#Because this life right here? Absolutely miserable

[eachuisge-cc]

I'll update with screenshots later I'm kinda havin a Time right now

[cats-in-the-clouds]

my sister got engaged and we’re all really happy for her but my bitter rain cloud of a dad (who naturally she told last) is giving her a bit of passive aggressive grief about it despite her boyfriend being like the best man of our generation (presumably either because he’s not catholic or because my dad sees them as young dumb unemployed people who aren’t ready for marriage or because he’s mad he barely has any real love with his own wife or something). so like pray for us? i wish i knew what to do

[kisakunt]

megumi’s pissed— pissed with a big, capital p. he’s bothered a lot; irritated and agitated with people daily, no stranger to fingers curling into a fist either at his sides or to the top of someone’s head. but right now, in the cold of your room, he’s pissed.

“take this shit off.” he won’t dare lift his hands himself because if megumi is a man of anything it’s principle. you laugh— louder than a giggle but nonetheless muffled by your pursed lips— and shake your head.

“no can do, nutmeg.” and now he’s really mad.

“don’t call me that.” he’s itching, his normally protruding hair flattened, his palms clammy, his breathing shallow.

“c’mon, why are you so miserable all the time?” it’s a slow drawl, a whine that he has to force himself to ignore. “can’t you show a little joy? maybe even some jubilance? or dare you say it might kill you?”

your name comes out stern, calculated and pointed in a way he knows will get to you, and simply, he repeats himself.

“take this shit off.”

megumi fushiguro is not a big believer of tradition. he has never obsessed over a birthday— although he did buy you a singular cupcake and candle on yours— or stressed at the thought of marriage. he’s not big on anniversaries and he couldn’t care less about a baby shower or bachelor party, so naturally holiday’s mean nothing to him.

you on the other hand are, in his own words, a nutcase. you’d met him two weeks before the christmas prior and insisted you get each other small trinkets. on valentine’s day you gave everyone you knew a card, on easter you mastered the art of making your very own chocolate, on halloween you bought a costume that he refused to wear.

and now, here you are again; snow on the ground outside and a small, and frankly sad, tree in your room symbolizing not only the biggest day of your year but an absolutely grueling year of knowing you.

you sit in front of him, criss cross, with a goofy little grin on your face. he can’t help but think it’s utterly disgusting that that’s doing something for him. regardless though, he stands his ground.

“if you don’t take this off right now i’m not talking to you for a week.” you laugh for real this time, shaking your head with more energy than before.

“well we both know that’s a lie. i’d probably drop dead if you did that and then, overwhelmed by guilt, you’d turn into an even weirder and sadder old man.”

“i’m not old. take this shit off.” atop his head sat a truthfully horrific santa hat. it couldn’t have cost more than two dollars, assortment of dim led lights on the trim. he can’t help but think of how many little, lice ridden kids must have tried this on. but he still won’t budge.

“you know you can just take it off yourself, right?” he does know that— obviously— but again, he has beliefs. he has pride. it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact you’re looking at him like he’s heaven on earth or the matching hat smothering your own hair. it has nothing to do with you at all.

he shifts, leaning his body weight onto his left side as he presses his hands into the plush of your bed to lift himself up. he makes a little show of it, slow and meticulous as he barely raises himself.

it would be so easy to avoid this situation. it would be so simple to shake his head or yank the hat off or have stopped you from putting it there to begin with.

megumi’s pissed, but it’s not with you.

“i’m serious. it’d actually be nice to have a moment of quiet in my brain.” megumi is furious, livid and squirming in his own skin. he’s absolutely, unequivocally angry.

he’s angry because he can’t figure out why for the dear life of him there’s a tightly wrapped gift tucked in the bottom of his bag, or why he knows the nearly exact color hex of your eyes, or why he’s hummed— hummed— the song ‘war is over’ twice this week.

you grumble, butt hurt and annoyed now too, and you reach over as fast as you can and snatch it off of him.

“there,” and now megumi’s even more upset because that upset him and his head feels cold and empty now. “happy now?”

and before he can think, before he can be as calculated as he always is, it slips.

“no.” and in that moment something shifts. it’s both of you, just a little bit towards each other, it’s the tension that’s now (and always has been) in the air, it’s the way your hat slips a little to the side.

“well i just can’t win with you, can i?” the— his— hat lays loose between your fingers, your voice quieter than he thinks he’s ever heard it.

megumi wonders time to time if he’s a coward. he knows he’s strong, he knows he’s just in his opinions, he knows he fights. but sometimes he freezes and sometimes he panics and sometimes he can’t look you in the eye.

maybe it’s time for him to be brave. he leans into you, closer to you, breathing you all in and, brushing your fingers in the process, he takes it back from you.

suddenly it’s warm again. suddenly you’re matching again. suddenly he feels close to you again.

“there.” for once, it feels like christmas to megumi. “happy now?” and it feels like he’s got a gift in front of him.

[alchemistc]

"We're friends, right?"

Eddie watches Tommy tense from the bar stool next to him. Hard to notice, when he's trying not to make direct eye contact, when he's catching Tommy in his periphery only, but there's something about the set of his shoulders that tips his hand.

Buck's still jabbering away with that probie from the 136 they met three weeks ago on the 401 and somehow already knew too much about Buck. The fact that Buck doesn't find it weird, and absolutely isn't clocking the starry-eyed admiration in the kids eyes, is not technically his problem, but it's a good launching point.

Hopefully the kid'll ask Buck about some obscure bit of Buck Lore and keep him distracted for the next few minutes.

Tommy fiddles with the label on his bottle. Tries and fails miserably to hide a gulp. "Of course," Tommy says, and Eddie watches him notice Eddie's disbelieving brow lift in the grimy mirror over the whiskey display.

When they'd met, Eddie had been so fucking pleased to find such an easy connection with someone. In a different way than he'd clicked with Buck, because Buck was a handful on a good day and Buck hadn't been having a good day that first one. They'd had so much in common, and that thread had continued the entire time he and Buck had dated. It'd been nice, to have reinforcements against Buck's flights of fancy. It'd been nice not to have to say the hard part out loud, when Tommy could tell he wasn't having a great time of it. It had been nice to be a little overeager and not worry about Buck getting territorial in either direction.

Turns out it wasn't Buck he needed to worry about.

"We can be honest with each other," Eddie says, and takes a little delight in seeing the panic shining through in Tommy's entire body. Just a little, though. He is trying to resolve this whole thing Buck definitely hadn't meant to admit to him three days ago. He tips his head sideways to indicate Buck and the 136 probie. "So what's the difference between me, and that kid over there who would definitely try to take you out at the ankles if he realized you were the crazy pilot Buck's been seeing?"

Tommy eyes the opening of his bottle like it holds the answers to life.

"Could have come up with a cooler nickname. Hot pilot. Brave pilot. Talented pilot."

"All accurate but not what the rumor mill is calling you. I know a deflection when I see one. So we're just never gonna talk about it?"

Tommy sighs. He makes a concentrated effort to roll his shoulders back, extend his jaw, stop picking at the label of the bottle. There's already a pile of strip-thin paper beginning to pool on the bar top between his forearms.

"I can't believe he told you."

"If it's any consolation, he definitely didn't mean to."

Tommy blazes past that like he's spent the length of the comment gearing himself up to spit this out all at once.

"Evan's a flirt. He likes the attention. He likes making connections. I've been jealous of dogs he pets long enough to flirt life stories out of their owners. That kid is a flash in the pan. Evan will come back over here wagging his tail about making a new friend, sit down next to me, and I'll spend the next few hours feeling like a third wheel until you order an Uber."

Yeah. That's what Eddie thought he'd say.

"You're so messed up, man," Eddie says, and Tommy's grin is wry, a little pained. "You know I'm straight."

The number of times he's had to actually think about that in the last few months is still shocking. Apparently it's very heteronormative of him to have never questioned it before now. Like Buck ever had. Like Tommy didn't fight tooth and nail to not have to examine it.

"I'm less worried about you suddenly discovering you like dick than I am about you suddenly discovering you and Evan have been codependent freaks about each other since the day you met."

"I already know that, dumbass."

Eddie may not be the most perceptive man in the world - he's not out here dissecting every interaction with another human a thousand times in two seconds, unlike someone here - but he knows what he has with Buck isn't your standard fare of friendships. He's always likened it to brotherhood, although he's got no idea if that fits. Or how Buck sees it. He just knows those weeks in El Paso we're just as miserable for not having Buck around as they were for all the strife with his family, with Chris, with his job or lack thereof. They'd sucked. Missing Buck had made the top five of terrible things about Texas.

He's also aware enough to know that neither he nor Buck had any desperate desire to do more than clasp each other's shoulders and have a staring contest for thirty seconds when they reunited.

Definitely hadn't wanted to fuck him on a bare mattress and then sleep on that mattress.

He knows too much about Buck's sex life.

Probably his own damn fault for going to the self-proclaimed former sex addict any time he felt weird about sex with whatever woman he was distracting himself with at the time. Opened that door and left it wide on its hinges.

Not that he cares that it's a dude, now. Just. Buck's always had a problem separating the details from the overarching issue.

He can feel Tommy's eyes on the side of his head.

"I'm working on it," Tommy says, like Eddie's got a hand shoved up beneath his ribcage and he's squeezing.

"So we're cool," Eddie pushes, just to catch a glimpse of Tommy rolling his eyes. Buck's not the only one who enjoys how bitchy Tommy is. Different reasons, same result. Eddie likes Tommy. He'd been annoyed with him as much for Buck's sake as his own, because following the Bros Before Hos code had sucked. Eddie doesn't have a whole lot of friends, and Tommy had been a good one. Reliable. Generous. Legitimately interested in the minutiae of Eddie's life. Easy to talk to. Easy to get out of your head with.

"We were never not cool."

"You blocked my number after the breakup, dude." He never told Buck that part. He'd figured it was self-preservation, up until he realized Tommy hadn't bothered to block the man he'd actually dumped.

"I said I'm working on it, not that it's already worked on. I did unblock you. Eventually."

A week before Buck caved and told Eddie the story of their ill-advised hookup. The text he'd gotten had just said "Hope El Paso's treating you well." and Eddie hadn't responded to it for a week and a half.

He's hoping for a little more. Some insight into where Tommy's head is at, what he could do to convince Tommy that's not a direction his and Buck's relationship will ever take.

Maybe that's not the point, though.

Maybe Tommy's more worried about the one they already have.

Well, Eddie's not giving that up. If Tommy wants to stick around, he's gonna have to fucking deal with it. Get out of his own head long enough to realize there's plenty of room in Buck's heart for the both of them.

Buck doesn't notice the lingering gaze of Probie (Derek? Damien? Dick?) on his back as he makes his way back towards them. He plasters himself to Tommy's side and swipes the bottle right from Tommy's hand to take a swig. Plants a lingering kiss under Tommy's ear and murmurs something that turns Tommy's ears pink.

"Kiefer says hi," he tells them both, and Tommy soaks in the moment. Eddie's paying closer attention this time around - doesn't miss the way he tries to wipe the smug satisfaction off his face. "He was very interested in both of you, for some reason," Buck continues, already flagging down the bartender for refills on all three of their drinks.

"Scoping out the competition," Tommy mutters, a little caustic, and the three of them all freeze for a moment.

Eddie's the first to raise his new, sweating bottle to cheers them both, but Buck surprises them both by dropping an arm over Tommy's shoulders, hand squeezing at one of Tommy's bulking muscles. "I'll protect your ankles, baby," he says, and when Eddie's sip of beer ends up coming out his nose onto the bar top, Tommy's the one yanking napkins out of the nearest dispenser to clean it up.

[foreveia]

fourteen ⤨ oikawa tooru

⨭ genre; fluff

⨭ pairing; oikawa tooru x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 6.5k

⨭ descriptions; as much as you love romcoms, you're a realist and recognise just how illogical true love is—unfortunately for you, fate has other plans.

⨭ warnings; profanity

⨭ a/n; my 2025 motto has been to just write and not worry too much about perfectionism, so here's my mess of an oikawa fic. it's acc unreal i have finished three fics in a week's time lol who knows how long this creative streak will last but wtv. in the meantime, enjoy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'plot twist' by niki

one.

During your four-hour layover in SFO, you decide that 4AM flights are only slightly less inconvenient than paying full price for a flight at noon. Because right now, it’s honestly just eerie: San Francisco International Airport (full-government name because you fear this might actually be where you die) is completely empty, largely dark, and very, very desolate.

You sigh and glance around the lounge, which is dimly lit and suspiciously quiet except for the distant hum of a floor polisher somewhere beyond the gates. Every shop is shuttered, every PA announcement echoes into nothing, and the only signs of life are a few overworked employees slumped behind their counters; you’re the only one at your gate, your phone charging via one of the blue-light towers, headphones blasting at maximum volume. You’re trying to drown out the unnerving feeling in your chest with Gracie Abrams and SZA—it’s not working in the slightest, actually making you increasingly wary of your vulnerability.

But whatever. You’re a #brokecollegestudent, so obviously you’re willing to risk your life for a good deal.

Honestly, you should really be asleep. That was the plan, after all: you had it all mapped out—get here, find a quiet corner, conk out, wake up only when it’s absolutely necessary. Instead, your brain is running on fumes and bad decisions, vibrating horribly in your skull because you’re an idiot and didn’t realize how paranoid you get when you’re sleep deprived.

You groan, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Kill me,” you mutter under your breath.

“First time traveling?” a voice pipes up, obnoxiously chipper for the time of night.

You freeze mid-stretch. You are not alone.

Slowly, you turn toward the source of the voice.

Sprawled across the lounge chair opposite you, looking for all the world like he belongs here, is a guy—tall, lean but broad-shouldered, stupidly good-looking even under the sickly fluorescent lights. Tousled brown hair, sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie that are clearly designer but worn like he doesn’t give a damn. His legs are stretched out like he owns the entire damn lounge, and he’s got this lazy, almost smug smirk on his face, like he’s enjoying whatever show you’re unknowingly putting on.

You narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at you, at your very obvious state of suffering. “You look like you’re miserable right now.”

“I am,” you say. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then tilts his head. “Just figured misery loves company.”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that this man—a stranger, an audacious one at that—has just decided to start a conversation with you, unprompted, in the middle of an empty airport. You eye him cautiously. “You do realize there are approximately four million other places to sit, right?”

He grins. “Yeah, but none of them have you.”

You blink. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Depends.” His smirk widens. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Damn,” he says, without an ounce of actual disappointment. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you glance away. God. Of all the people to be stuck in airport limbo with, you had to get the charming, insufferable kind. The kind that probably coasts through life on natural athletic ability and the kind of face that gets him out of parking tickets. The kind that’s entirely too comfortable stretching out in a public lounge like it’s his personal living room.

He’s watching you, you realise. Like he’s waiting for something.

“What?” you sigh.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“I don’t remember you asking one.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like you’ve just mildly amused him. “First time traveling?” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. “No. Just first time being stuck in an airport at an hour when no one should be conscious.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “A rookie mistake. 4AM flights are a scam.”

You snort. “And yet, here you are.”

“Touché.”

You take another glance at him, this time really looking. Something about him tugs at your memory, like a song you’ve heard before but can’t place. The messy hair, the easy confidence, the way he’s practically radiating I’m used to being the center of attention energy.

Then, in a flash, it hits you.

“Oh,” you say, recognition clicking into place. “Wait—you’re Oikawa.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “You know me?”

“You’re that volleyball guy,” you say, pointing vaguely at him. “The one who’s, like… unnecessarily famous.”

Oikawa grins. “Unnecessarily?”

“I mean, it’s volleyball,” you deadpan. “I didn’t even know people could be famous for that.”

His expression morphs into something between offense and wounded pride. “Ouch. I think I might actually cry.”

“Please do,” you say. “It’ll entertain me.”

He clutches his chest theatrically. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m tired,” you promptly correct. “And delirious. And currently stuck in an airport with a man who’s trying to convince me he’s a big deal.”

Oikawa scoffs, but there’s something amused in his gaze, like he’s enjoying this. “You’re not a fan of sports?”

“Not really,” you shrug half-heartedly, looking back down at your beat-up Filas. You’re not lying; even so, you’ve seen his games on TV before (you watch the Olympics after all—you’re not a total basket case). He’s a flirt, a player with double meaning, and you would really rather avoid getting involved with anything complicated. “I’ve never been into jocks.”

“Never been into jocks,” he echoes, shaking his head. “And here I thought I could be your Peter Kavinsky.”

“No, thank you. I would never write you a love letter.”

Oikawa laughs at that—an actual laugh, not just the smug little chuckle you’ve gotten so far. It’s rich and warm, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip just slightly. Who even are you right now? This whole situation is so unbelievable that it makes you more confident.

You cross your arms, looking him up and down. “So what’s your excuse?”

“For what?”

“For subjecting yourself to this hellscape of a layover,” you say, gesturing at the ghost town of a terminal around you.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “Came back to visit some old teammates in California. Now I’m heading home.”

“Japan?”

“Bingo.”

Your brain is slow, groggy, and running on fumes, but something about that answer sticks. “Wait,” you say, frowning. “What flight are you on?”

Oikawa glances at you, like he knows exactly what you’re about to realize. “4:00AM to Haneda.”

You stare at him. “No.”

His grin is almost devious. “Yes.”

Your stomach drops.

Fourteen hours. Fourteen whole hours, stuck on a flight. With him.

Oikawa watches the realization dawn on your face, and for the first time since he sat down, he looks genuinely entertained.

“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

You are going to lose your goddamn mind.

two.

For all your romcom consumption, you never stopped to consider what you would do if coincidence and chance conspired against you in that manner. You figured if fate was ever going to meddle in your love life, it would be in an incessantly normal way—maybe a slow-burn situation with a coworker, or a friend-of-a-friend you never noticed until one fateful night.

Not… this.

Not staring at seat 14A like it’s a death sentence, because your boarding pass is crumpled in your fist, because of course when you finally find your row, Oikawa Tooru is already lounging in 14B, looking far too pleased with himself.

He glances up as you approach, then breaks into the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever fucking seen.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning back like he just won the lottery. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You stop dead in the aisle, refusing to believe what your own two eyes are telling you.

“Are you following me?” you blurt, because there is absolutely no way the universe would do this to you.

Oikawa, ever the dramatist, clutches his chest. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to follow you, I’d at least be more subtle.”

“Show me your ticket.”

He raises an eyebrow but pulls out his boarding pass with a flourish anyway. You squint to read the text, half-hoping that you would find some spelling error that could place either of you somewhere else. But nope: his ticket reads 14B in big, bold letters, right next to Oikawa Tooru and Gate 11.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers to your temple. Jesus fuck. He manifested this, with his snarky commentary and all about being stuck with him; you would say that you’re gonna kill him for this, but evidently, karma is real and terrifying.

Oikawa, meanwhile, is having the time of his life.

“What are the odds?” he muses, tucking the ticket back into his hoodie pocket. “Out of all the seats on this flight, I get to sit next to you.”

“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.

“Nightmares are scary,” he says. “I’m a delight.”

You glare at him and shove your bag into the overhead bin with slightly more force than necessary. He watches, thoroughly entertained, as you lower yourself into your seat like you’re walking into a trap.

The cabin fills with the usual pre-flight chaos—flight attendants directing traffic, the hum of passengers settling in, the occasional thud of an overhead bin slamming shut. You try to focus on that, on anything other than the man currently making himself comfortable in the seat beside you.

Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll get bored.

Oikawa leans an elbow on the armrest between you, tilting his head slightly. “So,” he says. “What’s your in-flight entertainment plan?”

“My what?”

“You know, what’s gonna keep you occupied for the next fourteen hours?” He gestures vaguely to your bag. “Movies? Reading? Soul-searching?”

“Sleeping,” you say immediately. “It’s four AM. Like a normal person.”

Oikawa tilts his head, considering. “See, I would believe you, but you already look wide awake.”

You scowl at him. Because unfortunately, he’s right—your body is so far past exhaustion that sleep is a distant, unattainable dream. You sigh and shift in your seat, pressing yourself closer to the window.

He grins, victorious. “You should talk to me instead.”

You let out an actual laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I’m fun.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Same thing.”

You shoot him a flat look. “I don’t like you.”

“And yet, you still haven’t put your headphones in,” he points out.

Damn it. You hate that he’s right. Again.

You huff, finally fishing your headphones from your bag and shoving them into your ears with exaggerated finality. Then, just for good measure, you turn to the window and squeeze your eyes shut.

Oikawa doesn’t say anything else. For about thirty seconds. Then, right as the plane begins to taxi down the runway, you hear him say, way too smugly for your liking, “you’re gonna talk to me eventually.”

You pretend to be asleep. You can feel him watching you, like he’s waiting for you to crack, like he knows something you don’t. 

Ugh. This is gonna be a long flight.

three.

By hour three of the flight, you’ve come to realise that Oikawa has a surprising love for the classics. 

Trust: you weren’t actively trying to notice his choice of in-air films, but your periphery and conscience betray you, and you become acutely aware as your seatmate cycles through The Proposal and Crazy Stupid Love (two objectively incredible films). He cues 10 Things I Hate About You next, which is probably your favorite movie of all time; you adore said movie so much that, despite all of your previous complaints and window-seat protests, you eventually lean into the seat rest separating you two and watch along.

Not openly, obviously. Not in any way that would give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he’s captured your attention. You angle your face toward the window, feign a vague disinterest, and sneak quick glances when you think he’s not looking.

Spoiler: he notices immediately.

“You know you could just watch with me,” Oikawa says, not even bothering to take his eyes off the screen. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say flatly, keeping your gaze stubbornly trained on the clouds outside.

“Uh-huh.” He shifts in his seat, casually turning the screen toward you. “C’mon, if you’re gonna steal glances, at least commit.”

“I wasn’t stealing anything,” you huff, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

Oikawa smirks, and—against your better judgment—you give in, finally glancing at his screen properly to watch Kat Stratford dancing drunkenly on a table. He offers you one of his earbuds, which you take very, very tentatively. You would be deeply unhappy about the proximity if your love of Hypnotize didn’t trump it. 

You sigh, leaning your cheek against your palm. “This movie is so good.”

“Right?” Oikawa grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty bold of you to call me insufferable when you clearly have taste.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you love this movie, I love this movie—therefore, you and I have more in common than you’d like to admit.”

You scoff, but there’s no real bite to it. “Liking 10 Things I Hate About You is just basic human decency.”

Oikawa presses a hand to his chest, mock-flattered. “Oh, so now you’re calling me decent?”

“No, I’m calling the movie decent. You’re a fluke.”

He gasps dramatically, then shakes his head, muttering something about how you wound him. But his smile lingers as the film plays on, and maybe—just a little bit—you don’t find his presence as unbearable anymore. He’s too distracted watching Joseph Gordon-Levitt pine to be truly annoying.

Somewhere between the next few scenes, you relax completely, not even pretending to look away anymore. You’re leaning in slightly now, watching the moment where Patrick buys Kat a guitar, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize that Oikawa’s staring at you instead of the screen.

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You’re, like… really into this.”

You scoff, flicking your gaze back to the movie. “I just appreciate good cinema.”

“Oh, so you’re a romcom person.”

You hesitate—because there’s something about the way he says it, a sort of curiosity that feels deeper than just casual conversation. It could be interpreted as judgmental, but somehow, the way he says it doesn’t seem to be. Still, you brush it off, nodding begrudgingly. “Yeah. So?”

Oikawa hums, glancing back at the screen as if weighing his words. Then, without looking at you, he says, “Do you think this stuff actually happens?”

“What, grand romantic gestures?”

“Yeah. Stuff like this. The running through the airport thing. The whole public love confession in front of the entire school thing. Do you think it’s real?”

You consider it for a moment, shifting in your seat. “I think… I think people want it to be real,” you admit, watching as Patrick and Kat kiss in the movie’s final scene. “Like, deep down, even the most cynical people kind of want to believe that this kind of thing could happen to them.”

Oikawa doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression unreadable.

Then he asks, voice softer this time, “And do you?”

The question settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. Do you believe in grand gestures? In someone showing up unannounced at your door, confessing their feelings in the pouring rain? In someone looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth fighting for?

If you’re being honest, you’re a hopeless romantic at heart. It’s why you love the genre so much—because despite all your cynicism, despite every realist take you’ve ever had, a part of you still wants to believe in love that lasts. You just don’t think it’s likely. People fall out of love with each other. Feelings fade. Real life is rarely as cinematic as the movies make it seem.

You exhale, suddenly too aware of the way Oikawa’s watching you, like he sees right through you.

“I think it’s… nice in movies,” you say carefully. “But in real life, people just disappoint you. It’s not worth taking the chance and getting hurt.”

Oikawa studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your utter surprise, he smiles—small and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach do something weird.

“Well,” he murmurs, leaning back in his seat, “maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”

Your breath catches. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself, just for a second.

You force yourself to roll your eyes, turning back toward the window. “Gross,” you mutter, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Oikawa just chuckles, hitting play on When Harry Met Sally.

“Talk to me when we hit the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Then we’ll really see where you stand on romance.”

You shake your head, biting back a reluctant smile.

And as the flight drags on, you realize—with a sinking feeling—that you don’t actually mind sitting next to Oikawa Tooru as much as you thought you did.

Oh God. That can’t be good.

four.

Halfway through the scene where Harry and Sally are in flight, you decide, after much internal conflict, that you’ll allow yourself to like Oikawa for this flight and this flight alone. It’s harmless. A temporary indulgence. You can enjoy the anonymity, let yourself sink into the moment, and then disappear once the plane lands. Maybe you’ll see his Olympic gameplay on TV one day, mention it offhandedly to whoever you’re with at the time, and then promptly forget about him.

Because here’s the thing: if you let yourself, you could probably fall for people pretty easily. You keep your guards up because it’s safer, but you imagine that love is like getting sucked into a black hole—you either fall forever, or you hit the ground so hard it shatters you. And if there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s your tendency to self-sabotage: you don’t remember a single relationship you’ve had where you didn’t walk away first. You really would prefer to keep your romantic fantasies in fiction; it hurts less. 

You never realized that Oikawa could share this conviction. 

He doesn’t say anything when you shift slightly toward him, resting your arm on the seat rest between you. He doesn’t comment when you fully give in, watching When Harry Met Sally with him like it’s something you’ve been doing forever. He just lets it happen—like he expected it, like he knew you’d cave.

You don’t like that. But you do like the movie.

The scene in the airport plays, Sally meticulously laying out her travel quirks—I like the aisle seat, so I can stretch my legs. I don’t like to eat between meals, but I always want something sweet after dinner. You smile to yourself. You’ve always loved the specificity of it: how she knows exactly what she likes, how she doesn’t compromise on it.

“I feel like dating you would be exhausting,” Oikawa muses abruptly, arms crossed over his chest. 

You tear your gaze away from the screen just long enough to give him a withering look. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely in your direction. “You’re too—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Particular.”

You scoff. “And you’re not?”

“Not in the same way.” He shifts slightly, smirking. “You’d analyze me to death. Pick apart every little thing I do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you wouldn’t be a terror to date.”

Oikawa grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Thinking about dating me, are we?”

“I’m thinking about how insufferable you’d be,” you correct, turning back toward the screen.

“Mm. You sure?”

You shoot him a look.

He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Shame. I’d be great at it.”

You snort. “Doubt that.”

His smirk widens. “That sounded a lot like a challenge.”

“It’s not.”

“I think it is.”

“Oikawa.”

He chuckles, finally turning back to the movie, and for some reason, you feel yourself relax again. The teasing is easier now, lighter. You don’t hate it.

And, despite yourself, you sneak another glance at him before looking back at the screen.

The movie plays on. Harry and Sally are walking through Central Park in the fall, debating the age-old question of whether men and women can be just friends. You know every word of this scene, could probably recite it in your sleep. 

“I love this part,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Oikawa glances at you, intrigued. “Why?”

“It’s just—” You pause, searching for the right words. “It’s the conversation. The way they both believe so deeply in their own side of things. And they’re both right, in different ways.”

Oikawa hums, tilting his head. “So, which one are you?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think men and women can just be friends?”

You hesitate. You’ve thought about it before, obviously—you’ve had guy friends, you’ve had moments where those friendships blurred at the edges, where you wondered if they were really as platonic as you claimed. 

“I think it depends,” you decide finally. “Some people can. Some people can’t.”

Oikawa watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable. “And what about us?”

Your breath falters; the question feels heavier than it should. You force yourself to scoff. “We’re not even friends.”

He laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is. “Cold.”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips. “I just mean we met, like, five hours ago.”

“Five very meaningful hours,” he says, nodding seriously.

You shake your head, turning back to the screen—just in time for the diner scene.

“Oh, here we go,” Oikawa murmurs.

You grin. “Cinematic excellence.”

Sally fakes an orgasm, loud and unashamed, right in the middle of Katz’s Deli. You try not to look at Oikawa as you laugh, but his presence is suddenly overwhelming, like you can feel him beside you even without looking.

“She’s got a point, you know,” he says.

“What?” You glance at him.

He gestures to the screen. “Half of dating is just making people think you’re having a good time.”

You scoff. “That’s your dating experience, maybe.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re a playboy.”

He groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“It’s outdated,” he argues. “Was I kind of a flirt in high school? Sure. But I grew out of that.”

You snort. “Did you?”

Oikawa turns to you, expression softer now. “I did,” he says, and you don’t know why, but the look in his eyes and the way his voice wavers make you believe him. 

There’s something almost sad about it, how under his layers of bravado and grandiosity, he seems just the slightest bit lonely. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, the way his jaw tenses slightly, the way his fingers drum absentmindedly against the armrest.

“I don’t know,” he continues, voice quieter. “Never really met someone who gets me like that.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can think better of it, you mumble, “I get that.”

Oikawa looks at you. Something shifts between you. Not huge, not dramatic—but something.

You clear your throat, turning back to the screen. “The best part of this movie is the ending, anyway.”

He watches you for a second longer, then smiles slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching as Harry races through the streets on New Year’s Eve, heart in his throat, words spilling out in a desperate confession. “Because he realizes it’s real.”

Oikawa hums. “And you don’t think real love is like that?”

You hesitate. You really don’t want to answer that question, not right now. So instead, you shrug. “Like I said, it’s nice in movies.”

Oikawa doesn’t push. But as the credits roll, he glances at you one last time, something unreadable in his gaze. He’s not entirely convinced by your answer, and you both know it, even if he isn’t saying it aloud.

five.

Oikawa’s phone password is his own name, which is a fun fact you discover as your flight nears hour ten.

You don’t even mean to find out—really, you don’t. He dozes off halfway through Crazy Rich Asians, phone balanced precariously on his knee, screen still lit up from whatever mindless scrolling he’d been doing before sleep claimed him. He’s slumped in his seat, arms crossed, mouth slightly open in a way that would be embarrassing if he were anyone else. But he’s Oikawa, and people like him have a way of looking effortless even in sleep.

The moment the phone slips, it’s like slow motion. It free-falls, landing with a soft thud on the armrest between you. Oikawa startles awake, lashes fluttering, hands fumbling to catch it a second too late. His fingers curl around the device, flipping it over with bleary concern, only for the screen to glare back at him—locked.

And that’s when you see it.

You don’t mean to. It’s just…right there. The exact moment his fingers trace out the unlock pattern, it clicks into place, predictable in a way that makes you snort.

“Oikawa.”

He turns toward you, still shaking off the drowsiness. “Huh?”

“Your password,” you say, fighting a smirk. “You really chose Oikawa?”

He yawns, unbothered. “And?”

“And that’s… so predictable.”

He stretches, spine arching lazily before he slouches back down, as if the conversation itself is something he can’t be bothered to put effort into. “Predictable or genius? You tell me.”

“Predictable,” you say immediately. “What if someone tries to hack you? Your name is the first thing people would guess.”

Oikawa grins. “Exactly. It’s so obvious that no one would actually think I’d use it.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I bet all your passwords are just variations of your own name.”

He makes a noise of vague offense, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s an outrageous accusation,” he says, clearly lying.

You narrow your eyes. “Your Netflix account—Oikawa123.”

He lets out a small, amused breath. “No comment.”

“Instagram? KingOikawa.”

“Hey, now—”

“Banking password?” You pause, then shake your head. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”

He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re awfully interested in my passwords, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m interested in the fact that you’re a narcissist.”

“And yet,” he muses, smirking at you, “you’re the one paying so much attention to me.”

Your lips part, an immediate retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing comes out. Because damn it, he’s right.

Somewhere between hour one and hour ten, between watching him cycle through romcoms and pretending not to care, between brushing shoulders and arguing about the best scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, between the countless small moments where his presence started feeling less like an inconvenience and more like something else entirely—you started paying attention. And he knows it.

You let out a slow breath and turn toward the window. “I hate you.”

Oikawa laughs softly. “No, you don’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired to lie.

 ***

At hour eleven, your seat neighbor learns something about you, too. It’s not even because you tell him, but because he notices.

The plane has dimmed its lights, casting everything in muted shades of blue and gray. The hum of the engine is steady, a low vibration beneath your feet. Most of the passengers have settled into varying stages of half-sleep—some curled against their window seats, others with neck pillows wedged awkwardly under their chins.

You, on the other hand, remain awake.

You lean against the window, knees drawn up slightly, arms folded. Your gaze is unfocused, staring out at the endless stretch of dark, empty sky. Exhaustion clings to you, but sleep never comes easy—not on planes, not in cars, not anywhere that isn’t familiar.

Oikawa shifts beside you, the rustle of fabric breaking the silence. Then, softly, he asks, “you don’t sleep well on planes, do you?”

You blink, a little surprised. “What?”

He nods at you. “You’ve been sitting like that for a while now. You look exhausted, but you’re still awake.”

You hesitate, because he’s right. You’ve never been good at this—at shutting your brain off, at forcing comfort where it doesn’t exist. Your body stays tense, your thoughts wired for worst-case scenarios, always preparing for turbulence that might never come.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice quieter than before. “I’ll sleep when I land.”

Oikawa watches you for a moment, then, without a word, grabs his hoodie from his lap and balls it up into something vaguely pillow-shaped.

“Here,” he says, placing it between you.

You frown at it. “What?”

“You’ll be more comfortable,” he says simply. “Try it.”

Your gaze flickers to his, searching for the inevitable teasing remark, the smugness, the gotcha. But for once, it’s not there. Just an easy, offhanded kindness.

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off before you can argue. “Just take it.”

After a moment of hesitation, you do.

And when you finally let yourself lean into it, letting the exhaustion settle into your bones, you hear him murmur—softer, barely audible— “See? Told you I’d be good at this.”

Because you’re actually significantly more comfortable and way too tired to argue, you just snuggle into the fabric and ignore your thumping heart.

 ***

At hour twelve, you wake up to warmth.

It’s subtle at first, just a gradual shift from the hazy quiet of sleep to the soft awareness of something unfamiliar. You’re warm, comfortable in a way you shouldn’t be, your head still heavy with lingering exhaustion.

Then, slowly, the details start to register.

The weight pressed lightly against your shoulder. The faint scent of something clean and familiar—fabric softener, maybe, or whatever detergent Oikawa uses. The steady rise and fall of breath, slow and even.

Your pulse stutters.

He’s leaned into you, his head resting lightly against your shoulder, body angled just slightly in your direction. His breathing is deep and even, completely at ease. At some point in the last hour, he must have drifted off.

And instead of moving away—you stayed. Your brain short-circuits. You should move. You should definitely move. But you don’t.

Instead, you sit there, utterly still, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name. Because this—this—is not how Oikawa looks on TV.

The Oikawa you’ve seen in interviews is all sharp angles and practiced charm, leaning into the cameras with a knowing smirk, effortlessly collecting attention like it’s his birthright. The Oikawa on the court is even sharper—brilliant and untouchable, playing with a confidence that borders on arrogance, eyes burning with something that makes it impossible to look away. Even after a game, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, he still performs—laughing, winking at the reporters, throwing casual remarks over his shoulder like he knows the whole world is watching.

But right now?

Right now, he’s none of those things.

His expression is unguarded, free of the practiced ease he wears like armor. His brow is smooth, his lips parted slightly, his breathing soft and steady. There’s no smirk, no carefully placed bravado—just quiet, unconscious stillness.

And it unsettles you. Because this is real.

This is not Oikawa under stadium lights or Oikawa playing to the cameras. This is just him, asleep against your shoulder, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on you.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

You exhale slowly, careful not to move too much, not to wake him. Your gaze drifts downward before you can stop yourself, just enough to see the way his hand has fallen between you, palm up, fingers lightly curled. For a second, just a second, you have the insane urge to reach out.

You don’t. Of course, you don’t. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

You turn your head toward the window, watching the faint glow of city lights far below, hoping the view will quiet whatever this feeling is.

It doesn’t. And still—you don’t wake him.

For some reason, you let him stay.

six.

There’s approximately one hour left before your plane is due to land, and you’re beginning to realize that you don’t actually want it to end.

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole situation, or maybe it’s because of your sleep-deprived delusions, but you like Oikawa. You don’t want to—really, you don’t. It would be infinitely easier if he were just another stranger you made small talk with before forgetting the moment you stepped off the plane. But no. He had to be annoying and charming and stupidly perceptive. He had to watch romcoms like he actually gives a damn about them. He had to see through you, easily and effortlessly, as if he simply understood you.

And now, because the universe is cruel and loves to humiliate you personally, you’re sitting here in the final stretch of this flight, hyper-aware of every single second ticking down, not wanting it to be over.

Oikawa doesn’t seem to share your existential crisis. He’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes, scrolling lazily through his phone, one elbow propped against the armrest between you. Every so often, he glances up at the in-flight map, watching as the little airplane icon inches closer to Tokyo.

You hate that it makes your stomach sink.

You shift in your seat, pressing your temple against the cool window, staring out at the early morning sky. You wonder if this is how romcom characters feel in that inevitable third-act moment, when they realize they’ve accidentally gone and caught feelings. When they recognize, with dawning horror, that the person they were supposed to be indifferent to has somehow carved their way into their life.

The difference, of course, is that those characters always get a happy ending.

You don’t know what you get.

The PA system crackles overhead. A flight attendant reminds everyone to prepare for descent. Around you, there’s the familiar rustle of people adjusting in their seats, pulling out jackets, stretching the stiffness from their limbs.

Oikawa shifts beside you, adjusting his hoodie. “Almost there,” he murmurs.

You hum, noncommittal. You think he’s going to leave it at that, but then he glances at you, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to his edges. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. “You okay?”

Your grip tightens on the armrest. He notices too much. You should’ve known that he would see it—the way you’re staring too long at the window, the way you haven’t snapped at him in a while.

You force yourself to scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oikawa smirks like he knows something you don’t. “No reason.”

You hate that. You hate how easy he makes it look, the whole watching-you-like-you’re-a-puzzle-he’s-figuring-out thing. You hate that part of you wants him to keep looking.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the window. The seatbelt light dings on. The plane begins its slow descent, the city below coming into sharper focus.

It’s almost over.

 ***

Airports are supposed to be soulless places. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, as you walk through the terminal—bleary-eyed, exhausted, your carry-on digging into your shoulder. Your brain is already working on a plan: get your bag, get through customs, forget Oikawa Tooru exists.

That plan lasts approximately five seconds before you hear it.

A cheer. Loud, unmistakable, coming from somewhere near Arrivals. You glance over, along with half the airport, and that’s when you see them.

A couple, standing in the middle of the terminal like a goddamn movie scene. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a duffel slung over his shoulder—is staring at the other like he can’t quite believe she’s real. The girl—small, blonde, practically vibrating—throws her arms around his neck and kisses him so dramatically that the people around them actually applaud.

You blink. “What the fuck.”

Oikawa appears at your side, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching the scene unfold. You can feel him glance at you, the smirk already forming.

“Well,” he says, voice smug, “would you look at that.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, still watching the couple, who have now dissolved into an absolute mess of forehead kisses and whispered I missed yous. It’s excessive. It’s dramatic.

It’s also… kind of nice.

You hate that you think that.

Oikawa stretches, tilting his head toward you. “So?”

You frown. “So, what?”

His smirk widens. “Do you believe in it yet?”

Your heart does something stupid. Because the question—it’s not just a callback to your in-flight debate. It’s not just him poking fun at your skepticism. It’s softer than that. More curious. Hopeful, even.

Do you believe in grand gestures? Do you believe in love that doesn’t disappoint? Do you believe in something real?

The answer forms before you can stop it. 

“…I think I’m starting to.”

Oikawa stills. Just for a second. Then, slowly, his grin shifts into something real.

You exhale, turning back toward the baggage claim, but before you can walk away, something stops you. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the high of stepping off a fourteen-hour flight and still feeling wired.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach for his hoodie pocket.

Oikawa blinks. “Uh—”

You pull out his phone, type in his password, and create a new contact in his list. You quickly type in your number, and pause for a second, considering, then—just to be an ass—save your name as oikawa hater. Then you hand it back to him.

Oikawa takes it, glancing between you and the screen, lips curling into something almost incredulous.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m actually speechless.”

“A first for you, I’m sure.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes flickering back to his phone. He stares at your contact name for a second too long, like he’s memorizing it. Like he wants to. And then he locks his screen, tucks it back into his hoodie, and glances at you—grinning, smug, a little bit victorious.

“So,” he muses, as the baggage carousel hums to life. “Do I get to keep my title as your Peter Kavinsky now?”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You like me,” he says in a sing-song voice. “What happened to love only being good in movies?”

And maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the weird 6AM haze of existing between time zones. But as you step toward baggage claim, you swear—just for a second—Oikawa looks at you like the answer to that question might matter more than anything else.

Honestly, nothing is confirmed. He might never text you, or even if he does, who knows if you two would even make it past the first date. The world could end tomorrow, or he could completely forget about you, the way you thought he would. There’s always the chance that you’ll get hurt anyway. But he deserves to hear it. You, against all odds, want him to know.

So you turn, meet his eyes, and say, completely honestly, “Maybe you’re worth taking a chance on.”

⨭ closing; i wrote this instead of paying attention in my lecture lol i don't really know how i feel about this one yet but here's to hoping it'll grow on me when i'm not so tired from a long day of uni classes </3 let me know yalls thoughts but pls don't be mean :') thank u and love u all

[kingkat12]

hurt people hurt people (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: alcohol consumption, ANGST, throwing up, gore, jealousy schemes, Roman calling people uncouth mongoloids which is literally the same as in the book lol, and major risk of emotional damage (I warned you)

summary: this night would turn out to be the worst of your life-- of our lives. I hope you don't mind that I'm talking to you directly this time?

word count: 11,273

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°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･seven minutes in heaven masterlist

a/n: this is absolutely insane to me... I cannot believe I've FINISHED WRITING A BOOK?? thank you all SO so so much for being a part of this wild ride and for supporting my work, I couldn't have gotten here without all the love and all the comments, I couldn't have gotten this far without you all; therefore, I'm so so excited to give you the ultimate gift-- the last chapter of seven minutes in heaven!! ENJOY!!<333

... Alright.

We've gotten this far. It's Friday, and I need to give Roman an answer, so I'll be quick; after all the shit that has gone down these past months, after everything I've brought you along with me for, I only have one question for you...

Have you understood it yet?

Have you really?

I could sit on Jasmine's front porch for hours and tell you the story of Roman Godfrey over and over, but nothing would ever change. You'd still love him, you'd still ache for him, just as I've done since the moment I saw him. We're in the same boat, after all-- you and I.

Oh, and speaking of Jasmine; her party was the best I had attended in years. Catch the irony? The bass from the music inside thudded through the floor of the porch, vibrating up through my shoes, through my bones, syncing with the frantic rhythm of my heart, and I was therefore glad to be outside now; the ceilings had felt too low, the walls too close, and the crowd swelled like a living, breathing thing-- loud, erratic, suffocating. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe.

But out on the porch, right now, I could. Even when I thought about the fact that one week had passed, that I was supposed to have an answer for Roman regarding whether we could get together again or not, I could at least breathe. 

I let out a sharp laugh for no one but myself, clutching the bottle of rosé I had managed to steal from my parents' cupboard. It was almost empty now, which was a first for me; I wasn't the biggest drinker, initially. Or was I? I couldn't make up my mind. 

Being drunk, alone, and vulnerable at a party wasn't the smartest thing I could be doing, I know. As if she would magically appear, I swayed a little where I sat on the porch step glancing around for Letha-- I remember her smiling at me when we walked in together, but... wait, had she actually? Maybe she hadn't? Maybe that was someone else? Or maybe I just wanted her to smile, so I made it up? You'd believe me, wouldn't you? You'd have no choice but to. 

You have no choice but to see what's gonna unfold tonight through my eyes, actually. And maybe I'm finally talking directly to you because I can't deal with it all alone?

... Don't click away just yet, please. 

Stay, just a little longer.

Yes, you.

I made sure to drink the last few drops left of my rosé before saying bye to the quietness of Jasmine's front porch. My steps were heavy as I dragged my feet back into the house, yet the soundwave that hit me when I opened the door nearly knocked me to the ground nonetheless-- it didn't take long before my head started pounding to the beat of the music again.

All I knew, was that I needed to look busy. I needed to not stay too long in one place, just in case I'd run into people I didn't want to run into; I was still a bit scarred from my hellish prom-night, where I hadn't managed to get away from Daniel when he dragged me down the hall. However, he wasn't here tonight, so my biggest evasions were Letha and Roman. Sometimes, you just have to be drunk and miserable in peace, no?

Instinctively, I toyed with the vial of Roman's blood around my neck for comfort, letting the chain slip through my fingers; I had missed the weight of it. Missed the feeling of having him so close to my heart. I twisted it in the light-- red, gleaming, sharp. It had felt right to wear it tonight, and I thought it would serve as a comfort (and it did), but at the end of it all, I was still at a party I didn't want to be at.

The music was too loud. The lights were too bright. Everything moved too fast, or maybe too slow?-- I couldn't tell. I wasn't even sure of anything anymore, except that this place smelled like beer and sweat and smoke, and I put away my rosé on a nearby table and switched it with an unopened cider a bit further away. As long as no one caught me stealing, I could get away with it, right? Now that I was at it, I also grabbed the jacket closest to me hanging on the rack in the hallway, wrapping it around me despite it not being mine-- the weight of it nearly made it stumble, yet I persisted.

The cider was cold in my hand, and shockingly so. Nonetheless, I slipped it into the pocket of my jacket as I choked back a drunk hiccup-- it was only when a couple stumbled past me, bumping into me rather harshly, that I realized I had to get away from the main event of the party, which was downstairs.

I felt so dead. So, so dead. My body was simply dead weight-- dead, dead, dead. Broken. I couldn't handle this feeling, so I climbed the stairs, clutching the banister like it was the only thing anchoring me to this earth. My legs felt heavy, but my brain felt heavier, and every step echoed through my skull. Thud. Thud. Thud. I stopped halfway up because-- I don't know? I forgot why I was going up in the first place. There was an empty spot at the top of the stairs, a place where the purple lights didn't reach, where the music was muffled, where I could pretend for a second that I wasn't completely falling apart. So I slumped down, pulling the jacket tighter around me as if it could protect me from the cold that had nothing to do with the air.

And that's when I felt it-- the pack of cigarettes in the pocket. 

Not mine. 

Roman's.

It took me a good few seconds before I realized I had picked his jacket out of all the people that had put them away on the rack, and I could only groan. Suppressing another hiccup, my fingers brushed against the familiar cardboard, the worn edges, and the faint scent of cinnamon that clung to the paper. With some further rummaging in the pockets, I found his blood-red lighter, yet the back of it felt rougher than before; I had held it out for him several times, you see.

I flipped it, holding my breath--

Only to realize that Roman had carved our initials into the back of it.

After all the times he had made fun of me for doing that exact thing to a tree a while back, I could only huff at the irony as some people stepped over my body to get up the stairs. The thumping of my head only worsened, because honestly? In this state? It felt like an invitation. Roman could've literally carved I-know-you-stole-my-jacket-so-take-a-smoke-you-pretty-little-fucker, and it would've been the same thing. Or did the carvings make it more private? Should I maybe not be touching this at all?

... Fuck it.

I took one out, hands trembling like a damn idiot, and lit it. The flame flickered, tiny and fragile, and I stared at it like I was seeing fire for the first time.

Then, I inhaled--

And holy fucking shit, you wouldn't believe how awful it was. Sharp and spicy and bitter, and it clawed at my throat like it wanted to kill me. Maybe that's what Roman secretly wanted? To kill me with these fucking cigarettes? I coughed, choking on the smoke, but I didn't stop. I took another drag, then another, until my head was spinning and my chest felt tight, and I didn't care. I wanted to feel it-- the pain of it all. I wanted it to be physical, wanted it to kill me. I wanted it to set my lungs ablaze, and I wanted it to burn me up from the inside with slow and tortuous flames.

Pained, I sat there, legs pulled up against my chest, with the cigarette between my fingers like it belonged there, and I let the smoke sting my eyes, sting my lungs. Over and over, I told myself it was just the smoke that made me want to cry... nothing else. 

And then, of course, of fucking course, I saw him.

Appearing into the hallway with a careless laugh, I watched Roman through the banister of the stairs, standing there like some kind of vision, like the universe just wanted to punish me for giving in to a sinful cigarette. He hadn't seen me-- not yet. But I couldn't take my eyes off him, couldn't stop the way my heart leapt and sank all at once. He looked beautiful. Terrible. The kind of beauty that ruins you. Dark hair, unruly shirt, his eyes flickering with something I couldn't read from across the room; and then I saw who he was with. 

Jessica was there, breathlessly clinging to Roman. My Roman. It was clear that she revelled in the arm he had lazily draped over her shoulders, and she giggled as her hand clutched at his shirt like he was the best thing that had ever happened to her, like she was blessed to be getting even a sliver of his attention. 

But Roman wasn't looking at her, not really.

No-- he was scanning the room like he was waiting for something, someone.

And when his eyes found mine, everything stilled. The music, the voices, the haze of smoke and bodies; all of it faded when our eyes locked.

I froze on the stairs, the cigarette hanging between my fingers-- I inhaled, slow and deep, trying not to fall apart, and exhaled like it could push him out of my system as I refused to look away.

But Roman didn't move. Not yet.

It was subtle-- the way his mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. For a second, I thought he was proud to see me smoking, finally, until the glint in his eyes turned sharp, predatory. He glanced at Jessica like he had forgotten she was there, and in that split second, I knew.

And you know what's gonna happen now, too, don't you?

Roman shifted, turning toward her, and his hand came up-- fingertips tracing her jaw, slow, almost lazy, just like he used to touch me. Jessica leaned in, her eyes fluttering closed, hungry for him, oblivious to who, what, she was keening against. 

And then he kissed her, right there, right in front of me.

Deeply. Lovingly.

Roman's plush lips moved against hers, his hand tangled in her hair, and the sight of it was absolutely brutal-- it was the kind of kiss meant to calm someone, to soothe them, to show them you love them, and it was exactly how he used to kiss me. The sight of it nearly made me throw myself down the stairs, my body aching with the pain and betrayal of it all, but the kiss wasn't about her; it would never be about her.

Because the whole time, Roman's eyes stayed locked on me.

I couldn't look away, not when he commanded my attention in this way. He kissed her like he was punishing me, like this was the type of psychological warfare-discipline I needed to properly understand that I wanted him just as much as he wanted me. And all I could do was sit there like the pathetic fucking loser I was, the cigarette burning down to the filter, smoke stinging my eyes, my throat, my heart. I felt myself grab at the vial of his blood tucked away under my shirt; I couldn't look away, but I couldn't stand to watch it, because I wasn't just watching him destroy me-- I was letting him.

When Roman finally pulled back (after a millennia passed, surely), Jessica looked dazed, like she'd just realized she was the luckiest girl in the world, her lips swollen and red. But Roman didn't even glance at her-- his thumb brushed his own bottom lip, that wicked smirk carved into his face, and he stared at me like he knew exactly what he had done.

He wanted me broken-- broken enough to come running right back. 

But I wasn't going to break this quickly.

It took everything that I had in me to get up, yet I somehow managed. With a shaky breath, and with my heart actively falling apart, I slid up along the wall for support, hoping I wouldn't fall right down the stairs-- I wasn't exactly making it easier for myself, because I was simultaneously throwing away my used cigarette and lighting a new one. 

Wrapping myself further up in Roman's jacket, I let the cigarette hang loosely from my lip as I hoisted my arm up to raise my middle finger at him.

Roman chuckled, clearly having expected it, before responding with draping his arms around Jessica, cupping her face as she continued talking up at him, oblivious that he was having a stare-off with me. Roman dragged his fingers through her golden locks like he loved her above anyone else in the world, urging me to come down and fight for his attention, for him, for us--

But God, he was insufferable. I could see it all the way from here; he was mouthing come on.

Come here. 

I know you want to.

... And I really wanted to, believe me. 

But instead, I snorted, rolled my eyes, and shook my head-- and this turned out to be one of the worst ideas of the night. Shaking my head in this state, full of nicotine and rosé, was certainly not one of my brightest moments. With quick steps, I turned around on my heel and marched up the stairs, away from Roman and his fucked up antics as the back of my throat filled with acid. I couldn't throw up on the stairs, now, could I?

The first bathroom I found ended up being occupied, hence why I stormed into the kitchen on the second floor-- how massive was this house? I had never seen a kitchen on any floor but the first. In retaliation of what Jasmine had done to me earlier this year, I stumped my new cigarette on the wall and dragged it along the tapestry, wasting it. My thoughts were racing with how infuriating Jasmine's stupid house was, and how pissed she'd be when she saw how I had trashed her wall, but I pushed my way to the sink, hunching over it just in case I was about to barf up my whole left lung.

The kitchen was loud, hot, too hot, and filled with the thump of the party music bleeding in from the living room. It pounded through the walls, muffled the laughter around me, and people shouting over the music blended into a hum that made my temples ache-- I was two seconds away from bursting into tears.

Thankfully, my only source of comfort appeared behind me with a soothing hand on my back, reaching for my hair as I leaned over the sink; Letha. Her touch gave me a major deja vu from the night Roman and I first kissed, when she had held my hair back when I felt sick.

Roman and I-- kissing.

Roman... kissing.

Roman kissing Jessica.

I let myself gag at the memory as tears welled in my eyes. "There, there," Letha cooed, bending down to catch the look on my face. I wondered whether she smelled the cigarettes on me, or whether she had noticed the fact that I was wearing Roman's jacket. "What's got you like this, hm? You just disappeared, and now..." She leaned in, sniffing me. "Girl, you smell like a bombed whorehouse! Who have you been hanging around? Jack?"

The memory of Jack Edwards almost made me laugh-- I caught myself, fighting back the acid in my throat as I made sure the vial of Roman's blood was safely tucked beneath my shirt and out of Letha's sight. "I drank the whole bottle of rosé," I confessed.

"What? You had barely touched it the last time I saw you, how on earth did you manage?" Letha's laugh was teasing, her voice laced with that soft concern she always wore like perfume. Heavy. Suffocating. I wondered whether this was how it felt like to live in East Germany after the Second World War-- watched.

"I don't know," I muttered, placing my hand over the vial again. If I really focused, I could imagine that it was beating, like Roman's caged blood was still pumping to his heart. "I don't feel good."

Letha hummed, patting my back over and over. "You can take it just a little more, though, right...? I told Jack you felt bad about what happened on the bleachers the other day, and he still wants to have a chat with you!--"

"No!" I sucked in a sharp breath, gagging on the vomit threatening its way up my throat. Grabbing the counter to steady myself, I rocked back and forth to keep myself grounded.

Yet Letha pressed on as she pushed people away from the sink; this party was way too damn crowded. "But Jack could be the perfect distraction for you!" she insisted. "He's cute, he's kind, he's nothing like Roman, he's!--"

"I said no!" Jack hadn't told Letha that Roman and I had fucked; that was all that mattered to me. Nonetheless, I somehow managed to not throw up when I straightened up, taking deep breaths as I turned to her. "You're really fucking insistent, do you know that?"

Letha raised an eyebrow, setting her drink down with a soft clink. "Christ, what's wrong now?"

I didn't answer right away, hoping my offence would sift through my fingers. The question hung heavy and loaded in the air, too simple, too dismissive. The noise of the party pressed in from all sides, but here, with her, it felt like we were in a vacuum, the tension building by the second, and just for a moment, I had the oddest thought-- Letha would've been a good KGB agent. Her interrogation techniques could be polished, sure, but somewhere in that blonde girl was an intense, manipulative Russian. 

... God, I was way too drunk.

With a sigh, I leaned back over the sink, trying to keep myself steady. "Guess I'm just tired, Letha--"

"Tired from what, smoking?" Letha tilted her head, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I can smell it on you, y'know? You smell like a Godfrey. Is this about Roman again?"

Something about her tone set my teeth on edge. I didn't answer, but my silence said enough; I was afraid I'd start barking if I opened my mouth.

"Are we really going back to this?" Letha huffed, softly, like she was doing me a favour, like she hadn't been the one dragging knives across my heart for weeks. "How many times do I have to tell you that you need to start taking active steps to get over him? It's like you never listen! My words go in one ear and out the other!"

I felt the first sparks of anger flare in my chest, hot and sudden; "You've told me a lot of things,"

"What's that supposed to mean?!--"

"It means," I hissed, gripping the counter so hard my knuckles were going white. "That I don't think you've ever really been honest with me. Not about him, not about anything."

Letha let out an offended laugh before her smile vanished-- the look on my face was unmistakeable, and it set her off. "I've always been honest with you, unlike what you have been with me!"

"Bullshit. Do you really not get it, or are you just pretending as always?"

Her brows knit together; "Pretending?"

"Yeah, pretending. Like how you pretended to support me, to be my friend, to have my back? I've let you do this for weeks!" My chest tightened, each word tumbling out sharper than the last. "God, Letha, you reacted like I murdered someone when I told you about Roman and I! I was honest with you, I fessed up, and you basically spat in my face!"

Every inch of Letha seemed to tighten. "You're drunk," she said through gritted teeth. "Calm down, please, before you throw up all over yourself!--"

"Oh, fuck you,"

"... What?!"

I had to suppress a grin; I had waited too long to say that. 

Letha's mouth opened slightly, stunned. She glanced around the party, making sure no one was catching the verbal beating she was taking-- I knew she'd care if someone noticed. She'd care a lot. "You know why I reacted the way I did!" she hissed, lowering her voice as she got closer to my face. "He's been getting with my friends for ages, and you were getting yourself into something dangerous!--"

"No!" I cut her off, voice rising along with my nausea. "No, I told you about it because I trusted you! I didn't lie, I came clean to you, and fucking hell, Jesus treated Judas better than you treated me!--" 

My yelling, along with the mix of rosé and cigarettes, finally pushed my body over the edge. Gagging, I threw myself over the sink to finally throw up; "O-Oh, fuck!--" The concoction that left me was beyond anything I had ever secreted. All my pain, all my anger, balled up into whatever the fuck it was that left my mouth. 

Immediately, Letha's hands flew to my hair, holding it back as I threw up in Jasmine's sink. Despite our fight, despite the verbal abuse, she was still making sure I was alright-- it made my heart ache. Everything about this night was tearing at my heart, actually; images of Roman kissing Jessica flashed before my eyes as my body burned. Was I maybe about to have a heart attack? I was surely susceptible of one.

As I cried into the sink, sobbing with pain, Letha traced soothing patterns into my back, hushing me gently. "Shh... You'll be alright," she tried. "I know it feels like your world is ending, but you'll be alright. Someday, you won't even remember this."

My chest felt like it was caving in on itself. How could I ever forget any of this? How could I ever forget Roman?

"I'm sorry if I've been a bad friend," Letha continued, carefully stroking through my hair. "I hope you can forgive me... and I hope that we can someday forgive each other. Because at the end of all of this, through it all, all I ever wanted was for us to be friends again, and... for me to have someone in my court if everything goes down." Her words were small, fragile; "I just wanted my friend back."

I garnered the strength to look back at Letha, heart pounding, and before I could think it through, my drunken confession came tumbling out; "I slept with him,"

Letha's eyes rounded out as she slowly let go of my hair. "What?" she breathed.

"Yeah," My words were quiet as I pulled my shirt down to expose the hickey on the peak of my shoulder. "On the library floor, a week ago." I was sure she could spot the outline of the vial around my neck as I adjusted the jacket draped around me-- I could see in Letha's eyes that everything in her mind was actively falling apart.

And therefore, I delivered the final blow; "Can you forgive me now? Truly, Letha?"

The silence between us that followed was crushing, all-taking. It felt like I had been sucked into a plastic bag, with the air being drained with me stuck inside of it. Letha's lips parted, ready to speak, yet I saw that she couldn't find the right words to say.

But what followed would flip the narrative completely. 

"Yeah... I can," 

My face ticked, and I felt my eye twitch as my words left me with my next breath; "What?" The music pounded through the walls, bass-heavy and relentless. Voices swelled, laughter spiked, but here, in the dim glow of the kitchen, everything felt suffocatingly small. My stomach was still twisting, nausea rolling in waves as I clutched the counter-- what was happening?

Letha's breath was unsteady, but when she spoke again, her voice was calm and unshaken. "I can forgive you," she repeated, like she was offering me the grandest admission of mercy.

I blinked at her, the words catching somewhere in my throat.

With a sigh, Letha brushed nonexistent dust off her dress before smoothing down her hair. "Because that's what friends do. We forgive, even when it hurts... And you're my best friend, so this time, I forgive you," 

Somewhere behind us, someone let out a shriek of laughter, bottles clinking in celebration. My head was spinning, my stomach churning from more than just the alcohol-- this felt wrong. Was this really happening?

Letha tilted her head slightly, watching me struggle. "I'm not going to pretend this doesn't hurt," she admitted, voice barely audible over the chaos outside the kitchen. "But I mean it. I just want you to be okay, and it's okay to... slip up, I guess. You're human, unlike a big part of him." She took a step back, giving me space-- she was the gracious one here, as always. "Because that's what friends do, right?" Her lips curved, not quite a smile. "We forgive. We put each other first."

The weight of her words settled in my chest in the most unpleasant way possible. "I'm supposed to tell him whether I want to give us another chance," I confessed. "Like... tonight. Right now."

Letha's hand found my back again, fingers light. I was scared she'd get mad, that she'd start cussing me out, but alas... nothing. "Okay, I see," she said, softer now. "I know you love him, but love doesn't change what he is. It doesn't change what he could do to you. Keep that in mind when you make your decision."

I swallowed hard, nausea curling tight inside me. Did I know? Did I really? My grip tightened around the counter; was I getting swayed?

Letha shook her head, her brows knitting together, like she hated to be the one saying this; "You don't have to prove anything. Not to him, not to me. You just... have to do what's right," She sighed, giving me one last careful look. "And I hope you know that I'll be here for you, no matter what."

... Fuck.

Roman's pack of cigarettes felt heavy in my pocket again, and I hated it. Hated the blood-red lighter in the other, next to the cold cider. Hated the way he had carved our initials into it like some twisted promise. But fate had a tight, deadly grip around me that I couldn't get out of-- I somehow managed to wry myself away from Letha and the kitchen with a red solo cup filled with water, downing it as I made my way down the stairs. 

It was time to give Roman an answer-- the answer I didn't want to give him, the one I never thought I'd give him.

I shoved my way down through the crowd with my heart thumping in my chest. Was I gonna find Roman with Jessica? This was giving me an intense case of deja vu from all the times I had actually seen him with other girls, before we ever started dating. Was I gonna catch him making out with Jessica somewhere, even after he had sent me that excruciatingly long voice mail where he could only profess his love for me over and over?

But that wasn't love.

Him kissing Jessica in front of me like that-- that couldn't be love. 

Letha had been right all along, hadn't she?

I pushed through the people dancing in the living room downstairs, trying to ignore the laughter and the small talk that surrounded me. It felt like a different world, one that had nothing to do with me right now. I was desperate for a moment of clarity, and the only person who could give me that was Roman... yet I didn't dare to find him. I didn't want to see him with Jessica. I couldn't bare the sight of it.

I shoved open the back door to the yard, and cold night air hit me like a slap. I welcomed it. The darkness out there was different from the party lights. It was real. Still. Empty.

I wasn't alone for long; I heard footsteps behind me, and the soft, deliberate crunching against the floor of the porch quickly become unmistakeable. The door closed shut as I leaned against the wood structure leading to the garden-- I knew who this was. Letting out a sigh, I reached for the cider in my pocket, cracking it open with a hiss despite knowing I shouldn't have any more drinks tonight. 

The first sip was sharp, bitter, but it cut through the lump in my throat I got from knowing Roman was here with me, alone. I let my eyes follow him when he walked into sight, leaning against the wooden frame opposite me with that Godfrey nonchalance I was used to from him. His shirt had been tucked back in, his hair had been combed back into place-- something told me he had prepared to corner me since he watched me leave with his jacket. 

Roman's eyes were so mesmerizing, so green. It was the most beautiful shade of green. It was such a shame to see them glossed over by that searching look in them, the exact look that gave away his hidden anxiety. Finally, he spoke, nodding to my drink with his usual charm; "I don't think you should be having more of those," 

It only made me clutch the cider harder, steading my footing on the porch so that I wouldn't tumble into the grass to my side. "Fuck off,"

"Oh, yeah? You wanna go there?"

"Yeah," After seeing him kissing Jessica like that? Sure. 

Roman rolled his eyes, clenching his jaw to stop himself from arguing back right away. He looked so strict like this-- it was painfully arousing. He plucked the bottle from my grasp with ease, lifting it to his lips as if daring me to stop him; his smirk widened when I didn't.

Forfeiting my cider allowed me to dip my hand back into my pocket and fish out the lighter and the cigarettes. Roman's eyes widened as he watched me put two cigarettes in my mouth, about to light them both, before he snatched one of them from between my lips; "Careful, there," he said, throwing it away somewhere. "Don't get too excited. You'll go into nicotine shock."

"Don't care," I lit the one I had left, but not without glaring at him properly. "I already threw up tonight."

"You did?"

"Yeah,"

"Oh, you fragile thing," he cooed, amused. "You're going to ruin yourself like this."

I bet that some part of him would've loved to see that. I snorted; "Don't care," 

Roman's brows drew together when he realized I was completely serious, when he saw that my empty look wasn't wavering. "Yeah... I got that," He mumbled, shaking his head. "Jeez, you're dramatic tonight."

I let the silence stretch as I simply glared at him; if he thought this was me at my most dramatic, then he didn't know me at all.

Roman watched me, waiting for me to argue, to snap at him, to give him something to work with. When I didn't, his smirk faltered and his voice softened; "What is this, then, hm? You trying to prove a point?"

I inhaled deeply. "Nah, that's your way of doing this," The smoke burned, stung my throat, but I needed it, needed something to hold onto as my pulse pounded against my ribs; it made my pain about his kiss with Jessica physical. I needed it to be, so my brain wouldn't fry itself.

Roman sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Listen, I get it, alright? You're mad about Jessica. You wanna play hard to get, fine. But let's cut the bullshit, cause you're not going anywhere," He said it like it was a fact, like it was already decided-- "Not really."

He was so sure of it.

So sure of us.

I couldn't look at him anymore. I couldn't watch Roman fall apart all over again when he would realize what I had chosen, not when I was still so irrevocably angry with him. My gaze fell to the floor as I remained silent, waiting for it to dawn on him. 

Roman's smirk wavered in the cold night air. He searched my face, waiting for the usual pattern-- for me to scoff, roll my eyes, shove him and say something biting but not final.

... I did none of those things.

His fingers twitched with nervous anticipation. "You're mad," he said, slower this time. "Say something. Humour me, yeah? Pretend that you actually love me, just for a second."

"Fuck you,"

"Baby, come on—"

"Don't say I don't love you. If I didn't, I wouldn't be standing here after you pulled that crap with Jessica just now! If I didn't love you, I would be inside running around to find Jack,"

Roman's green eyes widened— was it the shock of the threat, or the fact that he had made that threat a reality he had to fear? The party seemed so far away, and our life together felt even further away than that. "I'm sorry about Jessica," he breathed. "You know it's nothing personal, you know I can't stand her guts. I just thought you'd... I thought it would be good to show you what life's gonna be like if we don't end up together."

I almost chuckled-- did he really think that was a good plan? Did he really think that'd work? My eyes darted to the cigarette between my fingers while I wondered whether or not to torture myself with another drag. "You wanted to show me that you'll go back to sleeping with the cheerleaders while I become a chain-smoker?" I snarked. "Sounds like a wet dream of yours."

"That's not what I meant!—"

"What did you mean, then?!"

"I don't!— I don't want to keep talking about this!" Roman flailed his arms, frustrated; "It's not relevant, because we're not going to be apart, and because we're going to my place later and!-- and you're going to fall asleep next to me again, and your hair will be all over my pillow in the morning, and we're going to be okay!"

Oh, how I wanted us to be.

But the way he described it made me realize he might've not fully developed his consequential thinking. Did he really think that was a realistic end of this night after what he had done?

I felt tongue-tied by my shock, frozen like an icicle to Jasmine's stupid porch. What he had just described, was all I wanted. I wanted to go to Roman's place later, wanted to feel his arm around me as he pulled me closer in his slumber, and I wanted to lie around in bed while fighting sleep to get a few more minutes with him. Swallowing hard, I did my best to waft away the memories flashing before me, yet I soon realized it was an impossible task. 

Roman's eyes rounded out with his next breath, his heart visibly breaking--

"Cause... you're choosing us, right?"

My mouth repeatedly opened and closed, stuck. How could I, after everything?

Meanwhile Roman's gaze flickered over my mine, searching for some confirmation, some reassurance that I was just being difficult, that I was still his-- it was a heartbreaking sight. It only made me grip the cigarette tighter, feeling the heat against my fingers. It was dying out, just as I was, just as we were.

Something cracked in Roman's expression. "You're serious," he breathed.

It broke me to realize that I was. 

This had to end.

It had to.

Roman's face hardened as he took a step closer. The air between us thickened, turning heavy with something more than just tension-- something sharp, something raw. "You're seriously doing this?" he muttered, the disbelief in his tone prevailing. "After everything? After all of this time, you just-- we're done? Like that?"

My throat was too tight, and all the words got trapped inside. In a way, it felt like I was choking on everything said and unsaid.

Roman's hands were clenched, and the tension in his shoulders made him seem even taller, more imposing. A part of me was scared he'd pounce, that he'd be overcome by whatever upir instincts he had beneath his pretty appearance-- I didn't want to think about it. I was afraid I'd scream and run away if I did. To distract myself, I put my cigarette out on the ledge nearby; I didn't care about the state of Jasmine's house.

I wasn't sure whether my quiet motions read as nonchalance, but it seemed to shove Roman closer to the edge. "You're pushing me away, even after all my fucking reassurance? Even after your voicemail? I gave you everything, I showed you that I'm nothing to be scared of, and you're just... walking away like I'm nothing, over some kiss? Did you ever even love me?"

That question knocked the air out of me. "Some kiss?!"

"Yes!"

"Roman you've— you've proven yourself to be exactly who I feared you'd be all along!" I yelled. "Someone who hurts me!"

Desperate, Roman grabbed my arm, his grip tight, but not enough to hurt. His eyes searched mine, pleading-- "Come on," he begged, his voice shaking now. "I love you. I really fucking love you."

"No! Because you if truly did love me, you wouldn't be hurting me as a means to get back together with me! You're a child!" I snapped, finally giving in to my frustrations. Drunkenly trying to wry myself out of his grip, I felt my tears burn in my eyes, blurring my vision. "This has to end! You and I, it has to end! Letha's right, you will always want to fuck the cheerleaders, and you will always be a upir, and that will never change!--"

My breath stopped in my chest-- fuck. 

Letha.

It was the first time I had verbally confirmed it, and I knew I had shot myself in the foot with it.

The name hung in the air like poison, and Roman looked like he'd been gutted by it.

He stared at me for a long, horrible moment, his eyes wide with disbelief. His grip loosened around my wrist; "You--" he started, his voice hoarse. "You're... serious? So that's it? You're throwing us away because of her? Because of the shit she's been feeding you to take revenge on me?!"

"It's not all because of her, Roman, but she's right! Letha is right that you'll always be dangerous, that you'll always have some underlying urges, and that you'll never be safe to be around!" My voice cracked as I said it; there it was, a cold, harsh truth I couldn't ignore anymore. "You said you'd never hurt me, but you're like a ticking fucking bomb in more aspects than I can count on my fingers!"

That was it; Roman snapped, his fist slamming into the wooden structure I was leaning against with a deafening crack, making it shake. "Bullshit!"  

The boom of it made me flinch and squeak in terror, and instinctively, my hands shot out to push him away, shoving him with all the strength I could muster in my panicked state. "You're scaring me again!" I yelled, heaving for air. "Stop it! I beg you, just stop it!"

Stunned by his own outburst and its consequence, Roman allowed me to push him. He could've planted himself to his spot, could've resisted with no problem, but he took a step back for my comfort.

My heart was pounded against my ribs as tears filled my eyes. I couldn't have him barging at me like that, not when I was this hurt, scared, and drunk. A man that truly loved me wouldn't be doing this, right? My legs shook with the remnants of the heaviness of the conversation, and I heaved for air with terrified gasps as I decided to turn on my heel.

Immediately, Roman went into action-- "Wait, please!" His voice instinctively softened as he rummaged through his brain for the best course of action. "I'm sorry, okay?! I just don't want to lose you, I'm freaking out here!" He reached out for me, but it was too late. 

I was already backing away, not looking back, not waiting for any more apologies— I knew I wouldn't believe them anymore. 

Even the heaviness of Roman's jacket couldn't slow me down, not when I was this desperate to get away from my terrifying breakup-- the sound of music and chatter met me when I opened the door back to the house, but the pounding of my heart nearly drowned it all out. 

Roman's voice followed me inside, each word an attempt to reel me back, but I wasn't turning around. I couldn't look at him; I couldn't do that to myself.

"Come on!" he yelled through the deafening noise. "Are we really doing this again?!"

I made my way through the living room, not looking for anything but an escape. The staircase loomed ahead, and without thinking, I shot up the stairs, taking them two at a time as my legs shook with adrenaline and fear. The air in the house felt suffocating now, the walls closing in as I reached the top of the stairs and darted down the hallway. This was not happening. This was not happening. I was too drunk for this-- were the walls actually moving? The more I looked at them, the more I had a feeling they were pulsing, inching closer to squeeze me to death.

Speaking of death-- Roman's footsteps grew closer, and his voice got louder; "Please, we can fix this! Just hear me out, please!—"

With my heart hammering in my chest, I glanced back to calculate how long I had until he caught up to me. Panicked, I grabbed at every room in the hallway, pushing past the people blocking my way as I desperately suppressed my tears from running down my cheeks.

This was not happening. 

This was not happening.

Roman dragged a hand through his hair, angry, desperate, as his long footsteps allowed him to chase me down with ease. "You're making a mistake!" he pleaded. "Let's talk it out, okay? Please, please, just listen, I love you, I'll calm down, I'm not going to hurt you, I promise!--"

With a scared squeak, I finally managed to force a door open; thank fuck. But before I could even step fully into the room, Roman's leg shot forward, forcing the door back, and in an instant, I realized there was no way I could keep him out-- I stumbled backward, eyes wide and frantic as I turned away from him to start planning my escape.

And then, my breath caught.

Because what I saw inside the room, was Letha half-naked on the bed-- 

With Peter beneath her.

My body froze for a split second before a scream ripped itself from my throat; I shrieked, mortified as I stumbled backwards.

What...

... The fuck?!

Letha and Peter scrambled to untangle themselves, their eyes widening with panic as they tried to hide the obvious. Peter's shirt was half undone, and Letha's hair was a mess, both of them completely caught off guard. The sight of them in that moment, exposed and guilty, made my chest tighten in a way I couldn't describe; I knew exactly what I had just walked in on. 

And Roman, in a blur of motion, rushed forward-- his arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling me to his chest with surprising force. One hand covered my eyes, blocking my view of the chaos I had just walked in on to shield me. "What the fuck?!" he barked, kicking the door shut behind us. "What's this?!"

My mind was actively melting against Roman's chest. It didn't help the situation that I could smell his usual cologne better than ever— God, I'd miss that smell in the coming years, wouldn't I?

But Peter and Letha were still scrambling, wide-eyed, and before they could say anything, Roman continued; "Are you out of your fucking minds?!"

Was this maybe just a drunk hallucination of sorts? Was this really happening? Letha and Peter? I should've listened to Jack earlier this week-- I should've listened to myself, because I had suspected something for a while, hadn't I? 

Peter was the first one to talk, visibly panicking; "Ro, calm down!--"

"Don't fucking tell me to calm down! What the fuck are you doing with my cousin, man?!"

"Letha and I were just!--"

"Yeah, I see what you were just doing, you filthy piece of shit!"

"Dude, I'm sorry, I tried to tell you! Over and over, I swear, I tried to!--" 

"Tell me what?! Is this not a one time thing? Is that what all your bullshit has been about?!" Roman yelled. "You calling me at prom and then not saying shit? All the times you've said you were busy when I knew you were just at home?" I could feel his chest raise with the air he forced inside his lungs-- a part of me was scared he'd faint from the anger. "You've been fucking my cousin?!"

"And you've fucked all the friends I've ever had!" Letha yelled back, protecting Peter while struggling to straighten her dress. Then she pointed to me, eyes drilling into Romans'; "I begged you not to touch her all those months ago too, but you didn't listen either!" 

A sick laugh ripped from Roman's throat, and when he finally pulled his hand away from my face, I saw it; the pure, unfiltered rage in his expression. "You have got to be fucking kidding me!" He stepped forward, eyes locking onto Letha. "You have been in her ear for weeks-- weeks!" He jabbed a finger toward me, his voice breaking slightly. "You've been telling her to stay away from me, telling her I'm dangerous, that I'll hurt her, while you've been making my life a living hell for the same thing that you have been doing too all along!"

"Roman, I!--"

"You sick fuck!" he barked, and the sheer volume of it made me flinch.

My head was spinning to the point where I thought I'd throw up again. It felt like a painful vibration in the front of my brain, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I pressed my palm to my forehead. Without thinking, I put my free hand on Roman's arm, silently telling him to give me a second. "How long has this been going on?" I tried.

Peter and Letha anxiously glanced at one another, looking like they were both ready for the world to swallow them whole. "I don't--" Letha started.

"-- Don't know," Peter mumbled, looking guilty as ever. "Three months? Maybe four?-- Ouch!"

Letha smacked his arm, visibly upset that he had admitted that. "Stop talking! You've already stressed me out with wanting to tell Roman about us, you've done enough!"

"He deserves to know!" Peter tried. His brown eyes were big with disgrace; "I told you I didn't want to hide this, I told you he might understand!"

This kicked Roman into the next gear. "Understand...? Understand?!" The boom of his voice made Peter turn white, and Letha grabbed the sheets of the bed as though they would somehow shield her. "Dude, you're fucking my cousin! I could rip your fucking head off right now if I wanted to, and you best believe that I do!--"

In timely manner, I suddenly gagged, clasping a hand over my mouth; that thankfully shut everyone up for second. This was too much for one night.

"She's gonna throw up," Letha mumbled. In true Godfrey fashion, she used this as an opportunity to start slowly scooting toward the edge of the bed, hoping for an easy escape. "We need to get her back to the kitchen sink, and then we can all talk about this when she feels better in a few days!--"

My hand shot up into the air, holding my pointer up as I recovered.

It was a very clear sign of shut up.

Shut.

Up.

I straightened my back, feeling my eye twitch with newfound anger. "Is that what you meant earlier, Letha?" I asked, my voice frail and quiet, yet steady. "When you said you wanted to have someone in your court if everything went down? Have you... been setting everything up for this?"

The silence in the room was deafening. 

Letha swallowed hard; "Look, I just--"

"Have you been breaking Roman and I up so that I'd be on your side?" I continued, cutting her off. "You knew that Peter was going to tell Roman about you two eventually. And when he'd find out, you... needed me to be your friend again so that you wouldn't be alone. Because this will... this will cost you everything, Letha." 

I gagged again at the realization-- Roman's arm shot forward to catch me from tumbling. I held onto him, feeling the tears press on in my eyes. "You didn't want to be friends with me," I breathed, my words coming out as clear whispers. "You just needed someone that was isolated. I was vulnerable, I was scared, and I was perfect for your plan, wasn't I?"

Letha's lips parted, but no words came out. She was staring at me, the usual sharpness in her eyes replaced with something I had never seen before-- guilt. Real guilt. Not the performative, self-righteous kind she always weaponized, but something raw, something vulnerable.

I could barely stand to look at her.

"Oh my God," I whispered, turning away from the scene. "You planned all of this."

Letha shook her head, frantic. "No!-- I mean, not like that, I!--"

"You what? What now?!" Roman snapped, stepping closer to the bed. His presence was suffocating, his fury burning through the room like wildfire. "You're always talking about morals, and you're always acting like you're so much better than me, but look at what you've done! So tell me, Letha, where's your moral high ground now?"

Letha's breathing was ragged, frozen in the most mortifying moment of her life. She looked back at Peter like he could somehow save her, but he just rubbed his face, looking more done than ever. "This is so fucked..." he muttered under his breath, almost like he was annoyed.

Roman's attention snapped back to him in an instant. "Oh, you think this is fucked?" He let out a humorless laugh; "You didn't even have the fucking balls to tell me yourself! You knew that Letha's been making my life hell while you've been doing God knows what with her behind my back!"

"It's not that simple!" Peter barked, scooting forward on the bed to shield Letha and give her space to breathe. "We've-- I've been into Letha for longer than I can remember!"

Letha immediately protested, and her face turned more and more red by the second; "Stop talking, stop talking, I swear to God! I'm going to die of a heart attack at this rate!" 

But her pleas didn't stop Peter. He was ready to fess up, just like he had been for a while, now. His shoulders slumped as his eyes locked with Roman's, getting ready to face his biggest secret. "Letha and I used to date, man. We used to be... together-together. She was my girlfriend for a while, but we broke up because we didn't want to hurt you, Ro, and because it was getting out of control. It was just too big of a secret to keep. But then you got together with her..." He nodded to me with a sigh. "And Letha said we were free to do whatever we pleased, and I gave in because..."

Peter turned to face Letha with a sweet shimmer in his eyes-- the type of look I recognized from all the times Roman had looked at me like that. 

"Because I love her," Peter whispered. 

I could only watch as Letha slowly dared to place her hand on top of his, and they exchanged a painfully sincere silent vow. 

The cherry on top for this moment, was when I started loudly gagging-- not because of the sight of them all loved up, but because all the drama, the stress, the alcohol, and the new sensation of nicotine. Acid crawled up my throat as I buckled over, crouching down as I tried to keep my breaths deep and steady; my brain felt like it was shutting down, and probably because it was.

Roman immediately bent down, trying to get on my level, but I wafted him away. He wouldn't be able to comfort me no matter what he did, not after how I had seen him kiss Jessica to get back at me.

I couldn't believe that I hadn't seen the signs. I couldn't believe that I hadn't noticed them being together when it had been right in front of me, all this time. Gathering strength, I spoke; "You're not really going to study philosophy, are you?"

Peter's head darted down to my crouched-over body. "What?"

"When I met you at the library," I breathed. "All that time ago, when you were reading tons of books about guilt...and you said it was because you were going to study philosophy. You've been lying to Roman and I, just like we've been lying to you. After all this fucking time... Fucking hell. We're, like, the shittiest group of people ever."

Roman, who had frozen to his spot in a mixture of disgust and shock, couldn't watch it any longer. His silence was worse than shouting. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, his nails dug into his palm, he had bit his teeth together so hard that I feared they might crack. The air in the room had changed; it was suffocating, thick with tension that pressed into my skin.

Peter dared to break it. "Roman--"

"Shut up," he hissed. "Enough."

Peter snapped his mouth shut, looking like he had just walked into traffic. Letha was frozen, her hand still resting on Peter's like she was drawing strength from him.

It didn't matter anymore— I wanted to get out. I needed to get out. Now.

"Rome," I mumbled, voice thin. "I need--"

His head darted to me immediately, and his eyes; God, his eyes. They weren't just angry anymore... they were desperate. He was coming undone too.

Letha seized the opportunity once more. "She needs air," she said quickly, standing up like she could actually be of help. "Let's just-- let's all go back down and talk about this later, okay?"

"Later?" Roman let out a sharp, breathless huff. "You don't get to decide that! Do you really think I'm ever talking to any of you uncouth mongoloids again?"

Letha huffed at the names. "But we should really figure out everything later, because you're about to lose your shit!"

Roman took a threatening step forward, and Peter immediately shifted off the bed to step in front of Letha. It was so instinctive that I nearly threw up all over again-- he truly loved her, didn't he? After all this time? 

"You're protecting her, dude?" Roman snarled, nodding to his cousin. "After everything?"

Peter's expression twisted with something I couldn't quite place. "I don't expect you to get it,"

"Oh, I get it, alright," With a smooth, final move, Roman bent down to help me stand up straight.

I swayed in my shoes, my breath catching in my throat to stop myself from immediately barfing all over the carpet. "I need air," I breathed. "This night has been too much. Too many lies, and one too many upirs-- because I assume he knows?"

Briefly, I glanced over at Peter after spilling the secret, but he only looked more guilty the longer my stare cut through into him. Of course he knew that Roman was a upir. Of course.

Everything blurred together, spinning too fast, and the weight of my decision pressed down on me so hard that I thought I'd collapse. The room was suffocating, the walls were closing in again, and the heat was unbearable-- I just needed to leave, I needed air, I needed space.

So I pushed away from Roman, staggering toward the door. "I can't-- I need to go,"

Enough was enough.

My whole life had fallen apart, and I couldn't do anything to save it. ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I wrapped myself further up in Roman's heavy jacket as the world around me kept on swaying. I couldn't go home like this. I didn't even know how to get home.

How was I supposed to carry on after everything that had happened tonight?

But life is a tricky thing-- it doesn't let you go until it's your time. So my legs kept carrying me forward, down the driveway, past the parked cars, because I needed to go on. The streetlights above flickered, casting long shadows across the pavement; I barely registered where I was going, only that I needed to move. Somehow, my feet worked faster than my brain did-- I crossed streets without looking, stumbling over cracks in the sidewalk, the distant hum of the party fading behind me as I passed the houses in the neighbourhood.

All of this distracted from the heaviness of my heart.

I had lost everything.

But behind me, just far enough away that I couldn't hear his footsteps, Roman followed. My everything.

He didn't call out to me.

He didn't rush.

He just walked. With his hands tucked into the pocket of his pants, he walked like he was tethered to me by destiny.

And maybe he was? A big part of my believe it, but tonight? Tonight, I couldn't take it. I turned around to face him, my breath unsteady as all my emotions ravaged through my chest; "Could you please stop following me? I can't-- I can't think when you're near,"

Roman came to a slow halt. He swayed slightly, his shoulders slumped, his hair a mess over his face. He looked at me like he wasn't really seeing me at all, like he felt nothing and everything at the same time. Then, in a voice so quiet it barely carried, he muttered, "I just... I don't know what else to do,"

The admission hung between us, hollow and tired. He sounded so wrecked-- something cracked inside me at the sight of him, at the way his lips barely moved when he spoke, at the way he looked like he could fall apart with the wind. He had nothing left to give. Not to me, not to himself, nothing at all.

Looking at him any longer than this would kill me; I knew it. My heart trembled in my chest as my eyes welled with tears at the sight of him. "Me neither," I breathed, turning back around to continue my stride, too drunk to think clearly, too pained by the events of the night.

It didn't take Roman more than a beat to keep following me. What else could he do?

I didn't know where I was going, but a park came into view and seemed like the most peaceful option. The playground, the swings, the hollow quiet of a place meant for children, was abandoned at this hour-- my feet dragged through the wood chips as I made my way toward the middle of it, taking in the quiet of the landscape. Maybe this place would give us peace?

But Roman's steps came to an abrupt stop a few feet away. "Did you know?" he called out. "Are you sure you didn't know about Peter and Letha?"

I turned to look at him then, to really look at him. The streetlights cast shadows across his face— he was in the dark, where he certainly belonged. "I had no idea," I confessed. "I would've told you if I knew."

Roman let out a weak, bitter breath as he ran his fingers through his hair. "This is too much," he choked out. "This night-- I can't take any more of this. I feel like I just died."

A long silence stretched between us, thick with something neither of us could escape. There was no anger in his eyes now, no fire, just hollow emptiness, and I couldn't tell if that was worse. "I'm sorry about Peter," I tried, softening my eyes. "I always knew Letha was a bit of a cunt, but I would've never thought Peter would do something like this to you... I'm sorry."

Roman couldn't look at me anymore-- he raised his chin to look at the pair of crows sitting at the top of a nearby tree. It was at this moment that I saw the tears in his eyes, and the single one that rolled down his cheek. "I don't care about Peter," he breathed. "I don't care about him, I don't care about Letha, I-- I don't care about anything anymore."

My heart hammered in my chest— what?

"I feel at fault, because I should've known," Roman mumbled, his voice full of resignation as he rubbed away his tears with the back of his hand. "I should've known this would all fall apart... because it always does. People always leave. You always leave."

Fuck. "Roman," I whispered. "That's not—"

"I've been running after you, hoping that if I tried enough, if I did more, that you'd choose me... but you won't," he choked out, lower lip quivering. "Not even my best friend chose me. No one ever does, so... I'm done. I can't change what I am. I'll always be a upir, and if you can't trust that I'd rather die than hurt you, then there's nothing more I can do."

Roman turned away, and his shoulders slumped with the realization; at the end of the night, I wasn't the one who made the final decision about us-- it was him. His next breath seemed to be one of pained relief; "I can't keep doing this. Congratulations... You're free. I can't love you anymore. I won't love you anymore," 

He took a final, slow step back. "You're right... this has to end. It's over,"

And then, Roman Godfrey turned around to leave me drunk and alone in a park long past midnight. 

... What?

Roman was done?

He couldn't love me anymore...?

I won't. I won't. I won't.

It echoed all over. It's over. I can't. I won't. But that's surely not how love works? Can someone just decide not to love someone?

My reaction to Roman leaving felt like a stolen breath-- painful, instant. It felt like my words clawed their way out of my mouth, forcing my jaw apart with one quick snap of bones, and exited with one quick, panicked yell; "Wait!"

It echoed through the park.

Over and over.

My hand laid over the vial of his blood which I kept around my neck, feeling it burn into my skin. "Roman, wait!"

... And it's around here that you'd assume this would end, right? 

You're probably holding your breath, waiting for the moment when Roman's gonna turn around hear me out, tell me he loves me after all, that he's gonna forgive me and we'll live happily ever after, blah blah blah--

But this is not that kind of a story. I'm sorry that I made you believe it was.

Do you finally get why I've needed you along with me this time? Why I've been talking directly to you for once?

... No?

Fine. I'll be more clear. I'll show you the rest; I'll show you why.

My breath was stuck in my throat as I anticipated the sound of Roman's voice, the sound of his forgiveness coming out to soothe me. This was probably proper karmic retribution for me, sure, but could this really be the end? 

Now that he was truly walking away, it hit me like a freight train; I didn't want it to end. 

I didn't want to let him go, especially now that he was letting go of me.

It could work, right?

Every nerve in my body screamed at me to move, so I did. When I realized Roman wasn't turning back around, I choked down a brewing sob and hurried to keep up after him. "Rome, please!"

The nickname had him twitching; it was clear that he was upset about his choice, his forced resignation, and the doubt in his body was a consolation to my momentary panic. But in that moment, his head also turned to the side, and I saw something flicker in his eyes. In no time, completely out of the blue, Roman picked up his pace and started walking in a completely different direction like a dog in a fox-chase. His nose flared, his posture shifted-- he wasn't just walking away from me, he was sensing something.

What was happening?

"Wait!" My voice cracked, rising with panic. He wasn't stopping. He really wasn't stopping. "Stop it! Where are you going?!" Would we ever stop chasing each other? "Do you really expect me to be okay so easily after you kissed Jessica like that?! This is-- This is too much pressure, this is insane! Give me a minute to think at least, stop running!"

Roman's movements were so fast, so precise, that it felt like I was trying to catch up to a ghost. The distance between us seemed to stretch, and I could feel my limbs growing heavier with each step, the weight of my emotions and alcohol pulling me down. But I kept going, desperate, with my heart drumming in my ears.

And when Roman finally came to a halt in the outskirts of the park, I lunged forward; I tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, stumbling as I clung to him, forcing him to see me, to hear me. I let out a choked sob against him, desperate to not let go of the man that I loved. "Hear me out, okay?" I cried. "Just give me a second, I'm too drunk to think!"

But Roman didn't react.

Didn't look.

Because his gaze was frozen on something completely different.

There, tucked into one of the small, plastic playhouses, was a shape. A person.

Confused and broken, my gaze followed his. At first, it barely registered-- it was just someone that had passed out, curled up in the cramped space like a drunk trying to sleep it off. It was the kind of thing you might see after a party, someone who never made it home. That was normal; I didn't think much of it, confused by Roman's entrancement, until I recognized the pink clips in the person's hair.

That was Brooke Bluebell, wasn't it?

Fuck-- it was.

Then, I saw the way Roman's face shifted, the way his nostrils flared, the way he inhaled. It immediately made me step away from him and toward Brooke. Something cold crawled down my spine; "Roman?" I whispered, instantly feeling beyond nauseous once again. "Maybe we should?--"

His arm shot out, barring me from moving any closer. "Wait," he snapped, his voice coated with warning and concern.

The smell hit me a second later.

Coppery. Thick.

I gagged when I finally got a proper look, and I stumbled back as the truth crashed over me.

Brooke Bluebell wasn't sleeping.

She was laying in her own blood, her eyes wide open as her drained body looked frozen in a scream-- her intestines had been dragged out of her stomach, scattered along her torso, and her legs were gone, as though mauled from beneath.

Slowly, Roman turned to me, pupils dilated beyond normal; I knew his upir senses were screaming inside his head. "I thought the smell of blood was thicker because you were on your period or something," he breathed. "I thought-- fuck."

My mind was spinning beyond control, and only the sound of our heavy breathing filled the playground until the distant wail of sirens cut through the silence. I flinched, feeling my heart-rate spike; "Shit!-- Roman, we can't be here!" I grabbed his arm, trying to pull him away. "Please! You can't be exposed to this, we've gotta go!"

But Roman didn't move.

He wouldn't.

It was clear that he was trying to drown out whatever his upir senses were telling him to do, and I had no idea how I was supposed to reel him away from the edge. 

The sirens howled closer,  and the wind picked up, scattering the scent of blood into the cold night air.

... Brooke Bluebell was dead.

And we were about to be caught at the scene of her murder.

(a/n: AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!! WELCOME TO THE PLOT OF BOOK 2! I WILL BE MAKING AN ANNOUNCEMENT THIS WEEKEND, BUT BEFORE THAT--- THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH MY SWEETHEARTS FOR READING THIS FAR!!🥹🌸 I have been building towards the Letha and Peter reveal since the STARTTTT AHHHH FINALLY IT'S YOURS!!! FINALLY I CAN SHARE IT!!! MY HEART IS YOURS, AND SO IS MY WORK, SO THANK YOU<3333 AND I'M SORRY FOR THIS OH GOD???)

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[suksatoru]

001. CARNATIONS.

Touya did not like to be touched.

As his psychiatrist, your job was simple. To understand Touya’s emotional trauma and help him live the rest of his life to the fullest. He was an absolute wreck. That was all anyone would call him—a mess who didn't deserve a second chance at life. Yet here he was.

That was one of the first things you learned from your colleagues' mistakes. You were now the seventh doctor to try and understand the layers of the former villain known as Dabi. Looking at him, you take notice of the fact that the news outlets had failed miserably in catching the alluring hues of his gaze.

His family had more than enough money to put him into a good institution, one where he could possibly recover from the terrible life he once led. It's quiet. The hospital's sterile environment is both making his skin crawl and oddly comforting. The gentle hum of the machines hooked up to his body and the bandages wrapped around every inch of skin did nothing to lessen the unease he felt when he heard the familiar telltale sign of a new doctor coming into his room.

The door rattled quietly, the sound of keys clinking together on the other side doesn't even stir him anymore. He hears slow footsteps entering through the hallway, your voice following them as you call out his name questioningly to confirm you're in the right room.

The way you say his name so softly sounds like you're calling out to an angel, and Touya wants to tear the words from your throat the moment he hears them.

He doesn't respond. When you approach him, he's staring at the wall in front of him.

He's sitting up, eyes barely open after it being only an hour out of one of many surgeries he would have to go through. He lays limp and utterly powerless in this stupid hospital bed—one of the strongest villains in the world was reduced to this now. Touya wonders if he's ever felt more pathetic, and no—he has never felt quite this low before.

"I'm Y/n, Touya."

You're smiling. That's the first thing he notices when his eyes finally move to where you sat on the stool beside his bed. All the doctors before you were the same, mildly disgusted but putting up a front nonetheless to try and deal with him. He thinks you're a little insane for looking at him with such a tender look in your eyes—and if he had the strength, he would tell you to leave.

"I'm your new doctor, Touya. I know you've gone through quite a few before me, but I hope you and I are able to get along!"

You shift in your seat with a nervous smile when he just stares. His half lidded eyes don't even bother to look anywhere else as he slowly takes in every detail of your face. Half of your hair is pulled back to reveal soft and full cheeks—your eyes crinkle as you lean forward with a soft smile.

"Unfortunately, you're kind of stuck with me. You've gone through the entire rotation of the best psychiatrists we have here—but that's ok! I understand you've been through a lot, so you and I are going to take this journey together, ok?"

Touya wants to cry. He wants to rip his hair out and slice his throat open because everything hurts and on top of all this misery, he has a pounding headache. He musters up the strength to talk. His voice is hoarse from not speaking for weeks, raspy with an undertone of something so terribly mean that you can't help but lean back in your seat with wide eyes when the words leave his scarred lips.

"Get out."

CARNATIONS MASTERLIST.

a/n; anddd our journey begins! :)

[laterreurofficial]

LT Doodle Stream Recap/Questions!

(Part 1/Part 2)

Hello everyone! Wisteriasymphony here. Yesterday the LT hivemind had the wonderful experience of our first doodle stream together!

For the purposes of cataloging all of the questions we answered on our stream (because somebody doesn't know how streaming works yet *COUGH COUGH*), I'm going to be answering them all here!

La Terreur takes place in 2002, and the events of the timeline last about a year. Of course, it's a retrofuturistic cyberpunk-y 2002, which explains later developments like the alliance ring and so on.

They're the same au! Miracle Exposure has just been a tag Silu has used to categorize talking about the effects of the miraculous, but it all happens within LT.

Hawkmoth is already a pretty solid design as is. Shadowmoth and Monarch will probably get overhauls later on, but why fix what isn't broken? Hawkmoth is already just the right amount of gross and creepy and fancy and bald, so no need to revamp that.

The consensus to far is that Felix arrived before the quarantine was instated, but he could easily have bribed officials into letting him into Paris if he needed to. The quarantine is mostly to keep people in, and if some idiot with a death wish high-paying member of the british aristocracy is willing to give money to a dying city just for a ticket in, then why wouldn't they let him?

@gaussiansphere put it quite nicely in the stream when he said that the heroes aren't trapped in Paris physically, but mentally. There's nothing theoretically stopping Ladybug from blowing a hole in the defenses of Paris and going on the run, but she has a moral obligation to protect her city. Everyone else feels roughly the same way, though we did discuss the idea of having the concept of migration fit Max better by virtue of his big goals in life involving getting out of Paris.

Also, the miraculous will likely be passed out differently. We're not following exact episodes, only storylines.

On a similar note....

Ladybug will probably alternate who she gives all of the minor miraculous to multiple times over the course of the story. She would find it ridiculous to pass them out to people "for keeps", as @sillysiluriforme put it, and before a certain point in the story will favor adult holders over teen holders. (Not saying why this changes though heehee, spoilers.)

MUCHAS GRACIAS!!!!!!!!!! Los ships no son un foco de La Terreur, pero.. Adrigaminette 100% mejor del mundo JAJAJAJA XP. de lo contrario es lo mismo que el canon.

Opinions de los kwamis hacia sus portadores es q los ven como niños. Son indiferentes a la humanidad en realidad. Los kwamis también los vicios q usan sus portadores para obtener. (Adrien huele a tabaco Y queso apestoso :/ Marinette no se afectada porque Tikki quiere el sabores dulces en su vaporizador).

#wispanol arc hehe. also YES you saw that right English audience, the kwamis are smokers. Marinette has to ask Luka's bandmates for vapes because the closest bodega to her house is run by a sweet Chinese grandma who her mom likes talking to, so if she bought from there she'd be absolutely screwed. Adrien just buys all of the tobacco as Chat, though.

We're not planning on having Aspik show up in LT, at least as far as we have planned. If he did, however, his rat eating desire would definitely go through the roof. He'd probably try and time his rat-eating specifically for when he's Chat Noir, just to make things easier for himself. (Until he eats one as Adrien by accident and has to live with the mental baggage for the rest of his miserable little life...)

Well.. there are a lot of characters that really don't need redesigns! Or where redesigns would be extremely minimal. Marinette's dad only really needs to get proportional legs and then that's it, and the same philosophy extends to most of the other minor characters.

Here are some of @clemnoir's designs for the rest of the class, though!

In fact, her lovely annotations somewhat answer another question we received....

We haven't figured out everyone yet, but the scholarships group so far is: Kim, Max, Ivan, Rose, Nathaniel, and Mylene. Adrien, Chloe, Sabrina, Alix, and Marinette are all paid tuition.

There could be! The ancient miraculous are indeed destroyed, much like the infinite amount of others like them, Bearinette and Lambdrien are just explorations of what it would be like if they hadn't been. The bear and lamb miraculous are not canon to LT, nor would any future ancients be. If we get any good ideas, you'll see them.

[wis is biting all of her fingers to prevent herself from talking about the coyote....]

The big issue Marinette has with being Multimouse is that she's no longer respected as the leader, at least as much as she's used to. Because she sees Ladybug as more of a responsibility than fun superpowers, her side effects are more psychological by consequence, whereas Adrien's are more physical. She also feels some sense of jealousy towards Scarabella, as well as general insecurity over not being the leader when she's Multimouse... but despite this she continues to use the Mouse Miraculous more often than in canon just for the sake of "training" Alya.

Silu dice muchas gracias!!!!! ...No conocen sus identidades fsgdss. Exposición al milagros del raton causa disocociación, duplicación no literal para Marinette jajaj. (Pero, no puedo decir si dos Marinettes aparecen en LT..... tal vez, tal vez no? huummmm)

Tambien, ellos comiendo ratones en privado. Nadie los trae en su almuerzo. Todos ellos tratan con sus síntomas en secreto.

Violence and misery and horror and class dynamics. I'll get into it more in Part 2, but characters' relationships to power is a huge part of this AU, both of the magical and non-magical variety.

[thewitchblue]

"Stop raising the dead for money."

Bruce said, exasperated and way over his head in this. You are already a millionaire with your own businesses, but Bruce would be happy to make you a billionaire if it means you'd stop this chaos. You raised your eyebrows as if you couldn't believe Bruce wouldn't do the same thing. Seriously? He wouldn't "abuse" his hypothetical powers in the name of justice? He absolutely would, and it's not like you'll turn into a supervillain.

There are millions of corpses Gotham has to offer, and suddenly, YOU are the problem? Nuh-uh. He has some audacity to imply that you are abusing your powers when it's simply using them. So what if your powers are considered creepy? It's not your fault you can raise the dead. The city is built on bones and blood. You asked him once you composed yourself enough to speak,

"Would you not raise the dead temporarily if it meant giving their families closure and justice? I can make sure the criminals stay locked up instead of an innocent person!"

And they thought Jason was a headache. You run your own law firm and live a dual life within your firm. You have your civilian self and your superhero self as lawyers. Most murder cases land on your superhero's lap, and you give a cheeky grin every time.

"I raise the victim."

You had said and brought in the undead body. The victim took one look at the guy who was being tried and said immediate with a scrunched up face,

"My killer is my sister. Let the man go."

The accused cried happy tears, but the audience shifted uncomfortably. Can they trust the living corpse? What else could the judge do except believe the victim? It was easier to stomach your powers when you were simply using animated skeletons to fight for you, but it feels weird now that you use your powers to bring justice to the dead and closure for the families affected.

That had been the start of your lawyer business as a superhero, and you made so much more money ever since.

"Bitchman is just upset you are making money instead of going to him. He still hadn't left me and Dick alone."

Bruce weakly glared at Jason, who rolled his eyes and bumped off the wall he was leaning on to leave. He was only here because his motorcycle needed fixing, and he was missing the part needed to fix it at home. Tim chimed in while you took a victory sip of your drink,

"It was pretty badass that you raised the victim like that, though. I was in the jury."

Bruce rubbed his face with his hands. What can he say when all the kids seem to love what you did? He can't punish everybody, but he also can't condone this behaviour for what you did.

You always were creative when you needed to weasel your way out of something. It's what makes you a good lawyer in the first place. In fact, he should be surprised it took you as long as it did for you to use your powers in your lawyer business.

"It's not smart to flaunt your powers unnecessarily. What if people start looking for trouble within your firm?"

Bruce said with a disapproving sigh. He doesn't think he should have to explain to you how dangerous it is to show your powers. It's honestly ridiculous, and he's upset about how successful the business is as a result. You needed to employ more lawyers with all the cases thrown at your firm.

"I'm saving time and effort."

You said casually while looking over a murder trial you felt would be particularly interesting. The other lawyer actually laughed when the victim showed up. What else could she do? She couldn't argue the murder victim's testimony. It was a lost cause the second you showed up in your mask with their bones.

Damian and Dick tried not to show that they were listening in and failed miserably. Dick was supposedly "sewing his Nightwing suit" while poking himself constantly, and Damian was fake reading a case. How could they not listen in when the argument is this good? Why hadn't they thought about that possibility?

You feel as if you were in the right. You didn't have to be a vigilante to make a massive difference, but it was almost as if you were making sure you were right when you handed them over to the police. Yes, you saw the crime scene, and you were 99% sure, but it could never hurt to be thorough and reaffirm that you make a good difference versus simply washing your hands clean of the incidents.

"You can't possible think this is a good idea."

Bruce said in sheer disbelief. You shrugged. You can't see any issues. You screen your employees extensively, so you see no real harm. It's not illegal to use the dead as a witness, and you don't foresee the laws changing in a world of superheroes. The crooked cops who try to imprison the innocent can now be faced with the consequences of their corruption. It's perfect, in your opinion.

"I do. You always hated my powers, but I'm using them for the side of good instead of sending out an undead army to take over the city. There are a lot of angry spirits who would happily take on Batman now that they have nothing to lose."

Bruce looked stunned. Is he not making a positive impact in the eyes of the public? Is he too intimidating?

"What if somebody follows you home?"

Bruce asked with crossed arms. He tried to keep a scowl on his face, but he was starting to spiral in the background of his mind. You glance up at him and smiled with a soft expression. You noticed, and you didn't want him to get lost in his head.

"You trained me. Maybe it's time you trust your training."

You said gently. He needs to know he isn't going to lose his kid to just anybody. His training is extensive. It's brutal because Gotham is brutal. You aren't going to go down without a fight, and the result of kidnapping you would mean all the Bats going on a warpath to get to you. That's just how the family works.

You finished reading over the case you plan to take. There is something weird about the case. You'll have to question the victim to get the timelines and answer any questions. The dead can't always be trusted because the stories get scrambled, especially if it involved bullets to the head like this case, but you weren't too worried about his memory being skewed. He is too fresh to get the details wrong. It can't hurt to do your own investigation of the scene beforehand.

You placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder as you left the cave without a punishment. He can't bench you without an injury, and he can't ground you because you don't live with him anymore. He holds no power over you now, and he has no choice but to accept that his little kids aren't little anymore.

[daeniradraconis]

Small Moments - L. Hughes /Age Is Just a Number… Right? - Part 3. /

Hi lovelies, So this is it—the final part of Luke’s story! 🥹 To fully enjoy it, make sure you’ve read Part 1 and Part 2 first.

Just a quick note: I know that in Jack’s and Quinn’s stories, I named Luke’s girlfriend Thea, but in this one, I didn’t use any names. So if you’re not a fan of OC fics, you’re totally safe here! These are more like little snapshots from Luke and the reader's story—a glimpse into their everyday life and quiet moments together.

I hope you enjoy this one as much as I loved writing it. 💛

For more fun: masterlist Those red days

“I love you more than I hate everything else.”

Moving in together was supposed to be fun. A new adventure. A fresh start. A romantic milestone. But right now? You wanted to punt Luke out of your romantic milestone.

You were curled up on the couch, wrapped in a mountain of blankets, feeling like absolute garbage. Your cramps were killing you, you were bloated, and worst of all—Luke was breathing. Loudly. Or maybe just… normally. But normal breathing was annoying right now.

You turned your head, glaring at him like he was your mortal enemy. “Can you just not breathe?”

Luke, sprawled out on the other end of the couch, paused mid-scroll on his phone. “Uh… what?”

“Stop breathing,” you repeated, voice wobbling. “It’s annoying.”

He blinked. “You want me to just… die?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You kinda did.”

“Well, I didn’t mean it like that,” you grumbled, sniffling dramatically.

Luke, being Luke, took a deep breath and then dramatically held it, staring at you like he was nobly sacrificing himself for the greater good.

For a few seconds, it was nice. Quiet. Peaceful.

But then your stupid emotions betrayed you.

Oh God. What if he actually stopped breathing? What if he suffocated? What if he just collapsed right there, and you had to explain to his brothers that you literally annoyed him to death? What if you had to live with that guilt forever?

Your eyes welled up. “Oh no.”

Luke, still holding his breath, raised an eyebrow.

Tears streamed down your face. “BREATHE, LUKE! PLEASE!”

Startled, he exhaled so fast he coughed. “Jesus, babe! What is happening?”

You launched yourself at him, burying your face in his chest. “I told you to stop breathing, but then I thought about you actually dying and now I feel like the worst person ever because I love you and I don’t want you to die and my hormones are trying to ruin my life—”

Luke was silent for a second. Then, he wheezed. “You—” He coughed, trying not to laugh. “You just tried to cancel my breathing privileges and then got sad about it?”

You sniffled. “Yes.”

He exhaled, rubbing your back. “Okay. That tracks.”

You let out a miserable little whimper. “I hate my uterus.”

Luke nodded solemnly. “Understandable.” Then, after a beat— “You know… there is one way to avoid this every month.”

You pulled back slightly, squinting at him. “What?”

His lips twitched. “You could just get pregnant.”

You froze. Oh. That was not where you thought he was going with that.

Your first instinct was to roll your eyes and smack him, but then—your hormones betrayed you again. Because suddenly, instead of slapping him, your brain went, Hmm. Pregnant. Baby. Little Hughes baby. Luke as a dad. You wouldn’t have a period. Interesting.

You stared at him, horrified.

Luke grinned. “Oh my God. You’re thinking about it.”

“No, I’m not!” you shrieked, shaking your head violently.

“You are!” he laughed. “You actually considered it for a second!”

“I hate my hormones,” you groaned, collapsing back against him. “They’re making me like the idea of things I should not be liking right now.”

He kissed the top of your head, still smirking. “I mean, no rush. But if you ever really wanna get rid of your period…”

You groaned again. “I’m moving out.”

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you. “No, you’re not.”

You sighed. “No, I’m not.” …But still. Maybe one day. Our Tradition “Maybe that’s what love is. Having someone who makes all the mundane moments feel like small traditions worth keeping.”

The kitchen is bathed in the soft glow of early morning light, the air thick with the sweet scent of pancakes sizzling on the griddle. The soft plop of the batter hitting the pan is almost rhythmic, and you find yourself humming along as you flip the pancakes, making sure they’re just the right shade of golden brown.

Today is special—it’s Luke’s birthday, the first one you’re celebrating together. You want everything to be perfect. The pancakes are stacked high, their golden layers dotted with fresh, ripe strawberries and a light dusting of powdered sugar.

“Smells amazing in here,” Luke’s sleepy voice drifts from the doorway, and you look up to find him standing there, blinking slowly, his hair a mess of wild curls sticking out in every direction. His face is adorably puffy from sleep, his eyes still heavy with that dreamy haze. He looks like he’s just crawled out of a cloud.

You smile at the sight of him, feeling a warmth spread through you. “Morning, sleepyhead,” you tease, setting the pancakes down on a plate.

Luke shuffles over to you, dragging his feet like he’s still half-asleep, his arms already reaching for you. You giggle as he wraps himself around you from behind, burying his face in your neck. His curls tickle your skin as he presses his puffy cheek against your shoulder, his voice muffled.

“I look like a mess,” he mumbles, his words thick with sleep. “My curls are everywhere, and my face is puffy. I can’t even… I can’t believe you’re making me get out of bed looking like this.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his wild curls, making them even messier in the process. “You’re adorable. No matter what.” You turn around in his arms, meeting his sleepy eyes, still glowing with that soft affection. He’s clinging to you like he can’t quite let go of the warmth of the bed. His arms tighten around your waist as he pulls you closer, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’m just too tired,” he groans, his voice dragging. “Can’t I just stay here with you for a little longer? I don’t want to leave.”

You laugh softly, kissing the tip of his nose, knowing how hard it is for him to fully wake up. “We have pancakes waiting,” you tease, trying to coax him into action.

He groans again, but the grin on his face tells you he’s already starting to wake up. “Mmm, pancakes. I can get up for pancakes,” he agrees, reluctantly loosening his grip but only just enough to let you move toward the counter.

You grab a mug of coffee from the counter and pass it to him, watching as he takes a sip with a sleepy smile. His eyes never leave you as you set the pancakes on the table, a plate full of sweet simplicity. You sit down across from him, the soft morning light warming the space between you.

He doesn’t let you sit alone for long. After a moment, he’s pulling his chair closer, practically on top of yours, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. His curls brush against your cheek, and you feel the weight of his sleepy body leaning into yours.

You smile, feeling your heart swell. "Happy birthday, Lukey," you say softly, taking his hand in yours.

Luke smiles lazily, his eyes half-lidded, his puffy face breaking into a contented grin. "Thank you," he murmurs, squeezing your hand. "This is the best start to my birthday. Pancakes, coffee, and you." He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, his warmth enveloping you. “I could get used to this.”

You chuckle softly, running a hand through his curls again, the mess of them so endearing. “This is our tradition now,” you tell him, your voice full of meaning. “Every birthday, pancakes and coffee. Just us.”

He pulls back slightly, looking at you with soft, adoring eyes. “I love that,” he says quietly. Then, with a teasing grin, he adds, “But next time, can we maybe skip the getting out of bed early in the morning part? I kind of like being wrapped around you for a little longer.”

You smile, leaning into his embrace as you both dig into the pancakes, the quiet, simple joy of the moment settling around you. For all the big milestones and celebrations that lie ahead, this feels like the kind of tradition that will stick—the quiet mornings, the sleepy smiles, and the deep, unspoken understanding that you're building something beautiful together.

When You Need It Most

“When I am with you, I feel at home. And that’s all I need, really.”

The moment you step through the door, you already know—it’s one of those days. The weight of your job, the expectations, the endless frustration—it all clings to you like a second skin, suffocating, inescapable. You drop your bag on the floor with a little too much force, your keys rattling against the table as you toss them down.

Luke and Jack are sprawled out on the couch, watching something on TV, their laughter floating through the air, but it feels distant, like static noise.

Jack picks up on your mental state the moment he lays eyes on you. So he does what he does best—flashes you a grin and tries to break the tension.

“Hey, you look like you could use a drink.” His voice is teasing, playful—the kind of humor that usually earns at least a smirk from you.

Nothing. You just stare at him blankly.

Luke notices immediately. His smile fades, his eyes scanning your face. “Babe?” His voice is soft, concerned.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Without another word, you turn on your heel and head straight for the bedroom, closing the door behind you a little harder than necessary. The moment you’re alone, it all comes crashing down. The frustration, the exhaustion, the helplessness—it swallows you whole.

Tears burn behind your eyes, and you sink onto the bed, burying your face in your hands. A sharp, uneven breath escapes you, and before you know it, you’re breaking down completely.

You don’t hear the door open, don’t realize Luke is there until you feel the mattress dip beside you. His hand finds your back instantly, warm and grounding, rubbing slow, soothing circles.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, voice filled with worry. “Talk to me.”

You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s— It’s my job. My boss wants me back in the office. Full-time.” The words come out choked, filled with frustration. “That’s so much travel, Luke. It’s going to cost me a fortune just to get there. And I don’t—” Your voice wavers. “I don’t even like it. I don’t even know why I’m still doing it.”

Luke is quiet, letting you get it all out. His hand never stops moving, grounding you.

“I just… I feel useless,” you admit in a whisper. “Like I’m stuck. And I don’t know what to do, and—” You take a shaky breath. “I don’t want to move closer to the office, because then I’d have to move out. And I don’t want that either.” Your voice breaks at the last part.

Luke doesn’t hesitate. “Then quit.”

Your head snaps up, eyes red-rimmed as you blink at him. “What?”

“Quit,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest decision in the world.

You let out a humorless laugh, wiping at your eyes. “Luke, that’s insane.”

“No, what’s insane is watching you come home every day looking like this.” His voice is firm but gentle, his eyes locked onto yours. “You’re miserable. You don’t love that job anymore. Why are you forcing yourself to stay?”

“Because I have to.”

“Why?” He leans in, brows furrowed. “Who said you have to?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Luke exhales, shaking his head. “Babe, when we agreed to be together, I told you—I want to prove to you that I can be a man. And in my book, that means being there for you. Protecting you. Providing for you.” His voice is steady, full of conviction. “I can do that. For you.”

You swallow, your heart tightening at his words.

“I’m not saying you have to sit at home and just do the housework,” he continues. “Unless you want to. If being a homemaker is what makes you happy, then that’s a job too. You already take care of everything around here. You make this place a home. I see that. I respect that.” He cups your cheek gently, thumb brushing over your skin. “And I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped in a job that’s making you miserable just because you think you have to.”

Tears well in your eyes again, but this time, they’re different. Lighter.

Luke tilts his head, his voice softening. “Just… take a break. A few months. Give yourself time to figure out what you want. Not what your boss wants, not what’s expected—what you want.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “And whatever that is, I’ve got you. No matter what.”

You feel the tension start to ease, but then a familiar knot tightens in your stomach. You pull back slightly, looking up at him with a mix of fear and guilt. “But I don’t know if I can do that, Luke. I don’t know if I can just... not work. People already think I’m with you for your money. They think I’m trying to lock you down because I’m older than you, and—” You shake your head, voice cracking. “Even your mom thought I was only here because of what you have. I can’t... I can’t just stop working, or they’ll be right.”

Luke’s face softens, but his gaze hardens in that way that tells you he’s about to get serious. He takes your hands gently in his. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” His voice is firm but filled with warmth. “First of all, anyone who says you’re with me for my money doesn’t know you. I know you. You’re not the type to care about that.”

You try to speak, but he holds up a hand, stopping you. “And second, let’s be real—do you even let me pay for anything? I took you to Starbucks the other day, and you practically threw the change at me.”

A small, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “That’s because I can get my own coffee.”

“I know, but you know what? I like spoiling you. And that’s not about me trying to buy your love—it’s because I appreciate everything you do.” He squeezes your hands gently. “And I know that you take care of this—you take care of us.”

Your chest tightens with emotion, and you let out a shaky breath. “But I don’t want you to think I’m just using you. That I’m not contributing.”

Luke tilts his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “Babe, you don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re not just keeping this place together—you’re running this house. And that’s a full-time job in itself. It’s exhausting, but you do it every damn day.” He pauses, his eyes softening with affection as he reaches out to gently tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “And you don’t let me or Jack help nearly enough.” He shakes his head with a smile. “But you know what? You make this house feel like home. Before you, it was just a place to sleep, but now…” He exhales softly, looking around as if taking it all in. “Now, after a game, a roadie, or a practice, I walk in and it’s like I can finally breathe. It feels like a safe space, like peace. And that’s all you, baby.”

His voice softens even more, the depth of his love clear in every word. “Your candles, glowing every night… that scent, it’s like a wave of calm. It’s like a hug for my soul after a crazy day. And your lemon sorbet? God, it’s like you put all your care and love into every bite. After we lose, or just have a bad day, it’s like you’re reminding me that there’s still sweetness, still warmth, no matter what. You fill this house with so much love, and it makes my heart so damn full every time.”

He lets out a fond laugh. “And don’t even get me started on those ridiculous fluffy pillows you insist on buying. They’re the softest things I’ve ever laid on, and they’ve made my sleep so much better. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I’d still be running on fumes if it wasn’t for them.” He grins, his voice turning playful, but there’s a tenderness there that cuts through the teasing. “But seriously, babe… you’ve turned this place into more than just walls and furniture. You’ve made it us. You’ve made me, and even Jack, better—happier. You’ve put so much of yourself into this home, and it’s more than just a place to live. It’s where we feel loved, where we feel cared for. Where we feel safe.”

Your throat tightens, and he rubs his thumb across your hand, soothing you. “I don’t know if you realize this, but you’re already doing more than most people could even handle. You are so much more than any paycheck or job title. You’ve already been providing, in ways that matter. And if you need a break, then take one. I’ve got you.”

Your heart swells at his words, but you’re still reluctant. “But, Luke... I don’t want you to think I’m just... leeching off of you.”

He pulls you in close, his voice soft but full of conviction. “It’s not leeching. It’s a partnership. I want to be here for you. I want to provide for you. That’s what being a man means to me—being there for the people I love, supporting them in whatever way I can.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “And I don’t want you to feel guilty about that. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You swallow hard, tears spilling over again, but this time they’re tears of relief. You’re finally starting to believe him.

“I know I’m young,” he continues, his voice steady, “but I’ve been around long enough to know what matters. And you? You matter. More than anything.”

You feel the tightness in your chest begin to melt away. “But... I still don’t want people to think—”

He cuts you off with a playful smile. “I don’t care what people think. Let them talk. I’m the one who gets to wake up next to you every day—I know who you are, and that’s all that matters.” Then he grins. “Besides, my mom loves you now. You two get wine-drunk together every other Sunday.”

You gasp, hand to your chest. “Excuse you! We’re enrolled in a very respectable online wine tasting course.”

He lifts a brow, smirking. “Babe… pretty sure wine tasting courses don't involve giggling over cheese boards and impulse-buying matching slippers.”

You narrow your eyes. “That was one time. And the slippers were on sale.”

He laughs, eyes soft as he leans in closer. “All I’m saying is—she loves you. You’re in. Fully, completely. Everyone in my family who actually knows you? They adore you.” He pauses, and looks deeply in your eye. “And the people who don’t? Their opinions don’t matter. Not to me. Not to us.”

Luke grins at you, his arms wrapping around you again, pulling you in tight.

“You’re not using me,” he murmurs against your hair. “You’re with me. And I love you for who you are. All of you. I want you to feel secure, to feel safe, not just financially, but emotionally, mentally—every way. And if that means you take a break from work, then take one. I’ve got you. Always.”

You feel his love, his certainty, and for the first time, you feel like you don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to justify your worth with a paycheck.

“Okay,” you whisper, finally allowing yourself to let go of that fear. “Okay.”

Luke smiles, his lips brushing over your forehead. “Yeah?”

You nod, your heart lighter than it’s been in a long time. “Yeah.”

There’s a long pause before he adds, his voice playful again. “Now, let’s go out there and tell Jack he completely failed at making you laugh. Because that’s gonna break his heart.”

A watery laugh bubbles out of you, and Luke grins, brushing a soft kiss against the top of your head.

“There she is,” he murmurs, a tender smile on his face. “My sweet girl.”

Tides of Us

"They were two souls who had never been apart, just waiting for the world to catch up."

The air still held the warmth of the day, soft and easy, with the sun just starting to dip behind the trees. The lake was calm, stretching out in ripples that caught the last of the golden light. Shadows from the tall pines spilled across the dock, where the boards were sun-bleached and uneven from years of use.

The wood creaked softly beneath you as you moved. Luke’s arms were wrapped around you from behind, his chin resting on the top of your head. You swayed together in a slow, absent rhythm, barefoot and quiet.

Luke was tall and warm and damp from the lake, wearing an oversized hoodie that hung off his frame and clung a little to his skin. His curls, still wet, peeked out from under the hood. You wore a light blue sundress, the bottom of it soaked and clinging to your legs. Your hair was loose, wavy from the water, still drying in the evening air.

There wasn’t much sound—just the lake, the breeze, and the creak of wood beneath you. You didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.

From the terrace of the lake house above, where two weather-worn Adirondack chairs sat angled toward the water, Quinn clicked another photo.

“You’re seriously going full National Geographic right now,” Jack said, chewing around a mouthful of peach. “Creepiest brother behavior I’ve witnessed, and I’ve seen you cry during Finding Nemo.”

Quinn didn’t lower the camera. “Bold talk from the guy who wouldn’t give up the Jersey apartment for Luke and Y/N because he ‘didn’t want to be emotionally abandoned.’”

Jack shrugged and dropped the peach pit into his cup. “Yeah, I’m needy and mildly unhinged. I own that. That’s why I get to judge everyone else.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. Jack had always been dramatic, clingy, and unapologetically himself—and by now, nothing surprised Quinn anymore. Still, he set the camera down and leaned back in his chair.

They sat side by side in peaceful silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. Below, Luke suddenly tightened his grip and spun you around, lifting your feet clean off the dock with a squeal. You laughed—loud and bright—head tipping back as the world blurred around you. Luke giggled too, breathless and boyish, like he couldn’t help it.

When he finally set you down, you reached up on instinct, fingers threading through his damp curls just to mess them up. He swatted at your hand, but you were already darting away with a grin.

“Oh no you don’t,” he called, barefoot steps soft against the dock as he chased after you. You didn’t get far—you never really tried to.

“They’re so in love,” Quinn said simply.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

He leaned back in the chair, squinting at the dock like he was watching a memory instead of a moment.

“You remember how it started?” Jack asked, a laugh already curling at the edges of his mouth.

Quinn chuckled. “She tried to sneak out of the apartment.”

“She was sneaking out,” Jack said, grinning. “He was still asleep. I found her in the hallway looking like she’d just realized she’d committed a federal crime.”

“She didn’t know who you guys were, right?”

“Nope. She told me I had ‘the vibe of a guy who points at maps for a living.’ Thought I was the local weatherman.”

Quinn smirked. “Yeah... she told me later she only said that because she could tell, you had a huge ego and didn’t want to feed it. Apparently, she thought you looked more like the kind of guy who could make some good money as a stripper.”

Jack blinked, then broke into a loud laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. She figured you out in under a minute.”

Jack leaned back with a proud grin. “What can I say? I make a strong first impression.”

“But she didn’t even know Luke played hockey professionally,” Quinn added, grabbing his beer and taking a long sip.

“Yeah. Thought it was just some weekend hobby or something. Y/N, said he didn’t seem like a pro athlete—apparently Lukey was too cute and dorky on their first date.”

Quinn shaked his head, a little bit more seriously. “I didn’t trust her at first. I thought she was lying.”

“None of you did,” Jack said, smirking. “I was the only one. Best brother, obviously.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “Y/N is six years older, Jack. And their first date… was... not exactly slow-burn. It was suspicious.”

“Because you didn’t see them from the start,” Jack said, his voice shifting, a little quieter now. “They were like yin and yang, man. Like they’d just met, but they already fit. It was freaky—like, glowing-and-melting-into-each-other level chemistry. But they barely knew each other. I knew right then—this was it for Lukey.”

He shrugged and leaned back, arms folded behind his head, letting the warm breeze play through his hair.

Quinn’s face softened. “Yeah. I realized it too now. She knows everything about him. The way he hums when he brushes his teeth. That he re-watches Harry Potter movies when he’s sick. That he won’t eat banana desserts, but will crush an entire bunch of bananas like a feral raccoon.”

Jack snorted.

“And it goes both ways,” Quinn continued. “It’s kind of disturbing how well they know each other after such a short time. It’s like they skipped the awkward phase entirely.”

Down on the dock, Luke kissed your forehead gently, then spun you again, slower this time. The fireflies had come out—little gold sparks blinking at the edge of the grass as the sky shifted into indigo.

“And she just... fits,” Jack said, his tone softening. “She tolerates my sassy ass, and she handles your moody one. It’s like she was meant to be here with us. And you know, she makes sure I’m included. She cooks for us, always pulls me into whatever plans that two are planning. She’s not just here for Luke. She’s here for me too.”

​​Quinn raised an eyebrow. His brother wasn’t exactly known for sharing his feelings. This caught him a little bit off guard.

Jack let out a breath, still watching you and Luke on the dock. “Before Y/N, it was just me and Luke. We had our thing, you know? Living in the big city, playing on the same team, just relying on each other. We did everything together—hell, it was just us against the world. We built this bond, and I didn’t want it to change.”

Quinn nodded, understanding. Since moving to Vancouver, he’d seen how much closer Jack and Luke had grown. All three of them were tight, but those two had something different—a bond built on living and working side by side. Quinn didn’t resent it. He was glad they had each other, because playing in the NHL was tough. He knew how tough it was to move to a new city, far from home, and still be expected to thrive in such a competitive environment. It could get lonely fast. But Jack and Luke weren’t alone. They had each other. And that made it a little easier.

Jack rubbed a hand over his face, his voice a little quieter now. “I hated the thought of being the third wheel. I was afraid that with her around, I’d get left behind. I know, it sounds dumb now, but... I didn’t want to lose what we had. But she didn’t take anything away. If anything, she made everything feel more... whole. She made our place feel like home. Not just for Luke, but for me, too.”

Jack glanced at Quinn, a little guarded now, like he realized he might’ve said too much. "But don’t tell her I said any of this. We’ve already got enough eucalyptus candles to start our own spa, and I seriously can’t handle another one."

Quinn smirked but didn’t say anything. Jack paused, and for a second, Quinn caught something rare in his brother’s eyes—a flicker of emotion he rarely let slip. Jack cleared his throat quickly, like he could shake it off.

He wasn’t the emotional one. But seeing Luke like that—so happy, so in love—it hit different.

Click.

Jack turned, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? What now?”

Quinn lowered the camera, still grinning. “You had feelings. I figured I should document the event. Might be another decade before it happens.”

“Asshole...” Jack muttered, rolling his eyes. But then he smiled—soft, real. “You know, you were right last Christmas.”

Quinn looked confused. “About what?”

“That Mom’s always right,” Jack said, voice dropping just above a whisper. “Luke was always gonna be the first to get married.”

Quinn let out a quiet laugh, eyes drifting back toward the dock. “That woman’s got witchy powers, I swear. She just knew.”

The last of the sunlight spilled gold across the lake, soft and warm, like it didn’t want to let go. Down on the dock, Luke looked up, catching their gaze. He smiled—proud, in love, a little shy—and in that moment, both Jack and Quinn saw it clearly.That look said everything. It was love. It was growth. It was their little brother—no longer just a boy, but a man.

Wine and Wisdom

“I think that’s what love is. You accept them, flaws and all, because you know they’re worth it.”

It was supposed to be your week.

One last stretch of time before Luke left for the Olympics, before he disappeared into a whirlwind of press, team dinners, strategy meetings, and a level of focus that turned him into a brick wall in skates.

But instead of romantic goodbye dinners or soft movie nights, you were getting Sass Monster Hughes. Olympic Luke had officially entered the building—and he was stomping around like a storm cloud in a Team USA hoodie.

Which is exactly why you were now curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, FaceTiming with a woman who once made it very clear she didn’t like you.

Ellen Hughes answered on the second ring. She picked up with a slow sip of wine and a perfectly timed raised eyebrow. 

“He’s shut down, huh?”

You nodded, sinking deeper into the couch with your own glass. “He’s in full Olympic lockdown. I tried asking if he wanted to do anything tonight—movie, walk, food, literally anything—and he looked at me like I kicked a puppy.”

Ellen hummed knowingly. “Yep. That’s the zone. Doesn’t matter how many times they go through it, the first few days before they leave for a big tournament are always the worst. It’s like their brain shuts every door except the one labeled 'win'.

You rubbed your temple. “It just sucks. I know he loves me. I know he’s stressed. But it’s like I’m not even in the room half the time.”

Ellen gave you a look that wasn’t pity—it was understanding.

“You’re not doing anything wrong. He’s just in it.” She paused, thinking. “This is the part of being with a hockey player no one tells you about. The way they disappear into their own heads before something big.”

You nodded, letting that settle.

“So what do I do?” you asked, voice softer now. “I don’t want to push. But I also don’t want to spend our last night together staring at the wall.”

Ellen’s smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She took another sip, then set her glass down.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. You don’t chase him. You anchor him.”

You blinked. “Anchor?”

“Yeah. Don’t ask for a big romantic night or some emotional goodbye. That’ll make him feel guilty, and guilt makes him shut down more.”

She leaned in, a little conspiratorial now.

“What he needs is presence. Calm. Something solid that reminds him who he is outside the rink. You.”

Your throat tightened.

“So... just be normal?”

“Be you,” she said. “Put on a stupid show you both love. Order takeout from that place he always tries to pretend he doesn’t like. Sit on the couch like nothing's different. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

She paused, then added, with a smirk: “And when he does, don’t make it a big deal. Just let him lean in. Let him come back quietly.”

You nodded, more to yourself than to her. Something about the way she said it—gentle but steady—clicked.

It was so funny, really. Sitting here with Ellen, drinking wine, trading advice about how to love her baby boy through his weird little hockey shutdown. If someone had told you this would be your Tuesday night a year ago, you’d have laughed in their face.

But now, you couldn’t imagine not calling her.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

She waved it off, but her eyes were soft.

“You’ve got him—even when he gets like this. Just trust yourself. Trust the quiet. And if all things fails, bake him something sweet. If there’s one thing those boys can’t resist, it’s sugar.” She paused, then added with a grin, “And make sure it’s chocolate. Luke would even trade me for a lifetime supply of chocolate cake, and I wouldn’t even blame him.”

You laughed, a real laugh this time. “Noted.”

And just like that, the heaviness started to lift.

—

The night had dragged on in its quiet way. You had kept things light, just like Ellen suggested—no big expectations, no emotional pleas. You were just there, letting the minutes pass by, feeling the calm of your own space.

Luke, though, wasn’t calm. Not really. You could feel the unease radiating off him even when he sat in the kitchen or when he tried to act like he was doing something important. His nerves were eating him up.

You could hear him pacing, the shuffle of his feet as he moved through the apartment. He was lost in his thoughts.

You felt it. The quiet tension between you both. But you didn’t chase him. You just stayed where you were, trying to let him come to you when he was ready.

And after a while, you couldn’t help but notice the familiar figure standing in the doorway again, looking more… unsure than usual. His eyes were on the floor, his body stiff, as though he was fighting himself.

“I’ve been a dick tonight, huh?” Luke’s voice was quiet, almost sheepish.

You paused the TV, finally giving him the attention he needed. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. There was no anger, just… understanding. “You’re just stressed, Luke. I get it.”

He shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek. “No, it’s more than that. I’ve been a shit boyfriend.” He ran a hand through his hair, the frustration clear in his expression. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my head, I’ve barely even noticed you’re here. You deserve better than that.”

You felt a tug at your chest. He was doing it again—the self-flagellation that came with his guilt. “You’re nervous. You’re not yourself right now, and I get it. But you’re not a bad boyfriend, Luke. You are allowed to have bad days.”

But he wasn’t convinced. He took a small step forward, his hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets. “Still, I should’ve been better. I shouldn’t have made you feel like you weren’t important just because I’m wrapped up in me.”

There was a long beat where neither of you spoke. His eyes flickered between yours, still unsure of himself. Then, in that quiet space, his tone softened, his shoulders visibly relaxing just a little. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you away like that. You don’t deserve that.”

You could feel the sincerity in his words. You smiled gently, the weight of the moment hitting you. “It’s okay, Luke. You don’t have to apologize. I know this is big for you. I just want to be here for you.”

Luke took another step closer, now standing right in front of you. His hands came out of his pockets, but he hesitated, unsure whether to reach for you or not.

Finally, after a long moment, he let out a small sigh and, with a little smirk, looked up at you. “I’m not good at this, you know. The whole… ‘talking about feelings before a big game’ thing.”

You chuckled softly, a small spark of warmth rising in your chest. “I’ve noticed.”

Luke laughed too, but it was nervous—like he didn’t quite know how to move forward. Then, in a rare moment of sweet, unguarded Luke Hughes, he cleared his throat and stepped a little closer.

“So… you’ll forgive me, right?” He was still half-joking, but the way his lips curled into that familiar shy smile made your heart beat just a little bit faster. “I’ll make it up to you… maybe with a date when I get back?”

You leaned back against the couch, pretending to deliberate for a moment, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “Hmm, I don’t know. You’ve been kind of a pain in the ass, Luke. I might need more than just a date to forgive you.”

His eyes widened a little, and his mouth opened, as if ready to make some big, dramatic apology, but then you reached out, tapping him lightly on the arm.

“Kidding. I forgive you.”

His shoulders sagged in relief, and his grin was suddenly much more real. “You’re really not going to make me work for it, huh?” You held his gaze, calm and steady. “No. Because I get it.”

He blinked, still caught halfway between guilt and surprise.

“You’re under pressure,” you continued gently. “This is your first Olympics, Luke. The weight of the team, the media, the expectations—you’re carrying all of it, and I see that. Tonight wasn’t your best, but I’ve had my off days too, and you’ve always been there for me.”

He stayed quiet, but his hand brushed yours, tentative.

“This is what a relationship is. You show up when it’s hard. You hold space when the other person’s struggling. I’m not going to punish you for being human. You’ve never made me feel like I had to earn your love—even when I was a mess. So why would I make you?”

Luke’s brows pulled together, that emotional edge rising in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

“I know,” you said softly. “That’s why I’m still here.”

A pause stretched between you, full of the kind of silence that feels safe. Then Luke reached out, lacing his fingers through yours.

“Thanks for not walking away,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges.

You gave his hand a squeeze. “Always. You don’t have to be perfect with me. You just have to be honest. We’ll figure the rest out together.”

And in that moment, something shifted. The pressure didn’t vanish, but he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore. You were in it together—and that was everything.

Pillow Fights and Scandalous Interruptions

“In your smile, I see something more beautiful than the stars.”

The living room was a cozy disaster — blankets everywhere, half-eaten snacks on the coffee table, and Uno cards flung across the floor like a tornado had swept through. You and Luke were curled up on the rug, both in sweats, both far too competitive for a game meant for children.

“Blue,” you said smugly, slapping down your card. You saw the twitch in his eye. Victory was close.

Luke stared at his hand, visibly offended. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

He held your gaze for a long second… and then, like a menace, played a red card.

You blinked. “Luke. That’s red. I played blue.”

He grinned, completely unbothered. “Nah, I think you played red. You’re probably just confused.”

“You little—” You lunged for a pillow and whipped it at him.

He caught it mid-air, smirking like the actual devil. “Hey, don’t hate the player.”

“You’re cheating.”

He gave a mock gasp. “Accusing a national treasure like me of cheating? I’m hurt.”

You pointed at his hand. “You just picked up a card!”

“Uno,” he said smoothly, holding up one smug finger.

“You are the worst.” You pouted, folding your arms.

Luke scooted closer, nudging your knee with his. “C’mon, I’m a professional athlete. Losing isn’t in my nature.”

“Letting your girlfriend win once wouldn’t kill you.”

He leaned in, voice low. “But you look so cute when you’re fake mad at me.”

You were definitely still mad. Sort of. Okay, maybe not at all.

“I’m revoking snack privileges,” you warned, poking his chest.

He gasped like you’d threatened his career. “That’s cruel and unusual.”

“Deserved.”

Luke tilted his head, the mischief in his eyes replaced with something softer as he brushed his fingers over your knee. “Guess I’ll have to find another way to earn forgiveness.”

Before you could say a word, he pulled you into his lap like it was second nature — strong arms wrapping around your waist, the warmth of his sweatshirt and skin making it impossible to stay flustered. He looked up at you, close now, his expression shifting.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For being my safe place. Even when I’m annoying.”

You softened instantly, sliding your arms around his neck. “You’re not annoying. You’re just Luke.”

“And you’re just... magic,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “I missed this. You.”

Your breath caught, the space between you charged and humming. And then you closed the gap.

You kissed him—fierce and hungry—your lips crashing against Luke’s as you pressed yourself closer, straddling his thick frame. His body, honed from years on the ice, was solid beneath you—broad shoulders, muscular thighs, rough hands that held you with quiet command. You rocked your hips, grinding against him, and felt the hard length of him through his sweatpants, a low rumble escaping his chest as he deepened the kiss, tongue claiming yours.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured against your lips, voice low, steady, his hands gripping your waist to slow your movements just enough to keep you right where he wanted. His control was effortless, the kind that didn’t need words, just the weight of his touch. You rolled your hips again, testing, and his fingers tightened, holding you still for a moment, his brown curls falling messily over his forehead as he looked up at you, eyes dark with lust.

You smirked and tugged at his hoodie. He didn’t hesitate, letting you pull it off, and your breath caught a little. He was solid—shoulders broad, chest cut with sharp muscle from years of training. Not bulky, just lean and strong in a way that made it hard to look away. Your eyes dropped to the two small scars on his chest. One sat just below his collarbone, a faded reminder of the time Jack nearly took him out with a skate back when you were kids. The other, newer, curved faintly over his ribs—earned in last year’s game against the Panthers. You brushed your fingers over both, your touch slowing without meaning to.

He watched you with that steady, unreadable look, saying nothing as your hands moved over him, tracing the heat and shape of him. Then his hands slid under your sweatshirt, rough palms gliding over your skin as he pushed it up and off. Your tank top followed, the straps slipping from your shoulders, and then his mouth was on you—warm, sure, lips closing over your nipple in a slow pull that had you gasping.

“Luke,” you breathed, fingers tangling in his brown curls, the strands soft and messy as you held him there. He hummed against your skin, tongue flicking, one hand splayed across your back to keep you close, the other guiding your hips to grind against him at his pace. You could feel him, hard and thick, the friction driving you wild.

You slid a hand down his abs, past the waistband of his sweatpants, and wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slowly. He was heavy in your hand, and when you squeezed, his jaw clenched, a soft groan escaping as his hips shifted slightly.

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna drive me crazy,” he said, voice rough but still steady, his hand catching your wrist to guide your strokes, showing you exactly how he wanted it.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Let me taste you,” you whispered, tugging at his sweatpants, eager to get them off. His eyes flickered with something dark and approving, and he let you slide down, his hands still on you, keeping you close as you started to work the fabric down his thighs.

Then the door burst open.

“OH MY ACTUAL GOD—WHAT THE FUCK?!”

You yelped, snatching for the closest hoodie—Luke’s, of course—and dragged it over your chest with shaking hands. Your hair was a mess, your face was flushed, and your legs were very much still wrapped around your boyfriend.

Luke didn’t even flinch. He let out a long, tired sigh, like he’d just been asked to take the trash out during overtime.

Jack stood in the doorway, clutching a Gatorade like it was a weapon against sin. “Are you—” He gestured wildly. “—is this happening?! In the living room?! ON THE FLOOR?!”

Luke exhaled slowly like he’d been through this before. “You forgot to knock.”

“This is common space!” Jack cried. “This is shared air! And you’re—she’s—you’re both indecent!”

You groaned, hiding your face in Luke’s shoulder. “Jack, go away.”

But Jack wasn’t done. Not even close.

“You’re six years older than him!” he said, pointing at you like you were an ancient forest witch. “He was in middle school when you were graduating college. He had braces!”

Luke muttered, “I didn’t have braces. You had.”

“Whatever! You looked like someone who needed braces!”

You could feel Luke’s chest shaking with silent laughter under you.

Jack took a dramatic step back, clutching his Gatorade tighter. “This is a betrayal. A full-blown betrayal. I trusted you,” he said to you, eyes narrowed in mock devastation. “I loved you. I thought you were cool. Wise. Slightly scary, but like, in a hot babysitter way. Not in a ‘let me seduce your sweet, innocent, hockey-playing little brother on his living room floor’ way!”

“I didn’t seduce him,” you muttered into Luke’s shoulder.

“You didn’t need to! You’re older! That’s your superpower!”

Luke finally looked up, bored but amused. “You done?”

“No,” Jack said, walking backward toward the door like he was backing away from a crime scene. “I’m going to go scream into the void. Then I’m gonna call Mom. Then I’m burning this rug.”

“I thought you said it was your favourite rug,” Luke called after him.

“It was! Until you defiled it with your... hormones!” Jack cried, disappearing down the hall. “I need bleach. For my eyes. For my soul.”

The door slammed behind him.

Silence.

You let out a strangled sound against Luke’s neck. “I actually might die.”

Luke tilted his head and smiled lazily. “You were very hot in that whole panic moment.”

You smacked his chest. “You’re a baby, apparently. I’ve corrupted you.”

“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling your jaw. “Keep doing it.”

Right Where It Started

“There is no greater glory than the love of a man for his wife.”

The apartment smelled like garlic, rosemary, and something sweet—maybe that wine reduction he’d been fussing over all day. You pushed the door open and kicked off your shoes with a tired sigh.

You’d spent the entire day at a charity event with the other WAGs. And while it hadn’t been terrible, it was exhausting. Smiling nonstop for cameras, making polite conversation with women who weren’t all that kind behind closed doors—it wore on you.

But then you looked up.

There he was, standing in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, brow furrowed in concentration as he stirred something on the stove. He was biting his bottom lip, completely focused, completely unbothered.

And just like that, the tension slipped from your shoulders.

That’s what Luke did to you. Always had.

“Hey,” you said, voice soft.

He turned, a boyish grin spreading across his face. That same grin he gave you 2 years ago, when he was just this charming, overconfident hockey kid asking for a shot. “Perfect timing. Go sit. I made your favorite.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What’s the occasion?”

Luke shrugged, casual. “You’ve had a long day. I missed you. I felt like spoiling my girl.”

It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. That was just Luke—always showing up in quiet, thoughtful ways. Surprise takeout on your doorstep. Sticky notes tucked into your coat pocket. The night he drove four hours without a second thought, just to hold you while you cried.

He never asked for anything in return. He just loved you the way he knew how—steadily, wholeheartedly, without conditions.

He handed you a glass of wine and you let him pamper you, letting your guard down. Letting yourself feel safe. Loved.

Dinner was perfect. The pasta was creamy and rich, the salad actually crisp (a miracle when he was in charge), and the dessert—chocolate lava cake—almost made you cry. But it was the way he looked at you that made your heart ache in the best way possible. Like you were his entire world. Like he still couldn’t believe you were his.

You leaned back, full and warm. “You’re really trying to outdo yourself tonight.”

Luke smirked, his fingers fiddling with something under the table before he stood. “I’ve been planning this for a while.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “Planning what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved toward the light switch, dimming the lights and lighting a few candles along the counter. A soft amber glow filled the room, casting long shadows on the walls and making the space feel cozy, intimate. The kitchen, usually filled with the hustle and bustle of cooking, now felt like a sanctuary. The scents of fresh herbs, wine, and the lingering sweetness of dessert mixed in the air. It was as though the world outside this room no longer existed.

Luke reached for the speaker, pressing play. The soft strum of guitar filled the space, and the familiar sound of Zach Bryan’s Sun to Me began to play.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. That song. The one he'd sent when you were apart because of his tight NHL schedule, telling you it reminded him of you. “Find someone who grows flowers in the darkest parts of you.”

And that was Luke. He’d always done that for you.

He looked at you, his eyes soft yet playful. “This song… it still reminds me of you.”

A smile tugged at your lips, warmth blooming in your chest. “I know,” you replied quietly. “You’ve told me before.”

He stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “Come here.”

You paused for a moment before he gently helped you to your feet. It felt natural, like the two of you had been waiting for this moment. He pulled you into his arms, the music surrounding you.

His hands rested on your waist as he moved with you to the rhythm of the song. “Yeah, but I’ll never stop saying it. Because it’s true. You’ve always been the one to grow flowers in me, Y/N. Even when I was at my lowest, when I didn’t believe in myself, you did. You never let me fall apart. You always saw the good in me, even when I couldn’t see it.”

A quiet silence settled between you as he pulled you even closer. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, sending a shiver down your back. You rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. The soft glow from the candles bathed the two of you in a golden light. The quiet hum of the song filled the room, and the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

You closed your eyes, letting the music wash over you. As the chorus played, you caught the lyrics again—“Find someone who grows flowers in the darkest parts of you.”

A tear slipped from the corner of your eye as you whispered, “You’ve always been that for me, too.”

He pulled back slightly, his gaze searching yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “I think that’s why I love this song so much. It’s like a reminder of us… of what we’ve built together.”

Your heart swelled as you smiled up at him. “Yeah, we’ve built a beautiful life together, haven’t we? I cherish the love we have, Luke. We really know how to support each other without losing ourselves in it.”

A soft smile tugged at his lips as he nodded. “Yes, we do. And you don’t know how grateful I am for you always being by my side—believing in me, loving me the way you do.”

You chuckled, resting your head back on his chest, inhaling deeply. His scent was soft and earthy, with a touch of sweetness. It was the kind of scent that wrapped around you like a gentle embrace, like home.

“I always believed in you, Lukey. And you make it so easy to do that.”

“Always,” he echoed softly, his voice filled with quiet conviction. Then, a playful glint danced in his eyes as he pulled you even closer. “I love you so damn much, you know that?”

You nodded, your heart full as you placed your hand gently on his chest. “I love you more.”

He grinned, but his expression shifted, becoming more serious. The weight of the moment settled between you both, the warmth of the kitchen and the intimacy of the dance making everything feel timeless. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving my love for you Y/N. I promise you that.”

Before you could respond, he stepped back, his gaze locking onto yours with such intensity that you felt it in your bones. You blinked, confused, and then he dropped to one knee.

Your breath caught in your throat. “Luke…”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. You gasped before he even opened it—because you knew that box. You’d seen it before. Years ago. After a sad day. When you almost walked away because the pressure got too much. And he’d stopped you, handed you that little box and just said,“I bought this after our first date.”

He opened it. The ring inside was simple, yet breathtaking, glowing softly in the warm light. It was the same ring he had shown you that day—back when you doubted whether you were enough for him.

You remembered how he had pulled you into his arms, his voice calm and unwavering as he promised that one day, he would marry you.

“You’ve been my everything since day one, Y/N,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “People said we wouldn’t make it. They said I was too young, that it’d never work. But you… you never let go of me. You showed me what real love is. You made me want to be better, to fight for this. To fight for us.”

He smiled—soft and sure, like he was holding every moment you’d shared right there in his chest.

“You’ve stood by me through everything—the pressure, the ups and downs of hockey. When it made me bitter, when it made me ugly… you were always there, patient, understanding. You helped me remember who I am beyond the game, and you never gave up on me, even when the world made it hard.”

He paused, eyes locked with yours, full of emotion.

“I promised you back then that I’d marry you someday. And now, in the same place where I first asked you to take a chance on me…I’m asking you to make me the luckiest man alive. Will you marry me and spend forever with me?”

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you choked out a laugh.

“Ohh Lukey….”

He grinned.

“Is that a yes, or…?”

“Of course I’ll marry you, Luke,” you whispered, your heart swelling with emotion. Gently, you cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing across his cheekbones as you caressed him softly. His eyes fluttered closed at your touch, and he leaned in, placing a soft kiss on the palm of your hand.

“I’m so grateful you never gave up on me, that you pushed me to take a chance on us, even when I hesitated. All those fears I had? They were nothing compared to the love and strength you’ve shown me. You’re the best man I’ve ever met, Luke Hughes. I’m so lucky to be yours.”

And just like that, the boy who once asked you to see past his age became the man you’d spend forever with.

[thedaythatwas]

on nagito komaeda and love

I just think it’s sort of funny that for a character whose (arguably) most well-recognized CG is this: 

komaeda’s narrative so heavily centers love. and I don’t just say this because I’ve had komahina brainrot for years (though this is true!!). even if you don’t care about komahina, it’s tough to deny komaeda is a walking tragedy in large part because of the role that love plays in his life. his characterization is driven by the way his luck has denied him love, and how he seeks it out regardless. in that sense, I think that without understanding komahina as at least one-sided, you miss out on one of the juiciest, most miserable pieces of komaeda’s character development.

tldr; a love-centered reading of komaeda makes sense, recognizing komahina as “a thing” in DR2 (whether you ship it or not) is pretty important to understanding how komaeda operates, and I’ll try to prove it right here under this page break!!

Part 1: Komaeda’s Love Life (or, his life without love)

I think it’s safe to assume that if you clicked here, you know about komaeda’s absurdly miserable, tumultuous childhood, but I’ll do a quick recap just in case! meteor kills his parents on a plane, he inherits a ton of money. he’s kidnapped by a serial killer, he finds a winning lottery ticket in the garbage bag he’s thrown out in. he’s diagnosed with terminal cancer and dementia, he gets into hope’s peak.

in his free time events, komaeda *explicitly* frames his luck cycle as something that takes away the people he loves. it only “takes action” against him after his relatives have died (for the sake of this essay, let’s assume that komaeda loved his parents, or would have at least been hurt by their passing). by way of other close connections… well, his wording here implies that by the time of his diagnosis, he didn’t really have anybody in his life. 

either komaeda didn’t allow himself to get close to anyone after the meteor incident, or he did, and they were taken away by his luck. at some point during his childhood, komaeda learned he should view himself as a death sentence.

so, how does this loss of love shape the komaeda we know? I’ll talk about this in terms of four of his defining (and connected!) traits in DR2 canon – the ones that really make his actions make sense: his self-loathing, his hope-seeking, his learned helplessness, and his certainty that his existence poses a threat to those around him. komaeda’s experience with loss makes him view himself as a source of death, which in turn fuels these tenets of his character. ultimately, his loss and the complexes that arise from it give him good incentive to push people away.

his self-loathing

komaeda hates himself. he views himself as worthless outside of his potential to serve as a “stepping stone” for the hope of the ultimates. he claims that this is driven by his beliefs around talent, which are in turn linked to the way his worldview rests on viewing hope as “absolute good.” the talentless (himself included) are only good for advancing the hope of the talented. still, his self-loathing is a bit more personal than that. take what he says and dig just below the surface, and it’s a clean cut trauma response all the way down. which leads us directly to…

his hope-seeking

komaeda is willing to do literally anything to serve hope. on the island, this (in short) means dying. this is where I prod at komaeda’s reasoning a bit more: komaeda’s willingness to act the way he does in canon also stems from his belief that his dying would be a net good for the world. his existence kills the people around him. his illness will kill him anyway. he has less than no value, and hope is invaluable. to go out for the sake of hope would give his wretched life purpose; it’s his dream come true.

and it’s no mystery why komaeda cares so much about hope: again, it’s a coping mechanism! komaeda’s belief that all bad luck is a necessary precursor for good luck and that hope will always triumph over despair is (as he himself says!) the only reason he’s managed to stay alive. I’ll say it again because I really can’t emphasize it enough – komaeda thinks that just by existing, he kills the people he loves. ouch!

learned helplessness / his existence as a threat

komaeda has, essentially, learned to submit to his luck cycle. all bad luck is good luck in the end – isn’t that amazing?! almost paradoxically, he’s hyper-vigilant about the negative impact his luck has on those around him. this is a tricky one. I make sense of it this way: komaeda’s perception of how much his luck impacts the people close to him isn’t inflated, like, at all. the supernatural way the world bends around komaeda to screw him over really does pose a danger to himself and others, and he takes measures to minimize that danger. his stated acceptance of his luck cycle is… well, again, he’s coping. 

if komaeda really thought that all bad luck is ultimately good luck, he wouldn’t try to protect his classmates from his bad luck. but, as we see in island mode, he does!

but really, who could blame komaeda for lying to himself? I’ll restate the facts. komaeda thinks that luck is absolute power. he says that he’s powerless against it. his luck has taken his family, and it’s left him with nothing but money that he doesn’t want. he’s certain he’s a curse, and there’s no end to that in sight: so long as komaeda exists, he’ll keep on losing – murdering – everything he loves. 

in the face of all of that despair, what can you do but abandon your self-esteem and pray for something good to come out of all of it? how else could somebody possibly survive carrying that burden, truly believing that load will never be lightened?

tldr; komaeda thinks his existence is a threat, and a big chunk of his personality is a frankensteined way of surviving the pain that comes with that. still, we should question how much of his worldview komaeda has really internalized without inner conflict. 

Part 2: Enter Hajime Hinata

we get some answers on that front when we see that despite the clear and obvious danger it poses, nagito komaeda still finds himself falling hard for hajime hinata. that’s really, really loud.

I’ll preface this part by saying that you don’t need to actively ship komahina to understand what I’m trying to get at here. this said, I’ll be recapping an argument you’ve almost definitely seen before: komahina is definitely “a thing” – at the very least as a one-sided thing. to this, I’ll add the (perhaps bold?) claim that without recognizing that much as true, you’re missing out on a big part of what makes komaeda so interesting.

komaeda’s FTEs make it abundantly clear that komaeda has feelings for hinata. apart from his famed failed love confession, the fact that komaeda is willing to allow hinata to get close enough to learn about his views on hope and luck is telling. 

(the smoking gun here hinges on trusting that komaeda was telling the truth during the time you spent with him; in so many words, that he only lied about lying. so, for the sake of argument, let’s assume this is true! there’s good proof for it, anyway.)

if you read his final FTE as komaeda flashing his soul to hinata and making a decision at the very last second to retreat, turning to old coping mechanisms to protect hinata from his luck, it’s sort of a komahina bombshell. that capitulation spells out for us that komaeda understands sharing his life experiences with hinata to be one of the most intimate things he could possibly do.

he recognizes the exact moment he lets hinata get too close – when his life story is finally told – and he does what he’s learned he needs to do to get them both out of that situation safely: he tries to make hinata hate him, and tells himself (and hinata!) that he did it for the sake of hope.

(and yet, komaeda let hinata approach him every FTE, knowing damn well that they were both playing with fire… very interesting.)

now, let’s say you don’t consider the FTEs to be integral to canon. I mean, you can really easily miss out on all of komaeda’s content if you choose not to hang out with him in chapter 1! so, for the skeptic, in the unskippable main story, komaeda tells hinata this:

komaeda cares about hinata despite everything. and I really, truly mean despite everything. at this point in the story, the fact that he still cares about hinata calls into question basically every single one of his core beliefs. he’s read his final dead room prize – not only does hinata not have a talent, we can presume that komaeda also knows hinata became ultimate despair along with the rest of them. 

hinata has continually sought out komaeda’s company, even though komaeda knows himself to be worthless at best, lethal at worst. komaeda was willing to let him get closer, even though he knows how dangerous that is for hinata. he can’t help but let hinata try to know him. 

isn’t he awful? to want what he knows he can’t have, even though that wanting has never done anything but cause pain? he’s really the lowest of the low, to love someone who destroyed the world, who makes him question the views that will allow him to do the only good thing he’s ever been able to do for it: to die for hope. 

and yet, it’s a nod to how incredibly capable of love komaeda is that he’s still willing to reach out for it, no matter how many times it’s burned him in the past, and how much it hurts him in the present to want it. he understands more than anyone that his feelings can only result in disaster. reading komaeda as someone who can’t help but go on loving anyway makes his story hurt so much worse. 

but, you miss a whole lot of that without an eye for komahina. seeing hinata as the eye of komaeda’s emotional hurricane (and keeping tabs on their connection accordingly) allows us to glimpse past the cracks in komaeda’s front. we see that komaeda’s worldview is less stable than he presents it as – hinata is where komaeda’s coping mechanisms, for better or worse, run up against a wall. that tends to be uncomfortable for a guy who’s just barely coping in the first place. then again, growth is supposed to be uncomfortable, isn’t it?

Part 3: The Future He Chooses

so, all of this considered, I think one of the most interesting ways you can flesh komaeda out post-canon is by asking how he’d find himself willing to accept love. whether that love is from hinata or the ultimates, whether it’s platonic or romantic, love is the thing that komaeda wants AND fears in equal measure more than anything. it’s the source of his self-loathing and his obsession with hope. it’s the reason he’s lived the way that he has for so long – lonely, and afraid of being anything but.

getting into a relationship wouldn’t solve komaeda’s problems for him, and that’s a good thing. it would force him to confront old ones, and probably create dozens of new issues for him, too. writing him through that makes for great character study!

hinata (or anyone else, for that matter) can’t love komaeda into loving himself, but he can give him a shoulder to cry on while he works through 22 years of fear and sorts through the wreckage of a worldview that’s long since stopped serving him. I don’t think his progress would be linear. but, I think that he could do it. komaeda learning to accept care is what his healing looks like. 

(well. and physically recovering from cancer and dementia. but that’s neither here nor there!)

a post-canon komaeda learning to love narrative is also in line with the themes of DR2. hinata leads the survivors out of the neo world program because he makes the decision to choose his own future, creating a new version of “hope” for himself and his classmates. likewise, komaeda can make the decision to save himself. that is, if he trusts himself enough to actually touch and hold the thing that he’s never been able to stop reaching out for, anyway.

after all, hinata is lucky too. (and if it turns out he isn’t… y'all like angst fics, right?)

(shoutout to @cynopter for looking this over and confirming that I'm not spouting nonsense <33 thank you for reading my thesis of the week <33)

[kunasthiast]

How would boyfriend Sukuna react to reader crying? Like maybe all the pressure from school and life in general got to her and she starts bawling

lol i love this ask ^^ like, you were just straight up bawling in front of Sukuna because the pressure from school and life was just too much... i think this boyfriend Sukuna is this ethical 'Kuna

but his initial reaction? a mix of "the fuck is this?" and absolute panic buried under many layers of cockiness

because let's be real: you know he's not the best at comforting people in the traditional sense. he doesn't do soft words or heartfelt pep talks. but, the moment he sees you breaking down, all teary-eyed and miserable with a runny nose? he doesn't like that. at all.

at first, he'd scoff, arms crossed, with a raised brow (like your emotional breakdown was personally offensive to him)

"alright, what the fuck happened? who do i have to kill?"

but then you actually try to explain between hiccups, sobs, and a runny nose – something about deadlines, exams, life being unfair – and he just lets you rant

there's no mocking, no interruptions. he's just listening, standing there, watching you cry, processing it

when you're done? he'd sigh – long and dramatic – like you crying is an inconvenience (it's not but he'll never admit he's worried). then he'd sit next to you, tugs you against his side, "okay, brat. you done now? good, we're leaving."

"huh, where?"

"anywhere but here. you think i'm just gonna let you sit in your misery? nah, not happening."

he'd wipe a stray tear off your cheek with his thumb, only to flick your forehead right after – not enough to hurt but enough to snap you out of it

"you look like a fucking mess, babe. it's embarrassing, i can't be seen with you like this"

and before you can even process this insult-disguised-as-affection, he's already dragging you out – for some comfort food, a drive, or whatever distraction he can think of

he won't say it out loud, but you'll notice how he keeps a hand on you – tugging at your wrist, resting on your lower back, or toying with the ends of your sleeves

later that night (because obviously he's sleeping over like he lives there), when you're feeling a little better and curled up against him, he'll mutter

"next time you feel like shit, just tell me before you start crying like a dumbass"

"wow such a sweet boyfriend"

"shut up, go to sleep"

but his arms stay tight around you

[tls12lessthan3]

on a more serious note though i do love 1863rd han sooyoung offering yoo joonghyuk a way out of his miserable life because he hasn't really made the choice to keep going since the 0th turn, and he doesn't even remember it. he hasn't had any autonomy in this respect in his entire life as far as he knows, which is of course necessary to make his choice to listen to kim dokja meaningful. he's only able to discover his desire for life by giving him the right to refuse it. which is why i find their dynamic so interesting here because it contains a sort of inherent contradiction - han sooyoung is in complete control of yoo joonghyuk here, an absolutely tantalizing relationship, a master bringing a dog to heel. at the same time, she's the only one whos giving him any active control over his life. and of course the contradiction only becomes clearer when the author/character reveal happens, a big question mark is slapped over yoo joonghyuk's entire being, and you realise the same woman who gave him that out was the one who wrote him so he'd never take it. there's a strange contrast that often plays out between them, and its really fascinating to watch. they've got some weird shit going on for sure!

[anakinstwinklebunny]

SAM MONROE hates this.

Absolutely, unequivocally, fucking hates this.

Because right now, he's standing in the middle of some overpriced toy store, holding a damn teddy bear with a heart on it.

He looks at it. The bear looks back.

"Stupid," he mutters under his breath, glaring at the thing like it's personally offended him. But his mom's voice keeps ringing in his head - «Samuel, he’s a baby. Let him have something cute for Valentine’s»

Like Vinnie gives a shit about Valentine's. He’s 20 months old. He doesn’t know what a Valentine is. He only knows two things: clinging to Sam like a koala and making grabby hands at anything that looks fluffy.

Still. He buys the damn bear.

Vinnie loves the bear, of course

The second Sam plopped it in front of him, his little hands grabbed at it, pulling it close to his tiny body, gasping wildly at the new toy. Those baby giggles filled the whole damn room, squeaky and breathy, and it’s—fuck. It’s cute. Annoyingly, stupidly cute.

Vinnie pressed his face against the bear’s soft fur, nuzzling into it like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever owned.

"This is stupid."

Sam is currently wedged inside a tiny-ass plastic tunnel in the middle of some indoor play area at the mall.

Vinnie, meanwhile, is having the time of his damn life.

The second they got here, he made a beeline for the obstacle course. Bright colors, soft mats, a giant pool filled with plastic balls—it was like a baby fever dream.

So now Sam is crawling through the world’s tightest tunnel, hunched over like some awkward, miserable gremlin. He is sure he'll get stuck in the another one.

Vinnie giggles up ahead, tiny feet wobbling forward as fast as they can take him while passing through the sweaty, too happy kids. He doesn’t give a shit that Sam is suffering.

“Dude, slow down,” Sam groans, trying to maneuver through the cramped space. “I’m, like, ten times your size.”

Vinnie just shrieks in excitement, stumbling out of the tunnel and straight into the ball pit. He disappeared for a second—just vanished under the sea of plastic balls—before resurfacing with the happiest, drooliest grin ever.

Sam is sure someone made a pop down there.

And he wants to be mad. He really does. But god, Vinnie is cute. Too cute. How the hell is it possible it's his genes?

He sighs, finally reaching the opening and sliding into the ball pit with a lot less grace.

Plastic balls go flying.

Someone did a pop, he is sure of it. He remembers it. He won't forget it.

Vinnie lets out a shriek-laugh, grinning so hard it looks like it physically hurts whole he claps those pudgy hands at them doing something extraordinary toge

Sam acts annoyed, but when Vinnie wobbles up to him and throws his tiny arms around his neck, Sam just—melts.

"Alright, alright, don't get all clingy," he mutters, but his arms wrap around Vinnie on instinct, securing him close.

Vinnie just giggles, face squishing against Sam’s collarbone.

“You like this, huh?” Sam sighs, chin resting on his son’s curly hair.

Vinnie babbles something completely incoherent, but his happiness is loud and clear.

He presses a small, secret kiss to the top of Vinnie’s head “Happy Valentine’s, dude.”

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy-deactivated20250 @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17-deactivated2025 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden

[mashtatosworld]

Can I request some Seunghyun x Fem!Reader where she’s his personal assistant and absolutely, completely and deeply in love with him. She’s been his best friend for years, terrified that if she tells him how she feels, it might not only ruin their friendship but also their work dynamic. They’re incredibly touchy and comfortable in each other space, not even noticing that they’re doing things that could be considered couple-y: She’s on her phone while standing next to a seated Seunghyun? He’s absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of her shirt while she’s carding her fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp gently. He makes a lame dad joke that no one really laughs at? She’s giggling and giving him a sweet little forehead kiss as she walks by. The rest of the band can see they’re made for each other but too chicken to admit it. So the boys cook up a plan to get Seunghyun to finally tell her how he feels. What could possibly go wrong? 😂😂

how you get the girl

summary: in which things between you are safer left unspoken

You’ve been by Seunghyun’s side for years.

First as his best friend, then as his very unqualified personal assistant. It started because he didn’t want to lose you - his career as an idol meant constant travel, but he wasn’t about to let life pull you apart. So he hired you, despite your lack of organisational skills and tendency to leave things until the last minute.

Not that he really minded. He liked having you around. More than liked.

Some may say too comfortable together. For colleagues at least.

You’re always touching - his fingers pulling at the hem of your shirt absentmindedly. Or sharing glasses of wine - his mouth pressing against your lipstick stains without complaint.

And neither of you ever question it.

Because sometimes things were safer left unspoken.

But the rest of the band? Oh, they see it. And they’re tired of waiting for you two to figure it out.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

It starts with you forgetting to book his hair appointment.

He’s supposed to go on stage tomorrow with pink hair. Only, his roots are still dark, and there’s no way to get a stylist this late.

Which is how you end up in his hotel bathroom at midnight, wearing one of his oversized t-shirts, sitting on the edge of the bathtub - him on the floor between your legs - whilst you're armed with box dye and gloves, carefully working through his hair.

“You know,” he muses, casually toying with one of your anklets, “if I had a professional assistant, this wouldn’t be happening.”

You scoff. “If you had a professional assistant, you’d be miserable.”

He hums in consideration. “Maybe.”

Definitely.

He closes his eyes when your fingers start massaging the dye in properly, his body relaxing under your touch. It’s warm in here, the scent of hair dye mixing with the faint smell of his shampoo, and there’s something oddly intimate about it - his head in your hands, the steady rhythm of your movements.

And then he feels a smear on his cheek.

His eyes snap open.

"Oops."

“No. No, oops. I know you, you did that on purpose.” He turned his head around, eyes narrowed on your amused figure.

Before you can react, his hand moves fast - swiping a glob of dye across your arm.

“Hey!” You yelp, grabbing at him in retaliation, and suddenly it’s a war. He gets your cheek; you streak pink across his neck. He reaches for your platinum dyed hair - “Oh don’t you dare - ”

Too late. A bright pink handprint ends up in your hair.

By the time you’re done both of you are breathless, pink-stained, grinning at each other like kids who just got caught. You don’t realise how close you are. How he’s staring at you, just for a moment, something soft in his expression.

You clear your throat, "You better hope there's enough dye in that box for me too."

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

“You two do realise you look like a couple now, right?”

The next morning, you both enter the dressing room - late of course - to see Jiyong in the make-up chair, grinning like the devil himself.

“Uh-huh," you brush off, striding past the boys as they all eyed your new matching locks.

Seunghyun watched you flit around the room, trying to find your stage pass whilst he draws closer to his bandmates, a watchful eye remaining on you.

“Matching hair? That’s basically a soft launch,” Daesung chuckles as he snacks on a banana.

Seunghyun tilts his head, raising a curious brow. “Do we… really look like a couple?”

Jiyong smirks. “You sound pretty happy about that, hyung."

The way Seunghyun pauses - no defence, no annoyed huffs, just considering - tells them everything they need to know.

And just like that, the plan is set in motion.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Seunghyun handles your work phone. It’s separate from your personal one, and since you’re a little too… relaxed about answering emails and checking schedules, he’s taken it upon himself to do it for you.

Which is exactly why the band sends the message there.

He’s scrolling through your unread messages as the team sits in the dressing room, cooling off after a tiring performance.

Then the phone pings.

[unknown number] Hey beautiful! I had so much fun on our date. Let me know when you can meet again. Can’t wait to see you soon candyfloss xxxxx

His fingers tighten around the phone.

His stomach drops.

The fuck?

A sharp wave of irritation rises in his chest. He looks at you - you’re on your personal phone, completely unaware, smiling at something on the screen.

Is this why you’ve been distracted?

Before he even realises it, his voice comes out clipped. “Is this why you’ve been such a terrible assistant?”

You blink, confused. “What?”

He stands from the sofa, uncaring for the way he draws attention to himself. He was heated. “You’ve been messing things up constantly - I thought you were just forgetful, but no, you’re busy running around with some secret boyfriend instead of doing your job?”

Your mouth drops open. “Excuse me?” You push off from the wall, moving to stand before him.

“If you’re so distracted, maybe I should fire you.”

The room goes dead silent.

The guys - who were at the far end of the room - exchange panicked looks.

“Oh shit,” Jiyong mutters. “Did we just -”

“Ruin everything?” Youngbae whispers back. “Yeah.”

Inside, you’re outraged. “If you think I’m so terrible, fire me then!”

“I should!”

“Then do it!”

“I will!”

“Fine!”

There’s a beat of silence. Neither of you move.

Then you narrow your eyes. “Wait... What are you even talking about, Seunghyun? I don’t have a secret boyfriend.”

“Oh sure,” he scoffs, waving the phone in front of your face. “You just forgot about the guy you went on a date with?”

You lunge to snatch the phone from him. “Give me that!”

He dodges you - holding it high above your head, and dials the number instead.

And then -

Daesung’s phone starts ringing.

The silence is deafening.

Jiyong smacks Daesung upside the head. “Aish, put it on silent next time!”

You and Seunghyun slowly turn to them.

Daesung clears his throat. “Uh. Surprise?”

Youngbae attempts to smooth things over, “Hyung, y/n... It was just part of the prank war. You know... payback.”

"Payback?" Seunghyun is fuming. “You idiots nearly made me lose my girl.”

Your heart stops.

“…Your girl?”

It takes him a second to realise what he just said.

Oh.

You’re both frozen, eyes locked, the entire world narrowing to just the two of you.

Seunghyun swallows, his entire demeanor shifting - still intense, but no longer angry. Just... raw.

The others take that as their cue to get the hell out.

Once they’re gone, you continue to stare at him, heart pounding. “I'm your girl?”

His jaw clenches. “…Of course you are.”

You frown. “You've never told me that.”

He exhales. “Because I didn’t want to ruin what we have.”

You stare at him, then laugh breathlessly. “You mean our very professional assistant-client relationship?”

He couldn't help a smile, running a hand through his pink hair.

Seunghyun hesitates a moment, and then he steps closer, cupping your cheek, and murmurs, “I thought I could live with that. But when I thought I was losing you, I hated it.”

Your breath catches. “I'd hate that too.”

“I'm going to kiss you.”

You whisper, “Yeah. You should.”

And then he does.

It’s slow, warm, and so overdue it makes you dizzy. His hands tighten around you, pulling you impossibly close.

When you finally break apart, you smirk. “So, do you really think I’m a bad assistant?”

He nods. “Oh, absolutely.”

You swat at him, but he just grins, catching your hands and pulling you back in.

“But I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

And then he kisses you again.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

thank goodness there's no HR in fantasy land

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk

[tinkerbellknockoff]

chemistry // jinx x fem!reader

chemistry // college!jinx x fem!reader

you've never been the greatest at sciences- you were aware of that. being placed into general chemistry to fulfill a lab requirement for college forced you to face your fears: writing lab reports and talking to pretty teacher assistants.

- college au

warnings: cursing

-- a/n: gonna be slightly projecting when talking about how bad reader is at chemistry lol

you thought the cliche chemistry professor that made absolutely no sense was only for the movies. but sitting here on a stool, watching the professor measure and start mixing chemicals that you couldn't even catch the name of made you flabbergasted and honestly- a little bit annoyed.

at your university, you were required to take one semester of a laboratory class. that's only about what- four months? you thought that was going to be a breeze- just get it out of the way, and you'll never have to touch a science class again! hopefully.

it had been about two-ish weeks of your general chemistry class, and by whatever is holy... you were miserable. unfortunately for you, your lab partner seemed to be on the same wavelength as you: massively confused. which, in a way, could be comforting because hey- you're not alone! on the other hand... your grades are screwed. and, unfortunately, you actually cared about your gpa.

the second half of your misery came from the fact you loathed asking for help. throughout high school, it was a breeze being able to figure out solutions to all of your problems, but now... you basically had to find every single resource that could help you. and, unfortunately, none of them did. you've never felt more lost in your life, which is how you have led to your position now.

slipping your backpack over your right shoulder, you then lightly draped your lab coat over your arm as you walked up to your chemistry professor. you decided it was finally time for you to ask for help- and by god, did it take some encouragement. there were still a few stragglers in the room- there being the professor, you, a couple of your peers, and the gorgeous blue-haired teacher assistant.

her name was jinx. she was recommended by another chemistry professor- professor silco, if you remember his name right- which gave her the job opportunity to ta a few general chemistry classes. honestly, she had helped you out a couple of times- she was a saint.

on the other hand, she terrified the living hell out of you. jinx, in the simple two weeks that you have spent in this general chemistry lab (two times per week, so maybe four times in the lab total) showed how... chaotic she was. in the first class, she was idly lounging around in random spots of the classroom, sitting on tables with littered chemical substances, and playing with one of the bottles in her hands. you remember, in that class, she seemed bored since it was simply laboratory rules and basics- but ever since the class started doing experiments? she seemed like the happiest girl in the world.

the professor made pretty basic explanations to questions he was asked- he was a little sassy, though. he'd say your name repeatedly, chastising you, then go, "haha! i am joking. wasn't that funny?"

... no. it was never funny.

then jinx. she would quickly prance to you the second you had your hand raised, entering your personal space as she would begin rapidly explaining, and would sometimes even begin doing the experiment for you. you loved it when that happened. honestly, even throughout that chaotic nature, she would explain things decently well. she talked a lot, but she was still able to deliver her understanding pretty well. you admired her for that.

even though she was incredibly helpful, in all honesty- you hated when she would be the one to come after you raised your hand.

she was too pretty. you couldn't focus.

"well, toots," is how she would always begin the explanation for you. you couldn't quite catch if she called literally anyone else that, but it was almost humorous how she always started off with those two words. you almost felt special. then, it would be how she'd lightly grab your hips to move you out of her way so she'd be able to access the experiment better- and even with you on the side, her side would still be brushing yours.

when she spoke, she never spoke to both you and your lab partner. her pink eyes seemed to stare you down. you were too scared to break the eye contact, and the more you reciprocated the staring the more entertained she seemed to be, her violet eyes swirling. you couldn't take it.

that happened every. single. time.

and every single time you felt like you were going to burst.

so, talking to the professor, you hoped to god he would just offer his office hours.

"hello, professor," you spoke, eventually standing in front of his desk, and he turned to look at you. he gave a smile (a little bit chaotic, you thought this profession was great for him), and he said your name in greeting.

"how can i help you?"

"i was hoping there would be some sort of office hours i could go to..." you spoke, swallowing your pride, "i was looking for some help with the lab reports and saw that your office hours were for request only."

he hummed in acknowledgment, giving you an understanding look, "okay. have you checked the tutoring center?"

you nodded, "yeah. all of the open tutoring sessions for gen chem are all when i have other classes."

"that sucks a ton, toots."

her voice came out of what seemed like nowhere. the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, but you kept your seemingly relaxed demeanor as you turned your head into her direction, her eyes automatically locking onto yours. she already had a chaotic grin on her face, her pink eyes swirling with entertainment, "i could help ya out."

the professor seemed to not care for jinx's bubbly behavior, "could you, jinx? your times would possibly be more flexible than mine."

.... fuck.

jinx eagerly nodded, "don't worry about it. would be an honor to give a pretty girl some help!"

was that appropriate to say?

the professor didn't have a care in the world as he thanked jinx, and then waved you two off, telling them to go schedule times to be able to meet, and giving the reassurance that he would be able to for extra support if you needed it.

you walked out of the lab, jinx seeming hot on your tail. she loosely grabbed her bag along the way, it hanging off her shoulder in a similar fashion to yours. eventually, in the hallway, you turned to face her properly. all you had to do was schedule some times, leave, eventually actually do the meetings, then bam! you're done! don't have to be threatened by a pretty girl no longer!

"so, toots. wanna talk about times over dinner?" jinx winked at you.

you had to take a sharp inhale after that. oh my gosh? was this professional? was this allowed? you don't think she cared. at all, actually.

"cat got your tongue?" jinx looked amused at your silence, her violet eyes staring at your expression, looking like a deer in headlights. "you're very expressive."

you cleared your throat, deciding to ignore that comment. takes one to know one. eventually, you found your words, "... fine. right now?"

you got it! look, you can talk to her. nice and easy!

her entertained expression and grin never left her face as she nodded her head, her bright blue hair bouncing in the movement. "i mean, when else could i possibly catch ya?"

"i dunno, email exists." you retort, you don't see her the reason for her to insist on going out to dinner to make plans.

"boring!" jinx continued grinning at you. doesn't her face ever start to hurt, "we can just go to the dining hall! c'mon, toots, don't be a snoozefest."

and to that, you finally caved in. her excitement seemed to elevate even more than it originally was as she started to basically bounce off the walls (not really, you're being dramatic), grabbing your hand. you were practically yanked, having to hold the lab coat in your arm tighter to make sure it didn't get dropped on the way. she energetically spoke to you the entire way, effortlessly guiding you, not caring if you were stumbling at any moment. you were surprised her relatively small statue had this much muscle. she was acting like she took 5 shots of expresso and did a line of coke.

hopefully, she didn't actually do that.

she kept rambling your head off as you both waited in line for your food. your dining hall offered an assortment of shops, which led you to get pasta, and right now you were waiting in line for the burger shop next to jinx. she eventually let your hand go, but you noticed over time that she always was touching you in some fashion. right now, her bicep was brushing against yours, her head tilted in your direction as she rambled on about some sort of engineering project she had taken up. you learned through her talking that she was a biochemical engineering major. so, basically, she was super smart. you're a psychology major, which caused her to erupt in a small fit of laughter when you told her,

"so what are you doing in chemistry, toots?! why not take like... i dunno, meteorology!"

that elicited a pout from you, scoffing, causing jinx to look at you with amusement in her eyes as she laughed harder, "you're so funny, toots! i couldn't get enough of you."

she was proving her statement.

you and jinx ate dinner together, and after some coaxing of the conversation, you got her to agree to a few study sessions over the next couple of months. every other sunday you two would meet up at the library, and have about a two-hour session covering the content from the prior two weeks. that sounded fair enough. you didn't know if two hours was necessary, but jinx insisted, believing that was the "sure way to shove everything into your noggin". you were humored by her wording of it.

even after you both had long finished your food, she insisted on sitting with you for a little bit longer, claiming that she was having the time of her life getting to know you. her behavior made you so flushed- but you tried your damned hardest to refrain from it showing. you tried desperately to act nonchalant, which jinx continuously called your bluff on, leading you to be super defensive, to which she would continue to tease you more.

"c'mon, toots!" jinx giggled. she was sitting across from you at a table, her elbow resting on top and her hand holding her head as she kept her other hand on the table, tapping her nails rhythmically, "tell me more about ya."

you were reclined back, slightly hunched in the seat as you hummed thoughtfully. your arms were crossed in front of you, which jinx found humorous. she could tell you were still a little bit shy.

"what do you want to know?" you humored jinx.

"anything. anything at all, as long as it's about you," jinx winked in your direction, her eyes never once leaving your direction, "... any... boyfriend?"

that question startled you. your eyes met hers once more. she was lightly chewing on the bottom of her lip, her eyes basically devouring you as she waited for your answer in anticipation. jinx's breath basically hitched in her throat with excitement as you shook your head,

"no. broke up with my girlfriend before college."

jinx clearly seemed giddy after your statement, only a blind man wouldn't be able to tell. you examined her behavior after, blinking, your thoughts finally catching up to you.

holy shit. you basically felt yourself erupt into flames, could she like me?

"aww, damn, toots!" jinx said, but the sympathy rolling off her tongue was feigned, "that sucks. any reason why?"

you shrugged, sitting up and fixing your posture, folding your elbows onto the table and leaning forward. "wasn't a good fit. you live and you learn, i guess. what can you do?"

jinx understood, her thoughts racing with pure excitement. jinx realized she had a chance- and she wasn't the one to let chances slip up.

so, for the next couple of months, she used the tutoring sessions as an excuse to get to know you. she would claim every half hour that you two had to take a break, and then ask you questions about your day, your week, and everything that could come to mind. you warmed up to her behavior, which made her feel so elated- you began to reciprocate all of her talking. she loved talking to you.

so, when your last session came, jinx was bummed. jinx stared at you longingly, which you didn't seem to notice as you flipped through the data you had gathered during your most recent lab, scanning between it and the lab report, making sure that you didn't miss anything important. you, with the help of jinx, were doing stellar in chemistry. you couldn't have thanked jinx more.

you brought your bag up onto your lap to grab a few folders, slipping the papers inside, packing up. jinx continued to stare at you longingly, her pink eyes unusually soft as she stared you down. eventually, you glanced up, meeting her eyes. she quickly changed her expression, looking more neutral.

"jinx, i really thank you enough," you spoke up, her heart soaring at the praise. but that elation dropped as she saw you stand up, causing her to quickly follow behind, moving to walk beside you as you two began to leave the library.

"it was really nothing, toots. what was i meant to do, let a pretty girl like you fail?"

those words sounded like something she said at the very beginning of all this. that caused a laugh to slip out of your lips as you bumped your shoulder gently with hers. she pushed the door open for the two of you, the cold winter air hitting the two of you in a gust.

walking a little further away from the door, you two stopped and stared at each other for a moment. jinx for once felt the words catch in her throat as her eyes met yours. you looked so cute, your nose slightly turning red from the winter air hitting your face.

you noticed her gaze. her pupils were blown as she was dead silent, something very uncharacteristic for jinx, causing you to examine her eyes with yours. when she noticed this, she met your gaze, both of you seeming to devour each other with your eyes, before you cleared your throat.

"so, this is it, huh?" you sheepishly giggle, holding onto the straps of your side satchel. your words, as corny as it is to say, almost broke jinx's heart on the spot then. it was just tutoring- why did she feel like it was the end of the world?

"... i hope it's not." jinx spoke, her voice abnormally quiet. your eyebrows rose at her unusual demeanor, your head tilting and causing your hair to flow to the side. jinx's eyes looked over every single one of your movements, absolutely infatuated with the way you moved- the way you were you.

no one had ever been any more perfect in her eyes.

"how do you mean?"

jinx cleared her throat, "would it be bad if i did something right now? that... you may or you may not like?"

your eyebrows furrowed at the question. what the hell did that mean? but, as your lips parted, you weren't given the option to question her as she grabbed the sides of your face with her clammy and cold hands, smashing her lightly chapped lips against your soft ones.

the kiss was startling for you, your eyes open wide in shock, being able to see the way that jinx so harshly had her eyes closed, her hands keeping you right against her. as if you would slip through her fingers. so, after finding your bearings, you finally closed your eyes, relaxing as you began to reciprocate the kiss.

jinx felt like she was on cloud nine, holding you as tightly as possible against her. your lips tasted like heaven to her, her being able to taste the chapstick that she saw you always use, one that she always watched glaze over your lips. she was doing what she fantasized about doing for so fucking long.

and to her excitement, you were kissing her back.

after a few moments, she parted the kiss panting. both of your eyes fluttered open as you both lightly panted, small puffs of white smoke leaving your mouths. you locked eyes with hers, both of your pupils blown wide. you were both impossibly close to each other, allowing you to hear jinx's faint whisper,

"i like you," her eyes scanned over your face, "a lot."

a laugh left your mouth. she loved hearing your laugh- but in this context, it almost made her petrified until she saw the bright smile that was on your lips.

"i like you, too."