around the house and ward off negative energies and bad spirits when the sound of a car approaching caused your ears to perk up. You knew the rattle of your daddy's truck like the back of your hand. This engine purred smoothly, like it was brand new.

A pit settled in your stomach at the realization that someone was in the marsh, someone you didn't know, and while your daddy was out no less. If he came home and saw a stranger, he would assume the worst of you, and you'd be in a heap of trouble.

Your heart thrummed wildly, like the wings of a moth caught in a lantern's glow as your head darted up to look out the window, watching a sleek black truck come into view. It looked expensive, a stark contrast to your daddy's rusty one.

The truck rolled to a stop a few feet from the porch, the sound of the engine cutting off sending a wave of nerves through you. No one ever came out here. No one should be out here.

You were frozen in place, fingers tightening on the bundle of dried herbs in your hand that you had been tying a string around. You watched a boy step out of the truck, glancing around with an uncertain look on his face. He was adorned in a dark blue polo shirt, white shorts, and a backward hat on his head.

Just from looking at him, you could tell he was the kind of boy your daddy had warned you about, the kind that took what he wanted without regard for consequence. The kind that girls like you should run from.

He approached the door, cringing as the porch creaked under his weight. He half thought it was going to give out right underneath his feet, but it stayed somewhat sturdy. He knocked once, surprisingly lightly, as if he thought the door would crumble under his knuckles and then stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking around as he waited.

You hesitated for a moment before slipping off the windowsill and walking on the balls of your feet toward the door as quietly as you could manage. You shouldn't open the door. You knew better than the open it, but still, your hands twitched at your sides, eager to turn the knob and see what he wanted. He looked to be not much older than you were, after all.

You knew you shouldn't, but you longed for conversation that wasn't tense and short like the ones you had with your daddy. You longed to know what it was like behind the marsh, but you also knew that if your daddy found out about that or found this boy standing on your porch, it would get ugly.

The house held its breath as you stood there, hand outstretched just an inch from landing on the knob. The air around you seemed to thicken, pressing against you from all sides, and the wind outside howled, the marsh eager to see what decision you would inevitably make.

To your surprise, you closed the distance and pulled the door open before you could talk yourself out of it. Your eyes widened as you saw the tall boy up close, his head turning at the sound of the door opening. He was handsome, like the boys on the covers of the magazines you saw at the store.

His gaze snapped to yours, sharp and assessing. There was something uncertain in the way he rocked back on his heels, like he was trying to put distance between the two of you.

You didn't say anything at first, only stared, hands still clutching the bundle of herbs, the brittle stems digging into your palm. His presence felt intrusive, unnatural, like a stone tossed into a still pond. You weren’t used to visitors. You weren’t supposed to have them.

“You shouldn't be here,” you murmured, your voice soft, barely above a whisper.

Rafe tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of you. “Yeah?” he said, like he wasn’t convinced. His voice was smooth but edged with something you couldn’t quite place—arrogance, maybe, or curiosity.

You glanced over his shoulder, tilting your own head like a curious puppy as you listened intently for the rumble of your daddy's truck of the quieting of the crickets—any indication that he was coming.

“You need to leave before my daddy gets home,” you said finally, voice even softer now, as if speaking it too loud might summon your father from the trees. “If he sees you…” you trailed off, letting the implication settle between you.

Rafe’s lips pressed together, like he was considering pushing his luck, but something in your expression—your wide, wary eyes, maybe—made him pause. “I just wanted to talk,” he said after a beat. “Didn’t think I’d get the third degree for it.”

You blinked at him, confused. “The third degree?”

His lips quirked up in amusement, glancing behind you into your house, seeing a shelf of herbs, jarred substances, animal bones, moss, stones, and carved sculptures that made his brows furrow. “Uh—Nevermind. Look, I’m not here to cause any trouble. I just…” He hesitated, like the words weren’t quite right, like he was trying to find something that didn’t sound like a lie. “I wanted to see you. I mean, I saw you before—at the grocery store, and I just—I dunno, wanted to meet you.”

A foreign feeling settled in your chest at his words. “I'm not supposed to talk to strangers,” you told him, looking up at him with wide eyes, but still, your feet seemed planted in place like the roots of a tree, keeping you from doing what you knew you should have—shut the door in his face.

“Well, I'm Rafe,” he grinned, that arrogant look he was known for. He reached his hand out for you to shake, but you just cocked your head, looking down at it in confusion, like you didn't know what to do. “What's—uh—What's your name?” He asked, retracting his hand. “So we won't be strangers anymore.”

You froze at that, at the simple question. Names were dangerous things. They weren’t just words. They were identities, parts of yourself that you could never take back once given. You were known as “marsh girl” for a reason. No one knew your real name, and you had always intended to keep it that way. Names were powerful.

The weight of the question hung in the air for awhile, and for some reason, you really wanted to tell him your name. For once, you wanted someone to know you, someone to not be a stranger, but you knew better. “My name's... not important," you finally whispered. “I'm not allowed to talk to people like you.”

“People like me?” He asked, his brows furrowing at how cryptic you were. This was definitely going to be harder than he thought, but he was determined to make it work. He'd made a bet to win, and that's what he was going to do. It would just take a little more effort than he anticipated.

You felt your chest tighten, as if the words were caught between your ribs. Your gaze flickered to the ground, to the bundle of herbs still tightly held in your hands, a small comfort. "People who come from... places where the air is different," you whispered, your voice fragile. The air around you was a comfort to you and a discomfort to him. He didn't understand the ways of the marsh, and that was a dangerous thing.

Rafe stared at you for a long moment, clearly trying to decipher the layers of meaning in your words. “Places where the air is different?” he echoed, sounding like he didn’t understand. Inside, he was trying to keep his composure. You were nuttier than all the Pogues he'd ever met combined, and it drove him crazy that he had no idea what you were talking about

It made all the sense in the world to you, though. Everything about him—his clothes, his demeanor, his shiny car—it all screamed that he was out of place, different, and that kind of thing got you killed in this world. Prey blend into the greenery. They don't stand out.

He came from a place where being loud and assertive was how you survived, how you thrived. He didn't know what it was like to live by the standards of the marsh, to only speak when spoken to. He didn’t know what it was like to keep your head down, your voice soft, and your hands busy, never drawing attention to yourself.

“You have to go now,” you told him firmly, the air seeming to shift in a way that you noticed, as if the marsh was warning you. “Goodbye... Rafe.” You shut the door in his face before he could say more, leaning against it and letting out a shaky breath.

You listened, and for a moment, there was nothing, but then, you heard his footsteps retreat and his car start up. You were relieved that he was leaving, and all you could do was hope that he never came back, not unless you knew your daddy wouldn't be home in time to interupt.

                         ୭ৎ

tags .ᐟ   @lovemesailor / @all4l0vee / @kissesfrmriri / @xoxohoneymoongirl / @bradshawed / @rafeslittleangel / @bakugouswaif / @fakedhearts / @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 / @oatmealisweird / @lanaslushworld / @6r4cie / @corpsebridenightamare / @moustacherryismyhusband / @littlelamy / @vanityvixen / @susanhill / @jjasmiineee / @rafecameronswifeyy / @throughthedakotas

[ceilidho]

you'd been struggling a few weeks before his return. your limbs gelt heavier, your brain filled with cotton and smoke, everything felt duller. he noticed, looking over the card expenses before heading home, the amount of take-out, then a few grocery store runs, probably trying to hide it.

you heard the door unlock and cursed silently at the frozen meal in your hands, the dishes were still manageable, at least, maybe there was still a chance to hide the evidence-

"Hello, love~" came his rumbling voice from behind you as two strong arms wrapped around your waist.

"John!" you squeaked out

"How's about we order in tonight, I think it would be better than....that" he points at the, frankly, sad meal you were about to put in the microwave.

Dinner was quiet, filled with occasional questions on the past few months, answers on both sides remaining vague.

"Have you been keeping up with your tasks, doll?" he finally asks, feigning ignorance to how your hair looks dull, how you've been scratching at your scalp more, the tiredness under your eyes.

Your don't meet his eyes.

He hums over the carrot cake you requested. The flat was maintained, those tasks were followed religiously, but it seemed you fell behind on taking care of the most important thing. You.

"Up you get," he finally orders, startling you.

"It's okay, Jo- Sir," you correct, seeing his face. "You should rest, I'll clean up and-" his hand on your shoulder cuts you off as you're guided to the bathroom.

"Strip."

You obey, hearing the finality of his tone.

He takes his time scrubbing away at your body, lets you do the same to him, enjoying the quiet reverence in your eyes.

Skincare is an equally gentle affair, though he doesn't let you shave him this time, you have to earn it.

He holds your jaw with one big hand, a callused thumb prying your lips apart as he holds your toothbrush. You always struggled to brush your teeth consistently, you tried to at least floss, but you knew that wasn't enough for the man you agreed to have a 24-hour dynamic with. Your mouth opened obediently, you winced a bit as the bristles rubbed over your teeth and gums.

"It wouldn't be so uncomfortable if you did it yourself, doll" he gently chided, his head on top of yours, looking into your anxious eyes through the reflection.

Your responding whimper earning you a rumbling coo of sympathy.

"Spit," he growled. "See? It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"No, Sir"

"Good girl."

idk what this is...i saw your post and then this happened i haven't written anything in months so im not posting anything to my blogs okay bye

THAT'S WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT!!!!!!!!!

[suzukiblu]

welp I remain INCREDIBLY weak to positive reinforcement, haha, so day two of “Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it” behind the cut. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Tim takes the obvious opportunity that Bernard chattering and Kon being a little bit dumbstruck gives him–because like, of fucking course he does, he’s a Bat–and offers Kon the caramel-dipped waffle quarter again, and Kon, like . . . okay, well fucking obviously he’s gonna eat it, Bernard made the damn caramel from scratch and Tim is offering it to him. Like, there is not a world in which he does not eat that. 

He takes a bite, mostly distracted by what Bernard’s going on about with whipped cream and hand mixers and whatever and idly having some related kinky thoughts because, like, in his defense, whipped cream, and then forgets completely about what Bernard’s going on about with . . . whatever Bernard’s going on about. 

“Oh my god what did you put in this,” Kon blurts, half-covering his mouth with a hand before he accidentally spits out any waffle crumbs and staring at Bernard for a moment. Like, the waffle is warm and basically the perfect mix between outside crunch and inside fluff, but also it tastes like–what the fuck is in this, seriously, is there sex pollen in this or something? 

“Oh, it’s actually basically my banana bread recipe, so . . . banana? Like a significant amount of banana, and then some sour cream, and a little cinnamon, brown sugar, and vanilla,” Bernard ticks off, gesturing with a waffle chunk of his own before spooning some whipped cream onto it, because Bernard apparently just made . . . everything on this breakfast tray from scratch, okay. Like . . . yeah. Okay then. “And also there’s some chocolate chips and chopped pecans in there, because like, literally what is not better with chocolate, seriously. Admittedly I don’t actually know how good it is with peaches, haven’t tried that one before, but I figure at least the caramel should be good.” 

Kon stares blankly at the dude and resists the instinctive marriage proposal currently warring with his natural “kept boy” instincts, then takes another bite of waffle when Tim offers it. It keeps tasting, like, fucking delicious, and also now he can break down “fucking delicious” in a little bit more detail than, like . . . just “fucking delicious”, basically. 

. . . will Ma kill him if he asks another cook for their waffle recipe? Is that a thing he might have to worry about? 

. . . . . . could be worth it, honestly. And she might let him live if he shares. 

“Do you, like, cook a lot, or . . . ?” he asks, half-trailing off when Tim feeds him more fucking deliciousness, which is in his defense pretty distracting. Like–Jesus, how did Bernard get an alleged banana bread recipe to make waffles this fluffy? Like, what fucking witchcraft was involved in that one? 

“Constantly and all the time and nowhere near as much as I wanna, so honestly the excuse to make an extra sauce was kinda nice, not gonna lie, it’s very relaxing,” Bernard replies frankly, stacking up some banana slices on his waffle chunk and then making himself a little waffle sandwich to stuff into his mouth effectively whole. The little waffle sandwich is weirdly adorable. Like, to the degree Kon would probably find it adorable even if he weren’t high on pink kryptonite right now, but like, maybe that’s the banana bread waffles’ fault. “Well, actually caramel is low-key the devil because you cannot ever take your eyes off it ever without it burning to shit and ruining your godsdamn pot, but it’s not like I didn’t have time to baby it so it’s whatever. Why, do you cook?” 

“Um . . . naw, just I help, um . . . well, there’s, like–I help bake, a little?” Kon replies hesitantly. Which, like, is mostly just him fetching shit and kneading stuff for Ma so her arthritis doesn’t act up as a dumb little excuse to, like, hang around the kitchen and living room area when she and Pa are talking, sometimes, but . . . technically it counts, he guesses? Like, technically? 

Bernard perks up, like–instantly, and to a really surprising amount, which is a little weird, and Kon isn’t sure what that’s about. 

“Oh, so the most evil culinary art then, wow,” Bernard says, sounding impressed. Which is definitely not what he is actually is, unless Kon has somehow given him a very incorrect impression of his baking skills, but still feels a little flustering to hear in relation to, like, something besides being good in bed. Like, just given the nature of this particular long weekend and all. 

“Uh–what?” Kon asks, trying to figure out what Bernard’s actually talking about here, and Bernard starts making himself another little banana/whipped cream waffle sandwich with an easy little shrug. 

“You know, like how the first rule of cooking is have fun and be yourself and the first rule of baking is stay calm because the dough can smell fear, is what I mean,” he replies reasonably. 

“I mean it’s not that hard, honestly, I can kinda like, just feel when it’s baked enough without having to check, so . . .” Kon shrugs himself, feeling a little awkward about it. Like–it’s kinda cheaty, honestly. “Or like, proofed or whatever.” 

“I hate you, come work at the restaurant I’m gonna open when I’m thirty-two, you can make all our bread in-house,” Bernard says very feelingly, and Kon forgets the awkward feeling to start snickering, because this dude is ridiculous, and still funny as fuck on top of that. 

“I literally just help out, man,” he says. “I am at best the actual baker’s errand boy.” 

“You just told me you can feel when the bread’s risen enough, you bastard, I am gonna press-gang you into this restaurant if I have to,” Bernard retorts huffily, then pauses, looks speculative, and asks: “Does that work on souffle, actually?” 

“I mean, I guess it would?” Kon replies with a frown, tilting his head a little. “Never tried, but–” 

“Hey Tim, I’m press-ganging your boy onto the line, good news, you won’t have to deal with me ranting about how much I hate my pastry chef every morning over coffee when we’re thirty-two,” Bernard informs Tim casually, and Tim’s mouth quirks in amusement and Kon just laughs helplessly again. 

“Oh my god, Bernard, I am the last person you wanna get to make pastry, much less restaurant pastry,” he says, still laughing. 

“I don’t know, your presentation skills would be pretty good, I’d think,” Tim says reasonably, which totally derails Kon’s cracking up. “You’re pretty artistic when you want to be. And definitely creative, and good with your hands on top of that.” 

Kon feels briefly startled–like, startled enough to not even make a sex joke about the “good with your hands” comment–because he like . . . basically never does anything that’d really count as “artistic”, as far as he’s concerned, and he’s really only “creative” in terms of coming up with creative new ways to curbstomp bad guys or whatever, not . . . 

He bites the rest of the waffle quarter out of Tim’s hand, mostly to give himself a second to process all the weird things he’s feeling about Tim saying something like that, and then has some more weird feelings when Tim swipes the pad of his thumb across the corner of his mouth to get up a smudge of caramel and then taps it lightly against Kon’s mouth to like . . . invite or offer, maybe, Kon’s not sure which. 

Though like, obviously he licks it clean either way. 

“Ohhhhh, hey, so how delicate does the TTK get?” Bernard asks, his eyes gleaming. 

“Uh–I mean, borderline atomic-level, depending?” Kon replies, a little bewildered still. “But like, that’s kinda an adrenaline-fueled apocalyptic sitch kinda thing, so mostly just . . . I dunno, tweezers? Mini-screwdriver? Somewhere in there?” 

“Okay, so when every single fine dining establishment in Gotham tries to poach you from me, I need you to remember how much you liked my dick when you were gay and pay that favor back by not accepting their disgusting amounts of money and prestige,” Bernard says, and Kon can’t help laughing again, or feeling, like–kind of warm, again. Like, kind of in the horny way, but also kinda . . . not, maybe. 

Seriously, it’s so weird how much hanging out with Bernard feels like getting a crush on a girl he’s just met. Like–very, very much so. Increasingly so, at this point. 

“I dunno, man, unless your fine dining establishment has a pink K chandelier . . .” he counters teasingly, and Bernard looks straight-up delighted by that idea. 

“Ooo, I bet that lighting would be sick, very romantic ambiance for the customer base,” he says with a grin. “What do you think, I could do my supervillain career in Metropolis and then retire to Gotham with all my ill-gotten gains and invest in a chandelier or twelve. You totally wanna get fucked after-hours on my prep counter under flattering rosy lighting, right?” 

“Come on, man, I look good in any lighting,” Kon scoffs, making a show of preening. “Or on any counter, as a matter of fact.” 

“Valid,” Bernard agrees with a sage nod, and Kon feels an irrational level of heat in his face but grins at him again anyway. Like–whatever, it’s the kryptonite; doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the ride. 

“Yeah, I’m sure the health department would love that, you two,” Tim says wryly, the corner of his mouth ticking up in amusement. 

“Oh my god, Tim, like we wouldn’t clean up after,” Bernard huffs, making a show of rolling his eyes. “Like I don’t know basic food safety standards. But fiiiiine, I’ll put in a special counter just for fucking your boy on when I’m doing the initial remodel, would that make you feel better?” 

“You designing your future professional kitchen with a specific place reserved to have sex with my best friend in it?” Tim asks, tilting his head slightly with a briefly speculative expression. 

“Yes, obviously,” Bernard says. 

“If you made sure the security cameras’d have a good view, I guess,” Tim allows. 

“Why would I need to, look at him, the cameras will be magnetically attracted to him,” Bernard scoffs, and Kon feels sort of–flustered, maybe, and flushed, and kinda–flattered, almost? Just . . . something about that particular sex fantasy is . . . 

Like, it’s just–it's still just a jokey fantasy, yeah, but it's one that sounds like, like . . . like an actual plan would, almost. Like, obviously still just a joke, but . . . he doesn’t know, just a more flattering joke, somehow. Kinda. Also, if he’s really thinking about it . . . well, obviously there’s sex in it, but it’s really less a sex fantasy than it is just, like . . . 

Well. Just . . . a fantasy, he guesses. Like . . . like they’ll all just still know each other in their thirties and know each other well enough to wanna hang out that much and . . . 

Just–yeah. So it’s a little more flattering, kinda. Like, as a fantasy and all. 

It is also making it real fuckin’ hard to concentrate on breakfast, under the circumstances. 

Tim offers him another slice of peach, and Kon bites his lip and glances up at his face again. 

“Rob, man, yours is gonna get cold,” he points out. 

“Really not worried about it,” Tim says, which is sort of hard to argue with, but like . . . 

“But–” Kon starts reflexively, and Tim taps the peach slice against his lower lip. 

“Eat your breakfast like a good boy, and I'll give you something good while I eat mine,” he says, and Kon’s brain fritzes out completely and his gut goes absolutely molten. “Open up.” 

Kon doesn’t even take a moment to actually say anything or even nod, just immediately opens his mouth. 

Tim smiles down at him soft enough to really fry his brain and sets the peach slice on his tongue. There’s some caramel sauce on it, and Kon flashes back to Tim doing the same thing to him with the candy with his own damn come on it and kind of, like, spontaneously combusts or explodes into a supernova or just melts down into caramel himself. 

Tim taps his mouth shut with two fingers under his jaw, and Kon just about fucking swoons over it. 

So–yeah, he is definitely not gonna be arguing about the temperature of anybody’s breakfast right now.

[elene78-blog]

Jean in Palmetto

I think Jean will visit Palmetto in the next book, maybe over winter break. It will be a short visit where he will officially close his chapter with Renee and indirectly help Neil with the rookie Foxes who are stirring.

I imagine Jean saying calmly:

"Why do you allow this, (insert Jean-esque insult to Neil here)? When you got here you took down the first Fox that gave you trouble before the season started. Are you becoming a softie?"

This in front of the newbies who, logically, think that Neil killed Seth immediately and suddenly remember that Neil is the Butcher's son. Neil humors Jean and the problems with the newbies are over. Simple, fast and effective.

And then comes the real reason for Jean's visit.

"I need a favor," he will say to Neil, who will raise an eyebrow curiously. "The Wilshires. I need to know all the dirt under their fingernails."

"Are they putting you in danger?" Neil will ask. Jean won't answer, but Andrew will be there.

"Knox" Andrew will say.

"You're like an old gossip," Jean will tell Andrew.

"Are you going to try to hit the Wilshires?" Kevin will ask, absolutely shocked by this decision. "You're not serious. They are powerful politicians."

"They're hurting Jeremy." Jean will say for all explanation.

"Jeremy can take care of that. He's done it all this time. You're not going to do anything about it because it can quickly turn against you. Let Jeremy..."

"No," Jean will settle. Kevin's eyes will open wide. "Can you get me the information, or not?"

"Jean..." Kevin will say, a little angry.

"I'll send it to you in a few days," Neil will say, fueling Kevin's anger.

"You're not going to do anything with it, no matter what I send you. You can't..."

Jean will cut Kevin off abruptly.

"I'll do whatever I want, Kevin. You can't stop me."

"I can." Kevin will say with complete confidence.

"No. Not anymore." Jean will say, and ignore Kevin. Kevin will remain silent, analyzing this unexpected turn of events.

When Jean leaves Palmetto a while later, Kevin will escort him to the airport with Andrew close behind. Before leaving, he will tell Jean.

"I should have known that Jeremy fixation would come back to kick our asses. He ruined you once, Jean. You shouldn't feed him." Kevin will tell you. Jean will stare at him once more.

"It wasn't him. It was you." Jean will admit. Kevin won't be sure what Jean means, although Andrew, who has accompanied them to the airport, will know right away. Jean will analyze Kevin's expressions carefully. He will smile sincerely because, although he knows what made is fall in love with Kevin in The Nest, he doesn't see it now. Kevin is no longer that Kevin... Or Jean is no longer that Jean. "But not anymore. Never again."

Jean will leave feeling great satisfaction in the pit of his stomach.

"We'll see you in the final."

And Kevin will have no doubts about it.

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Night Time Shenanigans

More reader Hunter fics, I rly love this char I'm putting together, getting their powers down and the dynamic they have with Bucky.

Summary: You have a nightmare about your past and Bucky cheers you up in his own way.

You can't remember when you first obtained this power. You only remember the headache that came about after using it, the way your vision spun as you struggled to stand upright.

"Show no weakness." Your mentor's voice echoes and you squeeze your eyes shut, taking a deep breath before opening them again. You did it. The room no longer swims and the dog lays dead at your feet. Your fingers still tightly curl around the pistol in your hand, its muzzle warm to the touch.

"Well done." The shimmering golden afterimages fade as you turn to face the source of the voice. Your mentor places a hand on your shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Perfect, as always. You will master this power far quicker than expected."

Your chest tightens at his praise but still you force out gratitude. You are the perfect creation of Hydra, perfection is in your veins and you cannot fall below that bar. You walk stiffly to the exit, guided by your mentor's hand and don't look back at the body of the dog who was once your pet.

"Have no weaknesses." Every bond is made to be cut when the time comes, be the one to cut it and never hesitate, or it may just be your downfall. So you cut them all, pulling the trigger again and again and again until you're surrounded by corpses, the floor flooded crimson. You remember each and every one of them, the way the muzzle of your gun pressed against their warm flesh, the look in their eyes as they saw Death itself in the form of a young teenage boy.

Your mentor smiles at you, blood trickling from the corners of his lips, a bullet embedded in his heart and suddenly you're aware of the cold metal in your palm. You know this feeling inside out, a pistol sits comfortably in your hand, its muzzle resting against the spot where you know the human heart sits beneath. Your chest starts to tighten, heart pounding in your ears and your lungs forget how to breathe.

"The Hunter has finally arisen." His lips move even though his eyes have glossed over with death. "All hail the Hunter who will vanquish all of Hydra's enemies. All hail Death."

You wake up with a gasp, fingers clutching the sheets tightly. Cold sweat clings to your skin, goosebumps crawling up your arms and all you can hear is the roar of blood. Your powers kick in but no golden afterimages appear and you exhale slowly. No moving objects in sight.

Sliding out of bed, you steady yourself with the help of the nearby wall, focusing on your breathing. You're in a safehouse, away from Hydra, away from the Hunter. Your past is behind you now, but it always lurks in the far corners, waiting for its chance to pounce.

You make your way to the kitchen, pushing your damp locks out of your eyes. You hate the feeling of cold sweat, it only makes the night chillier. Your hair stands on its end, doing what it can to protect you from the cold but it can't protect you from the chill in your heart.

Downing a glass of water, you open the fridge, wincing as the fridge's bright lights blind you. Frowning, you scour every shelf for the bottle of beer you swear was inside some hours ago. Your memory wasn't that bad, the bottle had been sitting in the top left shelf, all the way at the front but now it's gone. There should be no one —

Your fingers curl around the closest object in the fridge, and you whirl around, powers activating. Golden afterimages appear, but they remain in the same spot, unmoving. You freeze, deactivating your powers when you realise who it is.

"Was going to kill you." You grunt, turning to put the item back in the fridge.

"With a stick of butter?" You hear a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Bet?" You can't help but grin. Something about the man who was once the Winter Soldier stirs the competitive flame within you. He laughs, the melodious sound filling the quiet night and you smile.

"Bet." He walks over to you and places something on the table. Glass. "Maybe this will give you more reason to try."

"Hmm?" You turn around, raising an eyebrow at him. Then you realise what's on the table.

"You —! That was mine!"

"Not anymore."

You don't know why you actually chose the stick of butter as your weapon against the Winter Soldier of all people but you jam the light yellow stick into his face, forcing him to stumble backwards blindly. Your powers kick in out of instinct and you aim your punch at the first golden afterimage's face, feeling it connect with flesh moments later.

Bucky grunts, aiming a right hook the moment he sees your eyes turn back to its normal colour and you barely dodge the blow, feeling his knuckles scrape across your cheek. He anticipates that dodge, having sparred with you countless times and aims at your legs but you've had enough time to recover and your eyes turn yellow again, allowing you to barely get out of the way.

He scowls, throwing his whole weight behind his next punch but it's a feint and he waits a little longer before carrying out his true intentions, grinning when his fist connects with its target — your jaw. You snarl in response, tackling him to the ground but he easily flips you over. You bare your teeth at him, slamming your head into his nose and hear a crack. The broken nose doesn't stop Bucky from landing one more punch on your cheek and you know a bruise will form there later.

Rolling out from under him, you activate your powers, eyes glowing yellow. Blocking the attack you saw coming in the golden afterimages, you ram your shoulder into him and grunt when you collide with a metal arm instead. Your fingers curl around his flesh wrist and pull hard, sending him crashing to the floor but he locks his metal arm around your waist and pulls you down with him.

The two of you struggle, you snarling as you try to elbow him while he dodges your attempts, using his metal arm to keep you in place until you finally give up, exhausted and tap out.

"Feeling better?" Blood streams from his broken nose and stains your shirt.

"Yeah," you pant, lying on top of him. "I would be sorry about your nose but you did punch me in the jaw with your metal arm."

"I don't think that's fair. You're not bleeding." He lets out a disgruntled noise.

"Should have hit me harder then." You refuse to budge as he tries to shove you off him.

"Let me give it another shot." He huffs, poking you in the ribs until you finally roll off him.

"As if I'd give you a free shot at me." You push yourself to your feet, offering him a hand. He grabs it, pulling himself up and heads towards the sink to wash the blood off.

"Then you owe me dessert." He opens the freezer, grabbing a couple of ice packs and sets them on the table that has somehow come out of your little sparring session unscathed.

"I let you drink my beer." You hold one of the packs to your aching jaw, flipping him off with your free hand.

"Didn't we fight because I drank your beer in the first place?" He winces as the ice pack touches his tender nose, but still finds enough spite to flip you back.

"And I let you live."

"I'm supposed to thank you for that?"

"Maybe." The two of you sit in silence after that, nursing your wounds. You glance at Bucky and he raises an eyebrow, lips quirked in amusement. You silently swear at him and look away with a huff, which makes him chuckle softly.

"I would suggest going to the 24 hour convenience store nearby to pick up more beer but I don't think they'd appreciate us showing up in this state." The corners of his ice blue eyes crinkle as he smiles at you fondly.

"I blame you."

"Takes two hands to clap, cupcake."

You growl at the pet name but you both know it's an empty threat. Neither of you ever intend to hurt the other, knowing when to pull your punches but every sparring session always ends in multiple bruises. There's never any animosity after the fights, just a quiet acknowledgment of the other's skill and it's as if nothing had ever happened.

"Call me that again and I'll make sure you choke on one."

"Oh? I wouldn't mind cho —" You quickly slap your hands over his mouth, cheeks burning in embarrassment.

"Shut it!"

You feel his lips curve into a wide grin and dig your knee deeper into his thigh. He laughs, the sound muffled by your hands and places a hand on your wrist, pulling your hand away before yanking you towards him, causing you to crash into his chest.

"I also wouldn't mind you kissing my nose better." He grins cheekily at you, pressing a quick peck to your forehead. "I can kiss your jaw better in exchange."

"No." You curl against his chest, resting your head on his shoulder. "Not happening, not after you drank my beer."

"I'll buy you two bottles tomorrow."

"Four."

"That's asking a lot, handsome."

"You need to pay me back for the butter too." You let out a huff of annoyance.

"The stick of butter you shoved into my face? I might a hundred years old but my memory is as good as ever, you can't gaslight me that easily." He gives your cheeks a poke, amusement lighting up his eyes. "You should be the one paying for the butter."

"Dammit," you mutter. "Fine, three bottles, nothing less."

"Two and a half."

"Half?"

"Means I drink half a bottle too, idiot." He flicks you on the forehead.

"Fineeee." You groan, flopping onto him.

"Thanks for being kind enough to share, cupcake."

"I'll end you!"

Bucky laughs, the sound ringing in the stillness of the night as he pushes away your punches, fingers lingering on your hands for longer than necessary.

"Love you too, sweet pea."

"That's it you're dead!"

[owiil]

Sterek prompt:

Phonecall where one of them accidentally falls asleep

I'm so sorry that this took so long! 😥 I got hit by inspo for my current WIP and kind of, flitted over to focus on that for awhile. Also... uh... my initial thought for this prompt was so cute and fuzzy. Like, Stiles at college, Sterek night time phone calls, Stiles exhausted while studying, adorableness. And then I wrote this:

"Where are you?”

Stiles sighed, feeling woozy and dizzy and a bit like he was both floating and very, awfully heavy at the same time. His teeth were numb and his cheeks felt hot while the rest of him felt rather cold and he was really, just, kind of holding on to Derek’s voice because it was the only thing that seemed really real.

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“Where are you?”

Oh. Right. Location. Location.

His eyes slid across the world like molasses. “An alley. Between two dumpsters. One’s green and the other is white.” He snorted. “The white one has a recycle logo on it. In what world is the white one the recycle? It’s always green. It’s supposed to be the green one. For nature.”

“Stiles.” There was an edge to Derek’s voice, sharp and hard enough to cut through Stiles’ indignation about the recycle dumpster being the wrong color and bring him back to the conversation. “An alley where?”

With a hum, he leaned forward. Grunted at the tearing sensation in his gut. Leaned a bit more until he was panting ragged breaths but could finally see past the dumpsters. “Can’t see a street sign. No people.” Until and unless Trent, or whatever his actual name was, unless it was Trent, which—ugh, Trent—managed to track him down.

“Anything that’s not a street sign? Anything?”

“Orange and yellow neon across the street.” He squinted his eyes, found it didn’t help clear his vision, and finally had to lean back because the pain his stomach had grown too much, also, he was loosing strength in his arm, could tell from the way he felt a wash of wet warmth down his front, soak into his pants. “Maybe a palm.” He panted a ragged breath. “Palm reader? Why does it matter anyway? Use your nose.”

“We’re still recovering from the grenade yesterday.”

Or what Stiles had called a grenade. It had been a magical explosive, not a literal one. Good for Stiles. Less good for the wolves who could barely get into a beta shift and whose senses were cut down to a pittance of what they normally were at.

“Right.” Shit. “Maybe I should call 9-1-1 instead.”

“What.” Not even a question, just a straight up demand.

Stiles’ eyes rolled in a very slow circle before landing on himself and immediately darting away with a haste he hadn’t managed to achieve up to that point. “I am bleeding,” he said, strained and a little nauseated, “a lot.”

“What?” A question that time, snappish.

“I— Did I not—?” His tongue darted out to wet his lips only to be as dry as them and he frowned. “I may have gotten stabbed. Sorry I didn’t mention that.”

“Shit.”

“’s okay. I’m positive I’ve been worse off before.” He thought. Was pretty sure. He took a deep breath, winced, and let his too heavy head thump back against the concrete wall behind him. “I could try that teleportation spell, probably. It’s blood magic. I definitely have enough of it.”

“You are not trying teleportation magic for the first time while you are…” Derek snarled.

Stiles’ lips twitched into a small, amused smile. Always leave it to Derek to be skittish and nervous around new magics. It was kind of hilarious. Stiles didn’t tease him about it nearly as much as he needed to. “Alright.” He took another breath and shivered. “Alright.” God his phone weighed a ton. Pulling it away from his ear he put it on speaker, though between the blood and his jittery fingers and the trouble he was having with his vision it took a few tries. When he did, Derek’s voice came through, mid sentence.

“—e Black Rose?”

“Where I started?” Stiles asked back, letting his hand and the phone drop to his side. “Yeah.”

“In the back alley.”

“He was such a good kisser before he stabbed me…”

A beat of silence and Stiles thought maybe he’d fallen asleep for a moment or the line cut out because Derek wasn’t one to takes beats of silence on phone calls, not unless he really had the time, then he was very much a beat of silence kind of person. Too many beats of silences.

“Did you…” A beat.

Weird.

“Did you take your shirt off?”

“Yeah, the make out was great before the knife showed up. Aside from being a psycho witch, his heavy petting game is really top notch.” Lids terribly heavy, Stiles let his eyes slide shut. Besides, the sound of Derek’s voice seemed to be dulling the— “Oh.”

“What?”

“Think I’m gonna pass out soon.”

“No.”

Stiles tried to open his eyes. It was a genuine fight. “I’m cold,” he said, taking another laborious breath. “And the pain’s starting to dull a bit. So, you know, you might want to call an ambulance.”

“Stiles,” was the last thing he heard before his eyes rolled up and he slumped over, sliding limply along the concrete wall into the pile of garbage bags to his left.

⟪more of my tumblr fics here⟫

[asterkatt]

ISAT ACT 5 SPOILERS!!

okay I said I was going to give more thoughts on act 5 of ISAT and then uh. I didn't. oopsies. but we're here now!!

I loved Odile's friendquest in this act SO much. one of my favorite things about the way the game handled Siffrin's actions throughout the entirety of act 5 in general is that everyone's reactions to him were so DIFFERENT. but not only were they different, they had reasons for being different. it wasn't just "Siffrin says something messed up, hurts someone's feelings, pushes it down, rinse and repeat". each "breakdown" was specifically tailored to be character specific. to fit in with how they've behaved in the story thus far, as well as how Siffrin feels about them/tends to respond to them in particular. with Mirabelle, it really was entirely accidental. Siffrin didn't even realize how their wording might come across in the moment. It wasn't him lashing out in any way - just him genuinely trying to cut corners. Odile?? Odile's was very different. it's easy to see that there's a lot of tension between Siffrin and Odile - more tension than there is with anyone else. Odile has been a thorn in Sif's side - constantly observing and watching and theorizing about why they're behaving strangely. I did the sus quest. Sif knows that she has the ability to figure it out. Consequently, they have to be way more aware of her than anyone else. (side note that's not entirely relevant to this but I want to bring it up - the fact Siffrin believes that her constant eye on him is because "she doesn't trust you" makes me sick. because that's not it at all. they might pretend it is. hell, she might act like it is. but it's not and she knows that. she knows it's because she's worried because she cares and Siffrin can't understand that.) so I feel like they took the "mistake" of messing up with Odile harder than they took any of the other interactions. because how could they be so stupid. how could they forget. how could he forget that she always figures it out.

so of course he lashes out. not only are they being faced with the same blinding mistake they've made over and over and over again, it's also a reminder that she doesn't trust him. (and why should she?).

and then she goes and makes it all worse by calling him a "friend". because they know that's not how she sees them. he believes that she doesn't trust him. so it must seem like she's directly lying to his face - and she thinks they're too dense to see through it.

I love that Odile doesn't back down. she doesn't shy away when they start yelling at her. she doesn't let it slide just because she made them upset (Isa and Mira both probably would - though Isa would try and get them to talk about it later). she pushes, because that's the only way she's going to get any answers.

the way you can feel her anger when Siffrin hits her where it hurts the most (without even seeing her face) is just AUHGSKJDHFKJSH. the writing of this game. the details. never cease to amaze me. I love the way she snaps back. she doesn't get angry, she doesn't yell - and yet somehow it hurts just as badly.

I also love the way Siffrin reflects on it - the way they acknowledge that "she was only worried about you!!!" because deep down he knows that their friends do actually care about him. the way Odile handles the situation afterwards as well - at the clocktower?????? I love that you can tell she's trying so hard to make the "right" choice to not endanger them when it's not what she wants. she doesn't want to leave Siffrin behind. If they weren't going to take on the King the next day, I guarantee you she'd be using anything in her power to figure out what was going on with him. I don't have the exact quote rn but at the end of the sus questline she mentions that she can't let something go when she finds it odd - and this is BEYOND odd. but she has to put the safety of the whole group and their mission first, and I love seeing that side of her.

[81pastrys]

The Mafia’s Princess

Summary— She returns to an old business partner after he put her in her place; when the club she’s sent to has hot men lingering around, she stays a bit longer than expected.

Warnings— handsy and flirty Lando; Demanding Carlos for a second.

A/N— This one gets dark later on fyi and spicy asf.

Series: Part 1 / ?

“I want my money delivered this time, princess. Is that understood?” The normal-looking businessman said as I looked in the duffel bag of cash. I look at him and agree. I cross my arms and hold my ground as my bodyguards don’t bat an eye.

“Understood, what’s my cut this time?” I question. He has gotten me in trouble countless times, in which I’ve ended up in jail cells. My cut is usually large, but I haven't been given one since I’ve been caught quite a lot recently.

“Let’s start by finishing the task at hand, princess.” He sneers at me, flicking his cigar ashes into a custom tray. I roll my eyes and grab the bag of cash, heading out. We get to the back of his club, and I throw it in my backup car. My primary vehicle got impounded the last time I did his business. I roll my eyes at the thought.

“Try not to get caught this time, princess.” One of my burly security guards whispered after opening my door for me. I give him a sly smile.

“No promises.” He shuts the door, and I set off to the back roads of Monaco. The CarPlay was silent as I followed the directions. There was a straight down one of the last turns, and I couldn’t resist speeding up in my Porsche. I take the final turn, drifting to my destination and turning the car off. I don’t wait for my bodyguards to show, although I should.

I step out of the low car and grab the bag. I knock on the door and flirt my way in. It’s a newer destination he’s never sent me to. The party was insane on the inside, yet my attention was averted to the VIP section. I can usually get my way in and have little to no distractions, but something in the Monaco air lately has caused hot men to appear everywhere.

“Name?” The second bouncer of the night had asked me. I look at him with ‘fuck me’ eyes and state that they call me princess, and he lets me through. I see the hot men and keep focused on the door ahead I’m meant to make it to.

“Princess!” I heard exclaimed as the door opened. I turn to look behind me and then back at the businessman in front of me, confused. “I finally get to meet you.” His husky voice was soothing and distracting.

“Tell him I want my cut,” I say, gaining my confidence back, realizing my bodyguards still haven’t made it yet. I’m alone with a mafia member. These never end well. “How do you know who I am?”

“Well, he told me so much about how pretty you were, and I’ve noticed he doesn’t lie.” The man said, grabbing the bag from my feet. He stands up straight and is face to face-with me. “Such a pretty thing you are.” He whispered.

“What even is this place?” I ask as he walks to his minions and tells them to count. He sits next to some hookers off the streets. He sips his champagne and smiles at me.

“A club princess.” A hooker gave me a look of disgust as he spat out my street name. “Is it not where you usually deliver?” His face contorted into a mocking confusion. Adding a light scoff at the comment.

“I’ve delivered to clubs before, just not this one,” I admit. My arms cross again as his minions give him the green light that everything is there. My bodyguards enter the room, and his demeanor changes. “I want my cut,” I remarked before returning to the club's central area.

The VIP area had the best-looking men, and I decided I deserved a bit of fun for the night. My bodyguards agreed to stand to the side. I find my place and dance freely among the men. I felt hands on my hips and leaned into the man. “New face.” He grumbled in my ear. I turn around and meet his icy blue eyes.

“New to the area.” I flirt. He smiles at me, and I chuckle. His shirt was partially undone, showing his toned chest. He looked like money, not that I needed much after this job, but it wouldn’t kill me.

“Care for a drink, pretty girl?” He asked. I smile, and he leads me to the bar. He ordered a mixed drink, and I watched the bartender make it for me. “So, where are you from?” He asked.

“Depends on who’s asking, pretty boy.” I mock the nickname he gave me. I laugh and take a sip of the drink he bought me. He sips his drink, and we sit at a round booth with other men and a few girls. Like a puzzle, the girls looked like they belonged to who they were paired with. Some having a faint familiarity to them.

“Who’s this Lando?” One of the men teased their friend. His name sounded familiar. Was it from a movie or something? I may have heard wrong. His arm found comfort behind my shoulders as he answered.

“I found her on the dance floor.” He responded. They introduce themselves, and I do the same. I won’t reveal my last name for fear they know my father. “What brings you to Monaco, pretty girl?”

“Business, what about you?” I say seductively to the man, who now smiles at me. The other guys look over as if I’ve touched a sore spot on the man.

“Business as well.” He hid the honest answer. An idiot could see he was lying. Not to mention, his friends all smirked, and some let out chuckles. He smiled at them as if he had gotten away with the lie.

“Mmm, try again,” I say. He looks at me confused and then back to his friends, who urge him to try again as I demand. “Not a good start, pretty boy.” I tease.

“What?” He looked to his friends as they chuckled more that he got caught in a lie. “Well, we are on business, are we not?” He tried to defend. I pat his thigh and stand up.

“No, no, he’s right.” A tanned man said across from me. He introduced himself as Carlos earlier. His Spanish accent threw me for a loop as he continued. “Sit down, and we can tell you the truth.” I examine his face, and he’s serious. I don’t usually obey demands from men I’ve just met, but his tone made me sit back down. My body guards are one signal away.

“Formula One.” A native of the area spoke as he walked up. “Princess.” He smiled at me, and I sank into the seat next to Lando. I sip my drink and get up again. “Sit.” He demanded I sit back down without hesitation.

“You know each other?” Lando asked. Charles and I grew up together. He went for the easy way out of the business, but when business calls, and your son decided to drive a fast car; daddy picks the next best thing, his son's teenage girlfriend.

“Well, what’s my nickname?” Charles asked with a smile on his face. The guys snap their heads at me, and my cheeks heat up. “She used to be my princess.”

Not really an AU considering they still race buuuttt backstory for some is a bit AU.

[fake-mouthstatic]

road trip

@bucktommyfluffebruary, day 21. rated G.

💕

They set off early, leaving the hustle and bustle of the city behind them as Tommy takes them north, away from the world for a few days.

"I still can't believe you have a cabin," Buck says as he looks again at the pictures Tommy had sent him. "That's so cool."

Tommy grins.

"It's just a cabin," he says, throwing a fondly amused glance at him before turning back to the road. "And an old one at that."

"It's on a lake, though," Buck enthuses, scrolling to his favourite picture, one of the sun setting across the mirror like surface of said lake. "That's like a romcom moment waiting to happen."

Tommy laughs and Buck's gaze is drawn as always to the way his eyes scrunch when he really laughs, beautiful and completely unself-conscious.

"Or a horror movie," he says, sliding a hand across the seat and onto Buck's thigh. "Old cabin in the woods by a lake, no one around for miles…"

read the rest under the cut or on ao3 // other days here

It's Buck's turn to laugh then, placing his own hand atop Tommy's.

"It's alright, I've got a big burly boyfriend to protect me from crazed knife-wielders."

That leads to a discussion about which horror movies Buck has actually seen - an appallingly low number if Tommy's dazed expression is anything to go by - taking them all the way to their first planned rest stop.

Buck goes to buy snacks while Tommy uses the bathroom, scouring the aisles for anything that sounds disgusting; buying terrible snacks had become a movie night tradition of theirs and Buck feels it should become a road trip tradition too.

Tommy eyes him suspiciously as he climbs back into the car with a bagful of questionably flavoured snacks, a giddy grin on his face.

"Look at these!" he says, pulling out a pack of cookies and waving them at him.

Tommy frowns.

"What on earth are they?"

"Habanero cookies." Buck grins. "Don't they sound disgusting?"

"Sure do," Tommy grimaces, pulling another packet from the bag. "Fruit punch Oreos?"

"Yep!"

"I think you might have outdone yourself this time, babe."

"Wait until you see the Pringles I bought," Buck says, waving the tube at him excitedly as Tommy puts the Oreos back and starts up the engine again. "Pecan pie. Freaking pecan pie flavour chips."

Tommy gives him a long look, eyebrows knit in a frown as he stares.

"Yeah, you couldn't pay me to eat those."

"What about cappuccino flavour?" Buck asks him, laughing at the expression of absolute bewilderment on Tommy's face.

"Maybe we should start shopping at gas stations for all our movie night snacks."

It's silly but things like this are why Buck just loves Tommy so damn much; life is too short to be serious all the time and more than just indulging Buck and his silly whims, Tommy gets involved too.

Buck grimaces as he bites into a habanero cookies.

"You might change your mind once you've tasted them," he says as Tommy pulls back onto the road, laughing.

[sturniolo04]

Hey I was wondering if u could write a dad chris fic and his daughter is like 15-16 and showing signs of pregnancy so he asks her some questions what she lied about as she didn't want him to know so he stopped thinking she was pregnant but she had already took a test and hid it in the bin but he found it and asked his wife if it hers and it wasnt

Wife!girlmom!reader x husband!girldad!chris

A/n: ofc! I absolutely love these requests I have coming in, you guys are amazing!I hope you love it! And remember to leave requests in my inbox! If you don’t like the pre added name in my works you can simply put in your own or don’t read it, it up to you :)-Charli

Dividers: @issysh3ll and @mintsturniolo

You and Chris loved your little family. It was you, him and your now 16 year old daughter Layla. Chris was never fond of the thought that his daughter was finally in what seemed like a commuted relationship with the boy who asked her out to hocoming her sophomore year of high school but nevertheless, they were cute together you thought. You also knew it was a matter of time they started exploring the world of the birds and the bees and you two thought you were ready when that time comes.

“No no no”

Layla quietly whispers to herself standing in her parents bathroom behind a locked door with a positive pregnancy test in her shaking hands. She knew her dad was going to kill her if her found out. She lets out a startled jump as she hears a loud knock on the door.

“Hey lay are you okay”

Chris voice cuts through the loud voices playing in Layla’s head at the moment.

“Y-yeah”

She chokes out quickly throwing the test in the trashcan next her sink counter and unlocking the door.

You two should have known something was up and Layla should have known that should wouldn’t be able to get this one over her parents for long because the symptoms were bound to show at some point and today was that day and she just hoped they wouldn’t catch on.

“Do you want something to eat for lunch”

Chris asks her as she simply nods her head sitting next to you at the island counter as he began to cook what he thought was her favorite dish, spaghetti. As soon as she took the first bite of the dish it tasted different, the pasta sauce and the noodles together were leaving a bad taste in her mouth and system. It was the symptoms finally coming to the surface.

“Is it good’

You ask your daughter as she begins to place a quick hand over her mouth running to the bathroom.

“I guess not”

You confusedly state looking at Chris with a concern expression painted on his face.

“Was it not cooked all the way I wonder”

Chris questions out heading to the bathroom door placing his ear to it hearing the audible sounds of throwing up. It was weird she had been acting weird up until now though the throwing up every morning, the morning sickness, and the weird hours she would have a snack and what she would even snack on raised a red flag towards Chris but he shook it off up until this point because it might be a phase or something never once thinking or anything worse.

“She is throwing up but she has been acting lately hasn’t she though have you noticed”

Chris states coming back into the kitchen sitting down next to you placing a soft hand in your bare thigh.

“I mean I noticed it A little bit”

You unsurely reply out replaying every interaction or situation where she noticed something out of character for your guys daughter.

“Something’s got to be wrong’

Chris quietly whispers out to you as you nod your head in agreement as Layla finally comes out of the bathroom entering the kitchen once again.

“ you okay lay”

You ask her simply as she nods her head walking over to sit on the couch in the living room across the way.

It wasn’t until layla was at school and you were out getting groceries for the household that Chris finally found it. He just so happened to be bagging up and taking out the trash to get picked up that he noticed a pregnancy test a positive one at that.

“When did she start taking those again is she really”

Chris mumbles out to himself picking it out of the can in your guys room taking note of the intersecting lines knowing it was a positive test but how long has she known and not told him. Why would she not tell him especially after her getting pregnant with Layla 16 years ago seeing how he reacted to the news.

“ Chris?”

You questioning greet him as you entered the room just getting back from the store. He slowly turns around to face you holding up the test your face morphs into pure confusion.

‘How long have you known”

Chris states slowly scanning you face for your very readable emotions.

“Known what Chris that’s not mine”

You reject coming over to examine the test seeing also that is was a positive test.

“Well whose else’s would it be sweetheart and it was in our bathroom trashcan as well so why wouldn’t I think it would belong to you”

Chris explains as you look up at him thinking about whose or the test could have gotten there. Then it hit it you.

“ wasn’t Layla in our bathroom a week or two ago”

You ask as you squint deep in thought.

“Yeah you don’t think-“

Chris states trailing off

“I don’t know maybe that’s the only thing that makes sense I mean it would explain a lot we noticed she was acting off maybe this is why”

You huff out take a seat on the bed as Chris does the same sitting next to you.

“ so she lied to us about it remember I asked if that was even a reason for her behavior’

Chris quietly whispers out and he did ask Layla if that was a factor.

“Sweetie it has been a week of you throwing up in the morning at the same hour and the only way you would be doing this is if you were pregnant”

Chris simple states out seeing he found Layla in your guys bathroom leaning over the open toilet holding her hair back for her. layla becomes nervous he was going to know and she was going to just tell him willingly either.

“Are you pregnant”

Chris flat out asks her seemingly already disappointed if the answers was yes so she lied.

“What dad gross”

Layla nervously replies standing up from kneeling in front of the toliet.

“I’m serious lay when was your last period”

Chris asks genuinely concerned. Layla stops in her tracks trying to think of a quick excuse or even a date to get him off her back for the time being.

“ dad it started today I get sick the first day always when it is that time”

Layla confidently states out as Chris face morphs into relief.

“Oh okay I’m sorry sweetie then you are in so much pain”

Chris states hugging her gently.

Layla finally came home for school to be met with you and Chris sitting on the couch the positive sitting on the coffee table in front of you two.

“Mom dad I can explain”

Layla starts noticing the test sitting on the table first.

“Well”

Chris states.

“I was sacred I didn’t know what to do I didn’t think I would get pregnant after everything-“

She trails off sobbing as your face softens towards your daughter.

“I didn’t want you guys to be mad at me”

She sobs out honestly as you and Chris come up to her console her bring her into a hug.

“It’s okay we will get through this”

You state as you continue to combing your fingers through her hair lovingly.

“Together”

Chris adds on as she continues to sob out into her parents chests.

Taglist

@mintsturniolo @spicymuffins03 @ivysturnss @emely9274 @ksturnz @stayingstromboli @wh0resstuff @chaoswithus @courta13

[whimsicalpolitical]

what about girlie who isnt in a good realtionship goes to ross after a fight and ross just takes care of her

you‘re standing in front of ross’s flat, your breath unsteady, your eyes burning from the tears you swore you wouldn’t shed.

your fingers shake as they curl into fists inside the sleeves of your hoodie, the one you grabbed in a hurry when you stormed out of your apartment. the hoodie still smells like him—faint cologne and something inherently his—and it makes your stomach churn. you should’ve left it behind. should’ve stopped letting yourself get wrapped up in him, in the cycle of apologies and venom, in the fights that end with doors slamming and words that cut deeper than they should.

your mind replays it all like a broken record. the yelling, his face twisted in something halfway between anger and indifference. the way he scoffed at your tears like they were an inconvenience.

"you're so fucking dramatic."

"maybe if you weren’t so fucking insecure, we wouldn’t be here again."

"you’re lucky i even put up with this."

and then, like always, he left. walked out first this time, leaving you standing in the middle of your own living room, heart in your throat, hands trembling. you hate yourself for how quickly you followed—grabbing keys, slipping on old sneakers, barely thinking before your feet took you here.

to him.

to ross.

it’s the second time this month. maybe the fifth time in two months. maybe the tenth time this year. you’ve lost count, and you know he’s keeping track for you. he never says it out loud, never throws it back in your face, but you see it in his eyes when he opens the door—again?—and in the way his jaw tightens like he’s swallowing down the words he really wants to say.

your fingers hesitate over the door, hovering just above the chipped paint. you don’t have to knock. you know that. he’s told you before—you don’t have to ask, just come in—but it feels wrong to walk in like you belong here when all you ever do is show up when you’re falling apart.

the lump in your throat swells.

you take a shaky breath.

and then you knock.

the door swings open after just a few seconds, like he already knew you were standing there.

ross is wearing sweatpants that are hanging loose on his hips, the sleeves of his black sweater pushed up to his elbows. he blinks at you, eyes flicking over your face—red, blotchy, puffy—and you can see the exact moment it registers.

his expression softens.

"oh, love...,“ you let out a sharp, broken breath and it all just hits you. the fight, the words, the door slamming shut behind him. you’re still shaking, still crying, and when you open your mouth, all that comes out is a choked, "sorry, uhm… am i bothering you?"

ross shakes his head immediately, "no, not at all." he frowns, his brows drawing together. "what’s wrong, love?"

you bite down hard on your bottom lip, trying to keep the tears from spilling over, but it’s useless. you can’t get a single word out, your throat closing up, burning with everything you’re feeling but can’t say.

he notices. of course he does.

"come here," he murmurs, reaching for you. his hands are warm when they settle on your arms, guiding you inside, and the second the door clicks shut behind you, you fall forward into him.

ross catches you easily, arms wrapping around you without hesitation, pulling you close like it’s the most natural thing in the world. one hand cradles the back of your head, fingers slipping into your hair, while the other moves to your back, rubbing slow, gentle circles.

"‘s alright, i got you," he mutters, his chin resting lightly on top of your head. his sweater smells like fabric softener and something uniquely him, something grounding, something safe. "you’re okay."

you shake your head against his chest, gripping the fabric of his sweater with trembling fingers. "i hate him," you whisper, voice barely audible.

"i know."

"he’s such an asshole, ross."

"i know, love."

you fist your hands tighter into the fabric, a sob tearing through you before you can stop it. ross sighs softly and tightens his arms around you, his hand smoothing up and down your back, steady and soothing.

"did he—" he starts, then stops. when he speaks again, his voice is even softer. "did he do something? did he hurt you?"

"no, not like that…" your voice wobbles, breath hitching. "he just—he just says shit, ross, and i know i shouldn’t care, but i do, and it’s so fucking stupid, and i hate feeling like this, and i—"

"hey, hey, stop." ross pulls back just enough to look at you, one hand moving to cup your cheek. his thumb brushes away a tear, his gaze searching yours. "it’s not stupid, alright? don’t do that. don’t blame yourself for caring."

you close your eyes, swallowing hard. "i don’t know why i still let him get to me."

"because you love him," ross says simply.

you let out a shaky breath, fresh tears spilling over.

"but he doesn’t love me," you whisper.

ross’s jaw tenses. "not too sound to rough but would that even matter?" his thumb swipes another tear from your cheek. "someone who loves you should not treat you like that.“

“right,” you whisper.

his arms tighten around you, warm and solid, his chin tucking over your shoulder this time.

"you deserve better, you know that, yeah?" his voice is right against your ear. "you know that, right, love?"

your breath shudders out of you, but you nod, even though you’re not sure you believe it yet.

ross exhales, and you feel it against your skin. "he’s a fucking idiot," he mutters.

you let out something that’s almost a laugh, but it catches in your throat, still too raw.

ross pulls back just enough to look at you again, his hands still holding you close. "you wanna stay the night?"

you don’t even think before you nod.

"alright," he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. like of course you’re staying. like it was never a question.

he lets his hands linger for a second longer, then gently nudges you toward the living room. "come on, let’s get you sat down, yeah?"

you follow him in, your legs feeling a little heavier now that the worst of the crying has passed. the exhaustion is settling in, weighing down your limbs, but you don’t want to think too much. you just want to be here.

ross disappears for a moment and comes back with a glass of water. he holds it out to you, nodding toward it. "drink, love."

you take it from him, your hands still trembling slightly. he watches as you take a slow sip, and when you lower the glass, he nods approvingly.

"good," he murmurs.

you hold the glass of water in both hands, staring down at it, watching the way the surface trembles slightly from the unsteady grip of your fingers. you take a slow sip, just to give yourself something to do, but it doesn’t stop the way your chest still feels too tight.

ross sits down next to you, close enough that his knee knocks against yours, and then he reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch. he tugs it down and spreads it over your lap, over his own legs too.

"i’m scared."

ross stills for half a second before turning his head to look at you. his brows pull together, and he shifts slightly, giving you his full attention. "why?" he pauses, "of what?"

you swallow, fingers tightening around the glass. "what’s going to happen if i break up with him?"

ross goes quiet. not in a bad way, not in a way that makes you feel like you shouldn’t have said it. he’s just thinking, processing, like he wants to make sure he says the right thing.

"first of all, i’m glad you’re even thinking about breaking up with him," he says, "because you should. because he’s treated you like shit, love, and you don’t deserve that."

you exhale shakily, staring down at the water again.

ross nudges your knee with his. "but what’s got you scared, hm? what do you think is going to happen?"

"i don’t know." your voice is small. "maybe nothing. maybe everything. i just…" you trail off, shaking your head. "i guess i’m also scared of being alone."

ross lets out a breath through his nose, and it sounds almost like a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. more like disbelief. more like he’s mad at the idiot who made you feel like this.

"you’re not gonna be alone," he says firmly. "not for a second, alright?" he shifts even closer, pressing his knee against yours again like he wants to make sure you feel it. "you’ve got me. you’ve always got me."

he offers you a warm smile.

"if he gives you any shit," ross continues, jaw tightening, "i’ll do something about it, yeah? i don’t care what. i’ll fucking—" he stops himself, exhales sharply through his nose, then shakes his head. "point is, you don’t have to be scared. i won’t let him make you feel like that anymore."

his words settle over you, warm and solid, sinking into the cracks of everything you’ve been feeling.

you take a slow breath, gripping the blanket between your fingers. "thank you," you whisper.

“of course.”

you let out a slow breath, feeling some of the tension in your chest ease—not all of it, not yet, but enough. enough for now.

"alright, how about a distraction," he says, "would you like to watch something? eat something?"

you sniff, shifting under the blanket. "movie’s fine, i guess."

ross nods and grabs the remote from the coffee table, then hands it to you without question, like he already knows you’ll want to pick.

"alright, go on then," he says, leaning back against the couch.

you scroll through the options, your eyes flicking over the titles until one catches your attention. you press play, and as the opening credits roll, you glance over at ross.

“10 things i hate about you?" he asks, one brow raised, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips.

"yeah," you mumble, pulling the blanket tighter around you. "comfort movie, i guess."

ross hums, eyes flicking over your face for a moment, “i’ll be excited then. should be good.”

“it is.”

the movie starts, but before you can settle into it, you turn your head toward him again.

"thank you, ross."

he glances over, his brow furrowing slightly. "what for?"

you swallow, shifting slightly. "for always being there. for letting me come here, for listening, for just…" you gesture vaguely. "being you. i don’t know what i’d do without you, honestly."

ross just looks at you for a long moment, like he’s searching for the right thing to say. his lips part, then press together again, like he’s holding something back.

then he just shakes his head, a small, fond smile tugging at his lips.

"don’t have to thank me for that, love," he murmurs. "you’re my safe space too, you know."

you can’t help it—you smile. it’s small, barely there, but real. warm.

ross notices. of course he does. his eyes flick to you again, catching the way your lips curve just slightly, the way your shoulders aren’t so tense anymore. his own smile lingers for a second before he tilts his head toward you.

"come here," he murmurs.

you hesitate for just a second, but only because it still feels strange sometimes—letting yourself take comfort in someone who actually wants to be there. someone who doesn’t make you feel like a burden for needing them.

but it’s ross.

so you shift, moving closer, and he lifts his arm slightly to make space for you. you tuck yourself against his side, resting your head on his chest, and his sweater is soft against your cheek, warm from his body heat.

he doesn’t hesitate. just wraps his arm around you.

you let out a slow breath, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. the sound of his heartbeat is there too, quiet but strong, steady enough to calm the lingering mess in your head.

he rubs a slow, absentminded hand up and down your arm, his fingers tracing light, soothing patterns.

"is this alright?" he asks.

you nod against him. "yeah."

ross doesn’t say anything else, just lets you settle against him as the movie plays.

and for the first time all night, you feel something close to okay.

[beannoss]

Something I think about a lot and wonder if maybe gets overlooked in Twilight’s story and as vitally indicative of his character is actually in the very first chapter:

Anya isn’t needed for Strix. Twilight decides to adopt her anyway.

[Spoiler warning: Mostly this post deals with early chapters already in the anime but there is reference to chapter 62, which has not yet been animated and will be in season 3]

Twilight decides it — “I’m going to rework the mission so it doesn’t involve a child because that’s too dangerous” and he’s 100% right! Donovan Desmond is canonically a far right warmonger with fascistic authoritarian aims. His government made liberal use of the SSS — a group to mirror the Stasi — who continue to operate in morally dubious ways (much more likely they’re actively morally reprehensible, though we’ve mostly only had rumours of that so far). From what we can tell, Desmond is at best an absent father and likely actually worse than that: if that's how he treats his own children, imagine how he might treat others. And the timeline seems to indicate that the experimentation performed on Anya was done under Desmond's government — even if Twilight isn't aware of experimentation on children, he is aware of both human and animal experimentation under Desmond's government. Taking all that and also the complexity of Strix's aims, undoubtedly there were other things that could be done, more straightforward if not necessarily easier.

So. Why? Why entertain the change at all? And then, having entertained it, why go back when the reasoning is indisputable?

On the Doylist level, I think Endo wanted to ensure that Anya had some agency within the set up — Endo also does this with Yor. It would be much harder to be on Twilight’s side fully, or to trust him on an ethical level/take him as any sort of moral authority, if he were just straightforwardly using these two people. To have them be active and consenting participants (arguably to actually be affirming the arrangement: Twilight sets it up, but Anya and Yor actually make it happen) even if the audience only knows the depth of their knowledge/motivations/etc currently, shifts the power dynamic in important ways.

But it also the set up tells us important things about Twilight. He is largely impatient, cold, detached in chapter one. His overarching feelings towards Anya are, I think, real annoyance, real confusion, and real impatience. He just doesn’t understand this damn kid and it turns out she’s a person which is frankly unacceptable — he’d needed and anticipated an automaton, ideally of himself in miniature form. (Though I think one could ponder whether Twilight was, in many ways, an automaton himself at this point, but that's maybe for another meta 🙃)

He’s not entirely unmoved of course — we're given to understand he’s affected when Franky tells him how many times Anya’s been adopted and returned, and isn't amused by Franky's joke about names. Franky's comment — "Just don't get attached" — reinforces this. The prospect of “the future” perturbs Twilight when he’s reading the parenting books. His initial reaction to Anya’s kidnap is horror. All these are true too.

Then there’s also this, from earlier in the chapter:

It’s exposition, yeah, and it’s also exposing. "Hopes" and "joys" are very specific words to describe those events. It could simply have been "A marriage? An ordinary life?" but describing them as such — hope for marriage; joy in ordinary life — expose something of what Twilight feels about those two experiences and, on the flipside, they expose what he deems he's lacking. No hopes of intimacy; no joy in (an ordinary) life. There's an argument as well, of course, that he's being ironic but I don't think that actually invalidates the above analysis. Drawing attention to 'hope' and 'joy' at all are revealing, regardless of Twilight's tone in thinking of them. I think it's also interesting this panel, taken in conjunction with a pair of panels in chapter 62, Twilight's backstory. The above is almost a pulled out version of this below panel of Twilight's recollection of his childhood, and of course the returning image of not just a rubbish bin but a rubbish bin on fire when it comes to disposing of his identity:

Back to Strix. Both his final interaction with Karen and the whole everything of the framing of Strix is making Twilight think (and feel, ahem) things that he hasn't for some time. Twilight decides, I’m reworking this. It can’t proceed this way. Not because Anya is a pain in his ass, not because she’s not as (apparently) intellectually advanced as he’d originally thought, not even because he thinks he can find another child who would better be exactly what mission parameters called for. No:

And what changes his mind is Anya asking to come home.

One of the important parts of this to me is this:

He seeks consent.

This moment is a keystone, I think, to understanding Twilight. It’s also more telling than he maybe realises. Twilight is decisive — we all laugh because he spirals at the drop of a hat when his daughter or wife look even mildly upset but outside those (also very telling) scenarios, he makes decisions and he pursues them. Often he makes decisions quickly. He’s a dab hand at it; it’s a large part of why he’s as good a spy as he is.

He’d decided to change Strix.

Anya asks him, in essence, not to.

So, he doesn't.

But it's wild that he entertains keeping her request at all — why? Why even entertain it? It’s dangerous; it’s impractical; there are too many moving parts outside his direct control; Anya isn’t the sort of child he’d wanted for the mission if he’d spent any time thinking about what a child might actually be like; Strix is in many ways an extremely long shot anyway, Desmond could just stop attending for reasons unknown and unrelated; etc.

So, yeah, why? Maybe because of this —

In conjunction, I often think of this moment in the cruise arc:

Twilight first naming the feeling as lonesome, and secondly tacitly conceding that he perceives Yor as a companion and that that relationship is important to him, something to be missed. What makes this for me though is that Anya calls this out "Papa's you're so sappy" and Twilight's reaction is that of someone caught-out. He doesn’t say “nuh-uh!” but he may as well have. Essentially, something landed a bit close to home, hm? Maybe some of that hope for marriage? A soupçon of joy of an ordinary life?

Twilight’s loneliness underpins many of his decisions with his family — probably without him being fully conscious of it. I think he is at least somewhat conscious of it, but also if he looks too closely... Well, best not to. I could fill this post, I think, with images that demonstrate his loneliness throughout the series; that sorrowful/pensive close-up of his eye(s) is one of the abiding motifs for Twilight throughout. I'd probably start with this one from Twilight's backstory arc:

Anya's request plays directly off his loneliness. Still though, he doesn’t immediately capitulate — he emphasises Anya’s choice. Is she sure? The last day has been scary for a child (and for him, but he's ignoring that part) and Twilight, in his increasing recognition that Anya is a person, is probably aware in the back of his mind that he hasn’t exactly been warm or welcoming or at all patient with her. Things that people respond to — he's otherwise excellent at manipulating people, so of course he understands this. So. Given she'd just had this scary experience, given he hasn't exactly been great with her: Is she sure? She wants to come home — with him?

I think the moment may get a little lost because Anya says something riffing off his own earlier thoughts and self-revelation (featuring that shadowed, lonely eye motif again!)

Were this a post about Anya, I’d talk about how it’s an important character moment for her as well by way both of demonstrating her agency/choice and also that she isn’t nearly as dumb as Twilight thinks (and the audience, maybe, also thinks).

But in my view, she didn’t actually need to say anything about it making her cry. I think she could simply have said yes in that moment and Twilight would have agreed.

Twilight’s an unreliable narrator; he’s disconnected from his heart and that shrouds his own motivations from himself — something he actually also concedes in this chapter!

And it shrouds from us just how much he actually understands himself. He’s also a master of deflection. Easy to assume or say that bringing Anya home is just to align with Strix. Nothing more to see here; nothing else going on. But also that ripping off of the mask in the panel above — and the literal 'riiip' sound effects — also indicate to us that this is an unveiling to himself.

In my view, Twilight agreeing to Anya's request, deciding to go back to original mission parameters, actually shifts his motivations, subtly. Now he’s committed not only to the original mission goals, but also to Anya. He needs Anya to succeed at Strix, not only for Strix's sake, but also because otherwise the mission will end and she’ll have to go back to the orphanage, and he’s just agreed with her not to do that (not right away, in any case). I don’t think at this point he’s thinking it’s forever — his thoughts throughout the manga indicate he still expects the Forgers to be temporary. I don't think the shift in motivation is necessarily even conscious, but given the set up, I think something inside Twilight recognises that agreeing to bring Anya home is a compact, jointly engaged. Mostly all this has become subsumed into Strix: he makes decisions. He pursues them. He deflects, even from himself. Of course it's just for the mission; this saved him the trouble of reworking it, of figuring out something else. Nothing more to see; no need to think any more on it. And to be fair to him, Strix is very high stakes, resting pretty solely on his shoulders, so of course that is, objectively, motivation enough. Why even consider beyond that?

But I personally think that to the extent he's aware of it at all, there is something else going on, that he wants to have Anya for as long as it takes him to work something else out for her. If that's the case, then of course, we have Occam’s razor: the simplest solution may be the best one.

Maybe Twilight should just keep Anya himself, eh?

[Image description: gif from Spy x Family season 1, episode 1. Twilight and Anya have just found out Anya passed her entrance exam and are overjoyed. Celebratory, Twilight picks Anya up and swoops her into the air as they smile at one another. End image description]