#like i thought i finally found someone to follow

[hoonieyun]

this is where it ends ⋆˙⟡♡

days of dodging your boyfriend after your fight finally lead you to the answer you've been looking for (read part one here) heeseung 𐐪♡𐑂 jongseong 𐐪♡𐑂 jaeyun 𐐪♡𐑂 sunghoon genre: aaaaangsttttt!!! angst!! heartbreak.. OOF warnings: toxic relationship, bad coping mechanisms, profanity, mentions of drinking as an addiction, gaslighting, arguing, 18+

hoonieyun notes: WHEW... lowkey was like.. damn this shit is TOO angsty so sorry in advance but im obsessed with angst lately and watching xo kitty did not help because that show was a rollercoaster LMAO anyways i hope you guys enjoy this sad piece of work because i have more coming with my vday anthology and exes reunited series plus! i've just announced my 1k follower special!

𐐪♡𐑂 @pagemiah @jiiyen @jnysaln @xh01bri @rairaiblog @laurradoesloveu @17ericas @manaah02 @heeseung64 @zorange13 @heartheejake @cloud-lyy @heeweenie @jakesimfromstatefarm @lovelymelon @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @anushkaaaiaiiaiaia

@chvconn3 @heeheeyeoiizz01 @pjselee @malloryaloisia @alienqbrain @jooniesbears-blog @haeeeeefer @firstclassjaylee

heeseung ⋆˚ʚɞ

it had been 3 days since you left heeseung standing in your apartment, dumbfounded and unsure of where you were. you really had hoped he would run after you that night but he didn’t and that seemed to put the nail in the coffin for you. 

were you ready to throw away your relationship all because of this? 

was it worth it to lose the person you love? 

you had pondered on so many questions since that night and each question felt like you were guilt tripping yourself into thinking that your own feelings weren’t valid, like you were trying to convince yourself that you were overreacting and that heeseung was right. 

why were you being so annoying?

but these questions only led to more questions instead of answers.

were you being annoying or were you just tired of not being heard? 

if you hadn’t been the one to constantly ask him to clean up after himself would he have done it on his own? 

why were you trying to come up with reasons to talk yourself back into his arms when you truly knew deep down the answer you were looking for…

you just weren’t ready to come to terms with it. 

so here you were, hurriedly packing what you could before heeseung could come home. and just to your luck, he had arrived much earlier than you anticipated. “yn?” heeseungs says, shock painted across his face as he sees you standing in the hallway with a box of your things. 

“wh- what are you doing?” he asks, eyes falling on the box in your hands. 

both of you knew the answer to that. 

“i think- i can’t do this anymore, hee… 

i did a lot of thinking these past fews days and everything i thought of i found myself trying to make excuses for you. trying to figure out why i was acting this way and why i was going out of my way to make it seem like i was the one causing these issues and stressing myself out and then i realized… 

why was i trying to compromise my own happiness and well being for someone who didn’t care about me? 

for someone who couldn’t simply understand where i was coming from and couldn’t even listen to me when all i would ask for was something so easy as to clean up after yourself. 

heeseung, you’re grown and so am i and i’m done acting like your words and actions don’t hurt solely for the fact that i don’t want to lose you. 

we’re over.” your eyes had tears pooling in them but you refused to let them fall in front of heeseung. 

“what?” heeseung asks, slipping his shoes off and running over to you in an attempt to stop you, reaching for the box but you move out of the way before he can. 

“yn.. can we please talk about this? don’t jump to conclusions just because you’re hurt. this isn’t what you want, what about us? 

are you willing to throw us away because of some petty fight?” and that’s when you knew that you and heeseung weren’t on the same page… at all. 

“that’s what you have to say?” and at this point you had lost the fight to stop the tears from falling. 

“you haven’t even apologized? and now you’re here trying to gaslight me into thinking that what i’m feeling is just the result of a petty fight? 

hee, you never listen to me. you dismissed my feelings and all i asked was you clean up our bedroom because i was tired. i’m sorry but if that was such a hard task then i don’t know what to tell you. 

i’m not jumping to conclusions. heeseung, we’re done.” you say, pushing passed him so you could leave and move on. start new and heal from this pain. 

“really? you’re just going to walk away?” heeseung asks, still refusing to take accountability for his actions. 

“i’m not walking away… you pushed me away.”

“bye, heeseung.”

jongseong ⋆˚ʚɞ

jay hadn’t been able to pick up a bottle of alcohol since that night… 5 months ago. he hadn’t realized he developed a bad habit of drinking all because he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that his loving girlfriend, the one who took care of him, who loved him, who fought for him to make things right, was slowly becoming someone he didn’t love anymore. 

so why was it that now that you two were broken up, he wants nothing more to get back together with you? 

he thought about the day you finally came back. after you ran out in the middle of the night jay didn’t see you for a whole week and by the end of that week, you would be gone for good. 

“is this what you really want?” jay had asked you right before you left. 

“its not what i want… but it doesn’t seem like what i want would be something that could ever happen if i stayed with you. 

you hurt me, jay. all i ever did was care for you and love you and it made me realize i hadn’t felt care or love from you for a while now. 

i truly hope that you get help for your drinking problem but i’m sorry i’m not going to be the one to fix it for you.” and with that you were gone. out of jay’s life and although you had said that you weren’t going to be the one to fix his drinking problem, in a lot of ways; you did fix it. 

he hadn’t drank since that night and vowed to himself that he wouldn’t drink ever again and 5 months after, he’s kept that promise. 

jay wished that he did keep his promise to you. 

when he finally asked you to be his girlfriend, he had promised to hold your heart close to his and to never break it. only to find himself distancing his heart from yours and eventually shattering it into millions of pieces when you got into a fight that night. 

but he was now forced to face all of this all over again as you stood in front of him, mirroring the same shocked face he had as the two of you run into each other at a mutual friends party. 

you hadn’t seen jay since that night and although your heart ached for him, you had to choose yourself. you couldn’t stand being with someone who saw you as overbearing when all you did was care for and love them. 

you truly had been worried about jay ever since his drinking habits had gone worse and maybe you could’ve gone about it a better way and not made him feel attacked for his actions but he didn’t have the same consideration for you so why should you do the same… right? 

“h-hi.. yn. you look good.” jay stutters. 

“you do too, um.. i–” you begin to say but he cuts you off. “look, i know we didn’t end on the right foot and these past five months have been hard for me so i could only imagine how hard they’ve been on you. 

i wasn’t right to treat you that way and i’m sorry i’m only realizing it now. i miss you so much and i spend countless nights thinking about you. reminiscing on the good times and how i let myself ruin all of it. 

i’m sorry, yn.” it all comes out like word vomit and quite frankly, you weren’t prepared to hear any of it. you also hadn’t expected him to have this much of grasp on your relationship five months after, but it was all too late. 

“i’m sorry too, jay– but i can’t keep doing this. i think you need to move on. i know i will…” you muttered.

“for what it’s worth… you did help me… i’m five months sober.” he confesses and you give him a tight lipped smile. 

“take care of yourself, ok?” you say before turning around to leave and although jay wished that he could’ve said all of this five months sooner in hopes that it would’ve fixed your relationship, he respects your wishes and just hopes that the next guy who comes around would love you the way you deserved to be loved. 

jaeyun ⋆˚ʚɞ

in the time you’ve dated jake or quite frankly, anyone, they had never raised their voice and spoke to you in that way. jake seemed so angry and upset that it scared you. you knew that jake would never hurt you but his words pierced your heart in ways that caused you pain you had never felt before, especially from someone you love and was supposed to love you.

it always hurts more when it comes from someone you love right? 

you had come home the next day and found jake sleeping on the couch, hugging the plushy that he often said looked like you. 

you’d be lying if you said that seeing him like this didn’t make your heart hurt… but it did. 

it seemed like jake had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for you but you couldn’t shake the feeling.

the feeling of being unwanted, unloved, undesirable, and not enough for someone who is supposed to love you. 

but if jake had loved you he wouldn’t have raised his voice at you.. let alone speak to you in that tone and used language that was meant to hurt someone. 

“yn? is that you?” he says, stretching on the couch and rubbing his eyes, causing you to snap out of it. you quickly wipe away the tears that had miraculously appeared. “um, yeah. i just came to grab some things. you can go back to sleeping..” you explained as you made your way to your shared bedroom. 

“baby? can we talk?” jake says, peering into the room as he sees you packing your things inside of duffel bag. “wait- what are you packing? are you leaving? baby, please don’t do this, can we talk this out?” he was now on his knees in front of you, clutching onto your sweater while he begged. 

“jake, get up.” you say, rolling your eyes at him. 

“its just for a few days, i need time to myself- i need to think, ok?” you said and even now, even when you’re still hurting because of him from the night before, you were here trying to comfort him. 

jake stands up with a sniffle and he attempts to link your hands together but you pull away to continue packing your bag. “when are we going to talk about this? i love you, i don’t want you to leave… please stay.” he continues to beg and although its working, you needed to stay strong. 

“if you loved me you wouldn’t have spoken to me like that. people who love each other don’t speak to people they love that way. 

jake, you hurt me… and i don’t know what i did to deserve that treatment but i just wanted help. i spent all day running errands despite feeling like shit because of my period and you dismissed my feelings like it was nothing. 

that blanket meant so much to me, you knew that it was from my late grandmother yet you tossed it aside for your own accord because you didn’t have the same care for me and the things i love the way i do for you.” you said with a huff as you stuffed the last of your things into the bag. 

“when will you come back?” was all jake asked and all you could muster up was a shrug, because you weren’t entirely sure when you would be back. 

needless to say, a few days turned into a few weeks, and a few weeks turned into a few months and at some point you found yourself not having the need to come back. 

you wished you could get the closure you wanted from jake and you were sure he also wanted that, but walking away was something you needed to do. even if it was just one instance where jake spoke to you that way, it was enough for you to leave because you weren’t going to allow yourself to be with someone who found it in themselves to speak that way to someone they supposedly loved. 

not then, not now, and not ever.

sunghoon ⋆˚ʚɞ

sunghoon hadn’t known what he was doing, it was like his body was moving before his brain could think because he was running back inside and grabbing his car keys to drive after you. 

he wasn’t sure where you were headed off to but he had guessed that you were most likely going to stay with your mom. you were always close with your mom and she often was the person you went to when you were having troubles if you didn’t go to sunghoon. 

sunghoon knew he fucked up and he shouldn’t have treated you that way let alone let some strangers treat you that way. he didn’t know what let him get to the point where he was allowing these men to speak about you, the girl that he loved, in a way that made you feel small. demeaning and degrading you in a way that he hadn’t realized and even if he did, he chose to look away instead of defend you all because he was filled with the greed of wanting this promotion. 

was it even worth it anymore if it meant losing you? 

sunghoon was speeding at this point and although you hadn’t left much before he had went to follow you, there was no one else in the streets as he sped through to catch up to you. 

in a short amount of time, he’s turning into the street that your mom lives on and sure enough, he sees you just about to walk up to the front door. he hapazardly parks the car on the side of the street and stumbles out of his car to get to you. 

“yn, please. wait, lets talk about this!” he says and you’re startled at sunghoon suddenly appearing and you wipe the tears from your face and blink a few times to make sure he was actually there. 

“hoon? what are you doing here?” you ask, stepping down the small stairway that led to your mom’s home. “i couldn’t just let you leave like that, we need to talk-

look i’m sorry for the way i treated you and even more sorry that i let them treat you that way. i love you so much and i couldn’t imagine the amount of hurt i caused you for making it seem like i was okay with letting them say those things about you all because i wanted that promotion so damn bad. 

i was selfish and greedy but those are the things that make me want you more. i don’t want you to leave and walk away from me because i am selfish and greedy and i want you all to myself. 

i’m sorry that i didn’t defend you and i made you feel small…” he says and at this point sunghoon is crying. his voice breaks with every other word and you truly hadn’t seen sunghoon in this much distress, ever. 

you didn’t know how to respond but the longer you looked into sunghoon’s bloodshot eyes, the more confused you became. 

you could tell sunghoon was sincere but you didn’t think this was something that could be fixed right then and there. your sensitivity was always something you struggled with and sunghoon knew that yet he brushed off your feelings like it was nothing. 

“you shouldn’t have driven out all this way… 

because although i appreciate your apology i don’t know that i’m in the right place to accept it or to forgive you. 

sunghoon you hurt me and you let others hurt me. 

i’m selfish too, i want you all to myself too and i wouldn’t have stayed so long if i didn’t love you and want to be with you… but-

i don’t know if i can be with someone that doesn’t see me in the way i deserve. 

and i certainly know i don’t deserve any of that.” both of your attention is drawn to the sound of the front door as it opens, revealing your mother in her nightwear and arms crossed; a displeased expression on her face. 

“i’ll reach out to you when i’m ready.” you say and without another word you’re retreating into your mom’s home, hiding away from sunghoon and preparing yourself to have to face the inevitable one day. 

sunghoon on the other hand, drags himself to his car, head hanging low as he has to come to terms that his own selfishness and greed for the one he loved was also what caused him to lose the love of his life. 

copyright 2025 - present © hoonieyun all rights reserved all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned. if you enjoyed reading this please consider reblogging and following <3

[abdy-18]

Fanfics where Yor takes care of Loid will always be my favorite because Yor genuinely enjoys taking care of the people she loves; it's her way of expressing affection and she wants to take care of her (fake) husband, not because she feels the obligation to do so because of the traditional wife role but because that's how her heart is.

Loid, on the other hand, has never had anyone to truly take care of him since he lost his mother. His life has been a constant cycle of loneliness and distrust. Even if his handler or some senior agent ever showed him the slightest empathy or suggested he take things easy, he would probably have assumed they were only doing it because he was a valuable asset, a resource they had to protect for utility. Twilight would surely think that, the moment he stopped being useful, they would throw him away like just another object.

But then Yor cares for him when he's most vulnerable, unable to contribute anything, when he feels like he's nothing but "useless," Yor is there, attentive, genuinely caring for him without expecting anything in return. She not only takes care of Anya, but also keeps the household running smoothly, showing him that everything will be okay even if he can't take care of everything himself.And for the first time in a long time, Twilight lets his guard down. He allows himself to relax, let the exhaustion catch up with him, and finally rest because Yor, Anya, and Bond give him a peace he never thought possible.

I have all of these in my ao3 bookmarks but I need more please 😭 if anyone knows more please tell me 😭

Harbor by frumplebump

Succumbing to the flu is not a luxury Twilight can afford, but when his immune system betrays him, Yor is there for him.

swing the spinning step by firewoodfigs

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an overworked and underpaid spy must, at some point in time, be so besieged by a terrible flu—in order that his lovely wife might take care of him. 

Something More by Thurito for nightofnyx8

The first thing the spy felt in the morning was such a strong weight on top of him that for a moment he thought it was someone who finally found his identity. His heart jumped, but as soon as his eyes were open and the man felt himself waking up more, he noticed what it was. He was sick. Twilight was sick. For the first time in more than a decade.

But I'm Here and So Are You by EmmyGracey

The Forger family returned to their hotel room after the airship crash wanting nothing more than warm clothes and a little bit of rest. When it’s Yor’s turn to get cleaned up she notices the cut on Loid’s head is bleeding again. She needs to take care of that. Loid’s not used to being taken care of. He finds it rather nice.

Spies Don't Get Paid Enough by Justanotherfannerd

Twilight does a shady mission that goes awry and Loid and Yor deal with the fallout. Purposeful obliviousness and injuries ensue. It's probably for the best that Anya is at a sleep over while all of this happens. or Twilight gets hurt, Yor plays doctor, and the both of them hide behind obliviousness.

Consequences by Raindrops_On_The_Pavement

Loid Forger is not indestructible, despite being Westalis's best. (I suck at summaries but I promise the story is good) Just a Loid Forger sickfic because why not? (The intro is a bit slow, but it gets sickfic/angsty dw)

A way out by MDSpencer

Twilight faces the consequences of his actions, and he seems to drag his family down with him

The Man From Mars by neejmorp

Something was wrong with Yor’s husband. He wore a constant smile on his face. It fooled colleagues, neighbors, and friends alike. The three people in his life who knew him best — his wife, his daughter, and his handler — all knew better. There was something off about his eyes. Loid survives a near-death experience following a mission abroad, but the incident impacts him and has an affect on his relationship with his family—particularly Yor.

You need to knock out this blondie more often :3

[benispunk]

If I Had The Chance

logan howlett x reader

One teeny-tiny silly question lead into something a tad bit bigger for Logan.

TW: nothing, this is pure fluff, just a draft I had for months and never actually posted. this is honestly so silly I was giggling while writing it. not proofed read.

Masterlist

The mansion was alive with music and chatter, students and teachers alike enjoying the end-of-school celebration. The air was filled with a mixture of excitement and relief, the pressure of the school year behind them. Logan and Y/N stood near the edge of the crowd, out of the spotlight but close enough to feel part of the celebration. Logan had a bottle hidden behind his back, and every now and then, he passed it to Y/N when no one was looking.

“Careful,” Y/N whispered with a grin as she took a sip. “We’re not supposed to have this here, remember?”

Logan’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Since when do we follow the rules?”

She laughed softly, feeling the warmth of the drink settle in her chest. They had always been close, sharing inside jokes and stolen moments like this, but lately, there had been something more—something unspoken hanging between them. The others had noticed too, often teasing them about their connection.

“So,” Y/N said suddenly, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Out of all of us here... if you had to, who would you marry?”

Logan turned to her, raising a brow at the unexpected question. “What kinda question is that?”

She shrugged, trying to keep her tone casual. “I don’t know. Just something stupid. Who would you pick?”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s a dumb question.”

“Oh, come on! It’s just for fun. Who would it be?” Y/N pressed, enjoying the way Logan was avoiding her question. She could see the slight smirk forming on his lips.

“Marry? No one,” he replied gruffly, looking away as if to change the subject. “We’re not talking about this.”

Y/N crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Would you have preferred the ‘who would you sleep with’ question?”

Logan glanced at her from the corner of his eye but remained silent. His silence only made Y/N more determined, a playful grin creeping onto her face.

“Well, if I had the chance to marry someone here,” Y/N said, feigning thoughtfulness before pointing her finger at him. “It would definitely be you.”

Logan stopped mid-swig and turned to her, eyes narrowing slightly. “If you had to?” he repeated, emphasizing her words with a teasing tone. “Or if you had the chance?”

Y/N’s face immediately turned bright red as she realized her mistake. “Uh... well... I mean—”

He leaned a little closer, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “’Cause there’s a difference, darlin’. One’s a duty, the other’s a choice.”

Y/N stammered, desperately trying to backtrack. “I... I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant... you know... hypothetically!”

Logan chuckled deeply, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “Sure you did.”

She rolled her eyes, biting her lip to stop herself from smiling. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched her for a moment with that infuriating smirk. Finally, after letting her squirm long enough, he leaned back against the wall and, almost casually, said, “Well, if I had the chance, I’d marry you too.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, caught completely off guard by his sudden admission. She opened her mouth to say something but found herself utterly speechless.

Logan gave her a wink, his tone light but sincere. “Guess that makes us even.”

And just like that, he handed her the bottle and turned back to watch the party, leaving Y/N standing there, her heart racing and a million thoughts running through her mind.

The party continued around them, but all Y/N could focus on was the warmth spreading through her chest—though this time, it wasn’t from the booze.

———

As the night grew late, the energy in the mansion started to wind down. Groups of students headed off to bed or continued chatting in smaller circles, while the music softened to a quieter background hum. Y/N found herself lingering near Logan, their playful exchange still buzzing in her mind.

They hadn’t said anything more about the marriage comment, and Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that Logan had left her hanging on purpose, just to mess with her. Typical.

She looked over at him, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, looking effortlessly cool. She could still feel the warmth from his earlier words, and it bugged her that she had no clever comeback ready.

“So,” Y/N said, breaking the comfortable silence between them, “you’re just gonna drop that line and leave it like that?”

Logan glanced at her sideways, a teasing grin already forming. “What line?”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the effect his words had on her. “You were the one to ask the question.”

“Right,” Y/N said, “and you sounded pretty serious for a silly question.”

Logan turned his head slightly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Was it a silly question?”

The way he said it made her pause, caught off guard. She hadn’t been expecting him to flip it on her like that.

“Well, yeah,” she said, though her voice wavered slightly. “I was joking around.”

“Were you?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with curiosity.

Y/N felt her heart skip a beat. Was he serious? The playful energy from earlier had shifted, and suddenly, she found herself standing closer to him than she had realized. She could see the faint lines around his eyes, the roughness of his skin, and the way he was watching her now—intensely.

“You know, you can’t just say things like that and then pretend it’s no big deal,” she said softly, her voice losing some of its teasing edge.

Logan’s smirk faded into something softer, more thoughtful. “Maybe it is a big deal,” he said quietly. His voice was low, the roughness in his tone giving away more than he intended.

Y/N blinked, her breath catching in her throat. Was this really happening? She wanted to say something, anything, but the words seemed to get stuck.

Logan took a small step toward her, his gaze never leaving hers. “You said you’d marry me too, remember? So don’t act like you’re off the hook.”

Y/N’s mouth opened, but all that came out was a nervous laugh. “Yeah, but I was just... I mean, it was hypothetical!”

“Hm,” Logan hummed, his eyes still locked on her. “Sounded pretty real to me.”

There was a tension in the air now, the kind that made her stomach flip. He was so close, and she could smell the faint scent of whiskey and cigar smoke on him, mixed with something uniquely Logan. It made her dizzy in the best way.

“I—” Y/N began, but the words were swallowed by the silence between them. For once, Logan wasn’t teasing. He was looking at her with that serious, guarded expression he wore when something actually mattered to him. 

“Logan,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft background music. “Are you serious?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, just looked at her as if weighing his options. Then, with a soft grunt, he leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching hers.

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” he murmured.

The world seemed to freeze for a second, the weight of his words settling between them like an invisible force. Y/N’s heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, and for the first time, she wasn’t sure if they were still teasing or if this was something more.

Before either of them could say anything else, someone called out from across the room, breaking the moment. They both pulled back, the spell broken, and Y/N could see a flicker of regret in Logan’s eyes before he turned away.

“Guess that’s our cue,” he muttered, giving her one last glance before heading toward the doorway. She watched him go, her chest tightening with unspoken words. But just as he reached the door, he turned back and met her gaze.

“’Night, Y/N.”

The way he said her name sent a shiver down her spine. And then he was gone, leaving her standing there, her heart racing and her mind spinning.

———

The mansion was eerily quiet as the last of the partygoers trickled out, leaving only a few lights dimly flickering in the grand hallways. Y/N was still standing where Logan had left her, trying to shake off the flurry of emotions from their almost-moment.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair, her thoughts still spinning around Logan’s words. Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. Was that real? Was she really about to believe him?

Unable to rest with so many unanswered questions, she slipped out onto the balcony for some fresh air. The night sky stretched out before her, cool and calming. For a moment, Y/N let herself breathe in the silence.

But it didn’t last long.

“You’re gonna catch a cold out here.”

She jumped, startled, spinning around to find Logan leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed.

“You scared me,” she said, placing a hand over her chest.

He smirked. “Didn’t mean to.”

Logan stepped onto the balcony, the door clicking shut behind him as he joined her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He leaned against the railing beside her, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

“Not really,” she admitted.

“Thinking about something?” he pressed, though his tone was casual.

Y/N hesitated, glancing sideways at him. She wanted to brush it off, but something in his expression made her stop.

“Maybe,” she said quietly.

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Does it have to do with what I said earlier?”

She let out a small laugh, though it came out more nervous than amused. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead letting the silence stretch. Finally, he said, “You know I meant it, right?”

Her breath caught, and she turned to look at him fully. He was watching her now, his usual smirk replaced by something softer, more genuine.

“You’re really not going to let me play this off, are you?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

“Not when it’s the truth,” Logan said simply.

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, and she looked away, focusing on the stars instead. She hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected him to be so… earnest.

“Logan…” she started, but her voice trailed off. She let out a shaky breath. “You know I was just joking.”

But even as she said it, the words felt hollow. She wasn’t joking, not really. She had thrown the question out there in a playful way, hoping to hide how much she had actually meant it.

Logan, however, wasn’t letting her off that easy.

“You were joking,” he echoed, though his tone made it clear he didn’t believe her. “You sure about that?”

Y/N met his eyes, searching for the right words, but all she could find was the truth.

“No,” she admitted softly. “I wasn’t joking.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Logan’s expression softened, though the intensity in his eyes remained. The night air felt charged with something between them—something fragile, but real.

He took a step closer, closing the distance between them. “Why didn’t you just say that from the start?”

Y/N laughed, though it was more nervous than anything. “Because it’s you,” she said, exasperated. “You’re not exactly easy to talk to when it comes to… feelings.”

Logan smirked at that, the hint of a grin tugging at his lips. “Can’t argue with that.”

They stood there in silence for another beat, both aware of how close they were now. Y/N could feel the warmth radiating off him, could see the way his chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths.

“Look,” Logan said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I’m not good at this…whatever…crap this is.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I meant what I said.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. “About marrying me?”

Logan chuckled, his eyes flickering with amusement. “Yeah. Though I think we should date first, you know?”

Y/N huffed a laugh at that, looking up at him, not knowing what to say, yet.

Logan took another step toward her, his eyes softer now, less guarded than she’d ever seen them. “I ain’t exactly the marrying type,” he said gruffly, his hand coming up to gently brush a stray strand of hair from her face. “But if I were… yeah, it’d be you.”

Y/N could feel her cheeks heating up, her mind racing to catch up with everything he was saying. Before she could overthink it, she smiled—really smiled—and finally let herself relax.

“Well,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “lucky for you, if you had to marry someone and it was me…I’d say yes.”

Logan’s smirk grew wider, and for a brief moment, all the tension between them melted away. They weren’t just two people who’d been teasing each other all night. They were them—close, familiar, and something more.

Y/N felt a surge of confidence, emboldened by the way he was looking at her. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she couldn’t deny the pull between them anymore.

She took a step closer, standing just inches away now, her gaze never leaving his. “You know,” she said softly, “we could keep pretending, or…”

Logan raised an eyebrow, his signature smirk faltering ever so slightly as he realized where this was going.

“Or?” he prompted, his voice low.

“Or we could stop pretending,” Y/N finished, her voice steady despite the butterflies swirling in her stomach.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them thick with anticipation. Logan’s eyes searched hers, as if trying to figure out if she was serious.

Then, he let out a soft laugh, almost a huff, the corner of his mouth curling into an amused, knowing smile.

“Is that your way of saying I can kiss you?” he asked, his voice warm and teasing.

Y/N smiled back, her confidence growing. “Maybe it is.”

That was all the encouragement Logan needed. He closed the distance, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, but filled with all the unspoken things they hadn’t said. Y/N melted into him, her hands resting against his chest as the world seemed to fall away around them.

When they finally pulled back, Y/N was breathless, her heart racing as she met his gaze.

Logan looked down at her, his smirk returning but softer this time. “Well, I’d say that complicates things,” he murmured.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “I think it makes things a lot simpler, actually.”

He grinned, and for the first time in a long time, Logan looked… happy. Really, genuinely happy.

“Yeah,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against her cheek. “Maybe you’re right.”

They stood there on the balcony, wrapped up in the quiet night and each other, finally free of all the teasing and dancing around their feelings.

And maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something neither of them had seen coming—but had wanted all along.

[alaia777]

movies i’d pair with the blue lock guys

how to lose a guy in 10 days - oliver

i just think how to lose a guy in 10 days fits oliver so much. i can imagine him making a bet with his friends about how he can get any woman he wants to fall in love with him. he meets you, and coincidentally, you’ve made the same bet with your friends. the difference? you need to drive him away in 10 days.

he’s kind and charming, planning dates he knows you’ll love. you, on the other hand, show up to his practice with a cute lunchbox covered in cartoon characters and a smoothie in a hello kitty bottle. as if that isn’t enough, you yell, “go for it, sugar booger!” every time he needs to concentrate, throwing him off completely and causing him to make mistake after mistake.

you take things further, showing up while he’s out with his friends, carrying an album of “your future kids together,” complete with photoshopped pictures of your faces. when he gets home from that hangout, he finds his house decorated with flowers, pictures of you, and stuffed animals, along with a note on the table: “take care of them as if they were our babies. i’m going to check on them! — your honey bunny :)”

he’s already at his wit’s end with your antics. but then comes the moment. you know the one—when ben saw andie in that yellow dress and placed his hand on his heart? that’s him when he sees you wearing that exact dress, standing as his plus-one at the gala he was invited to.

you find out about his bet first, and you’re furious—even though you were doing the same thing. when he finds out about yours, he’s just as angry. but after the heat of the argument dies down, neither of you can deny the truth: somewhere along the way, it stopped being about winning and became about each other.

and maybe, just maybe, neither of you want the game to end.

13 going on 30 - rin

i always imagined that the person rin would end up with would be someone he knew as a kid. with this one, there’s a little twist—besides the whole waking up in the body of a 30-year-old. rin is the one who finds himself successful, with the football career he always wanted, finally stepping out of his brother’s shadow. he had everything he ever worked for, so why did it still feel like something was missing?

one night, while scrolling on his phone, he came across a post from a mutual friend. they mentioned that you were in the same city as him, and without thinking, he tracked you down, looking for some kind of closure.

when he saw you again, he couldn’t believe his eyes—how much you’d changed, how much you’d grown, and yet, how you were still just as beautiful as he remembered. you, on the other hand, didn’t recognize him at first. it had been years since you’d last seen each other, and while you weren’t holding a grudge against him for leaving, you hadn’t forgotten that he chose his dream over you. and the years that followed? he never checked in, never reached out—not even once. so when he showed up, you weren’t exactly keen on welcoming him back into your life.

still, something in his eyes made you pause. despite the hurt, you decided to hear him out, agreeing to spend the afternoon catching up. the two of you wandered the city, sharing recommendations and reliving bits of the past. you even ended up at a sports bar, where they were replaying a match rin had played in just a week ago.

“you’re a star now. why are you hanging out with someone like me after all these years?” you teased, a light smile on your face. but the words hit rin differently, pulling him deeper into thoughts he wasn’t ready to face.

by the end of the day, he finally found out why you were in the city—the reason you were here in the first place. your engagement.

the word hung in the air, cutting through the quiet between you. you said it casually, like it wasn’t earth-shattering, like it didn’t crack something deep inside him. you smiled as you mentioned your fiancé, your plans for the future, and rin felt something cold settle into his chest.

he didn’t know why it hurt this much. after all, he was the one who left. he was the one who chose football, who walked away from everything that could’ve been. but standing there, looking at you and the happiness in your eyes, it hit him—he hadn’t just left you behind. he’d left behind a part of himself.

and now it was too late.

the proposal - sae

honestly, while writing rin’s part, i couldn’t help but feel how well it would fit sae too. but i had another idea in mind, something a little more fun, and somehow, the theme of the proposal came into play. imagine this: you’re the intern to his manager, always being looked down on by him, ridiculed for your “stupid” wardrobe, and treated like you’re invisible.

things take a wild turn when, through a series of unfortunate events, sae almost finds himself getting deported back to japan. the reason? his visa wasn’t sorted out in time, and his team just couldn’t get everything in order. in a desperate attempt to solve the issue, his manager hatches a plan—you two are engaged and about to be married.

you hated the idea. absolutely disgusted by it. and sae? well, he couldn’t care less, as long as it got him out of the mess. before long, he found himself sitting at your family’s table in the middle of nowhere, in a tiny village with almost no phone signal. the plan was simple—tell your family the engagement is real and keep up the charade for a while.

before that though, there was the immigration officer incident. sae, in his usual overconfident way, tried bribing the officer to smooth things over, but instead almost landed himself in jail. somehow, that’s how he ended up stuck at your family’s house, with no way out of this ridiculous engagement ruse.

things started to go awry right away. sleeping on the floor, waking up at the crack of dawn because of him, and having to endure his morning yoga routine like it was some kind of ritual. you really couldn’t imagine how anyone could fall for someone like him.

but your family? they were determined to make the best of the situation. they dragged him to the bar, took him fishing, and tried to include him in everything else. sae grumbled through it all, but he didn’t hold back on his frustration. he even ended up reluctantly playing football with them, but everything else? no chance. he hated it. the awkward family dinners, the endless chatter, the ridiculous games—he was done with it all.

and then there was your ex-boyfriend. perfect in every way, smiling at things like tree branches, wearing ridiculous clothes, and seemingly so happy in ways sae could never understand. he watched you together, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t explain.

the whole situation was supposed to be temporary. sae just had to play along, pretend to be the future husband, and somehow make it through without drawing attention to how forced everything was. but somewhere between the early mornings, the family outings, and the odd moments of silence, something started to change.

by the time everything was sorted and sae was on his way back, you weren’t sure what to make of it all.

the door closed behind him, but somehow, you knew things weren’t as simple as they seemed. something had shifted, and you couldn’t tell if it was just the act or something more.

ೃ༄ i wanted to leave the endings open, to give room for interpretation. what do you guys think? :)

ೃ༄ i’m going to do a part 2 with different characters, but this time the movies won’t be rom-coms !

[lvnleah]

https://www.tumblr.com/lvnleah/771226075282997248/anyone-got-any-requests-for-steph-i-really-want?source=share

Of course! Meeting her after she broke up with her boyfriend, when she thought she doesn't want a relationship again, going to parties, until she met yn in one of those parties, (yn maybe can be a cousin from one of her teammates or not) so after they spent the night together, she tried to know who yn is, and the team is like playing detectives, only knowing Yn's name, so it's like going to Instagram, searching for her, and if you write to yn be someone teammates's cousin, that person can be like after an hour, I have a cousin with that name, so when she show her a picture, they laugh about it and of course, Steph started to follow her on Instagram.

new years twist | steph catley.

thank you for this request! :)

Steph didn’t think she wanted to go out that night. A New Year’s Eve party seemed like the last thing she needed, fresh off a breakup that had left her drained. But her teammates had insisted.

“Come on, Steph. You deserve a night to let loose,” Beth had said, practically dragging her out of her flat. “You can’t just sit in your flat, Steph. It’s New Year’s Eve. Start the year fresh.”

Steph had grumbled and muttered something about being too tired, but here she was. She nursed a drink and hovered near her teammates, pretending to be engaged in the conversation while her eyes wandered around the room.

That’s when she saw you.

You were at the bar, leaning casually against the counter, your laughter ringing out above the hum of the room. Your confidence drew her in like a magnet. She didn’t know you, but she wanted to.

“Who’s that?” Steph found herself asking Beth, who was standing beside her.

Beth followed Steph’s gaze. “No idea, but she’s cute. You should talk to her.”

Steph scoffed. “I don’t even know her.”

Beth grinned, nudging Steph’s arm. “Exactly. Go fix that.”

Steph hesitated for a moment before draining the rest of her drink. “Fine,” she muttered, heading toward the bar.

As she approached, you turned to look at her, your eyes meeting hers with an ease that made her stomach flip. “Hi,” Steph said, a little unsure of herself.

“Hi,” you replied, your lips curving into a smile. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”

Steph laughed, a little surprised at your observation. “You’re not wrong. My friends dragged me out.”

“Well, I’m glad they did. I’m Y/N,” you said.

“Steph,” she replied, shaking your hand. It was warm, and she found herself reluctant to let go. “So how come you’re here?”

“Oh, I'm with my cousin!” You smiled, “Her friends have arrived so she’s gone to see them.”

The conversation flowed naturally after that. She learned that you were visiting from out of town, and staying with family for the holidays. You told her about your job, your interests, your love for sarcastic banter—which you demonstrated by teasing Steph every chance you got. And Steph, to her surprise, loved it.

Hours passed in what felt like minutes. The countdown to midnight crept closer, and Steph didn’t want the night to end. She was caught up in your laughter, in the way your eyes sparkled when you told a story, in the way you leaned closer to her as the night went on.

“Ten seconds!” someone shouted, and the room erupted in cheers, everyone counting down together.

Steph turned to look at you. You were already looking at her, a small, knowing smile on your lips. “So, are we doing this or what?” you asked, your voice teasing but your eyes soft.

Steph didn’t hesitate. When the room shouted, “One! Happy New Year!” she leaned in, her lips capturing yours in a kiss that stole her breath. The world around her disappeared. It was just you, your hands resting on her waist, your lips moving against hers like you’d done this a hundred times before.

When you finally pulled away, Steph was speechless. You laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Happy New Year, Steph.”

She smiled, her heart pounding. “Happy New Year.”

Later, you both found yourselves back at Steph’s apartment. Once inside, the two of you didn’t waste any time. Kisses turned heated, hands exploring everywhere, laughter morphing into gasps and strings of moans. Steph didn’t remember the last time she felt this alive.

When she woke up the next morning, the sun streaming through the curtains, her first instinct was to reach for you. But the other side of the bed was empty. Your scent lingered on the pillow, but you were gone.

Her heart sank. She sat up, running a hand through her hair, replaying the night in her mind. Had she misread things? She shook her head, chastising herself. It was one night. Maybe that’s all it was supposed to be.

Training resumed a few days later, but Steph couldn’t stop thinking about you. She mentioned it casually to Caitlin as they stretched before practice.

“She just… left,” Steph said, frustration creeping into her voice. “I didn’t even get her number.”

Caitlin raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t ask for it?”

“I didn’t think I needed to!” Steph groaned. “I thought we’d at least talk in the morning.”

Caitlin smirked. “Well, what’s her name? Maybe we can find her.”

That caught Beth’s attention. “Wait, wait, wait. We’re finding someone? Who?”

Steph sighed, realizing she’d just made things worse. “Her name’s Y/N. That’s all I’ve got.”

Beth’s eyes lit up. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Give me ten minutes.”

What followed was the most chaotic, ridiculous investigation Steph had ever witnessed. Beth, Caitlin, and a few others scoured Instagram, typing in your name and cross-referencing profiles.

Occasionally, they’d show Steph a photo. “Is this her?” Beth would ask, holding up her phone.

“No,” Steph said for the fifth time, her patience wearing thin.

“Maybe she doesn’t have Instagram,” Caitlin suggested.

“Everyone has Instagram,” Beth countered. “We just haven’t found her yet.”

The commotion attracted Leah. “What’s going on here?”

“We’re trying to find Steph’s mystery girl,” Beth said, grinning.

Leah raised an eyebrow. “Mystery girl?”

Steph sighed. “It’s nothing. Just someone I met at the New Year’s party.”

Leah frowned, then seemed to freeze. “Wait. What’s her name?”

Steph told her, and Leah’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” Steph asked, confused.

Leah started laughing, pulling out her phone. “That’s my cousin’s name and she was with me at that party.”

The entire room erupted into laughter. “No way!” Beth said.

Leah scrolled through her phone and pulled up a photo. “This her?”

Steph’s face turned bright red. “Yeah, that’s her.”

Leah shook her head, still laughing. “I can’t believe this. You kissed my cousin?”

“It was a good kiss,” Steph muttered, which only made everyone laugh harder. “And night…”

Leah took Steph's phone before she handed it back. “Here. Just follow her on Instagram. I’ll text her and let her know to check.”

Steph hesitated for a moment before hitting the follow button. Within minutes, you followed her back, and Steph’s phone buzzed with a message.

“Small world, huh?” you wrote, followed by a winking emoji.

Steph smiled down at her phone, her heart racing. Maybe it had started as one night, but something told her it was just the beginning.

[deonsx]

hi, hi!! first off, i love your work so much!!

i saw that your requests were open, so i thought i'd shoot my shot.

i'd like to request an interviewer!reader x the blue lock boys. a few specific characters i'd like are: sae, rin, nagi, and kaiser.

but feel free to add or remove characters as you'd like, though! thank you, and take care!

Hiii love!! you said all my favorites so lets do it

Sae Itoshi

Sae Itoshi didn’t care for interviews. They were a chore. Walk in, answer a few dull questions, leave. That was the routine. But today, something was different

When he stepped into the room, his gaze landed on you. You weren’t like the others. No nervous smile, no overly eager expression. You were calm, composed, and confident. Sae found himself watching you longer than he usually would

The questions began, and for the first time in a long while, Sae gave more than his standard short answers. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way you spoke steady and clear. Or maybe it was how you watched him, your expression thoughtful yet impossible to read

When the interview ended, Sae walked out as usual. But this time, your face and voice lingered in his mind. He brushed it off. It was just another interview. Or so he told himself

Sae wasn’t used to this. Faces and voices from interviews blurred together in his memory, but yours stood out. He found himself looking for you at matches, wondering if you’d be the one holding the microphone. He didn’t understand why it mattered, but he didn’t try to stop it either. The next time he saw you, Sae promised himself one thing

“Next time, I won’t let you leave without knowing more about you”

Rin Itoshi

He sat in the chair with his usual blank expression, arms crossed, eyes sharp as he waited for the questions to begin. When you walked in, your calm demeanor was the first thing he noticed. No exaggerated smiles, no forced charm. Just steady professionalism

There was something about your composure that irritated him but not in the way most people did. It was the kind of irritation that demanded his attention, the kind he couldn’t quite shake off

Weeks later, Rin was at a press conference following a heated match. His answers to reporters were as blunt as ever. But then his eyes found you among the crowd, seated quietly, waiting for your turn

For a split second, his focus faltered. It wasn’t like him to be distracted, yet here he was, scanning the room to catch another glimpse of you. When you finally stood to ask your question, Rin’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly.

You asked “Rin-san, your performance today was extraordinary. Do you think your ability to stay calm under pressure gives you an edge over other players?”

“Staying calm isn’t an edge. It’s a necessity. If you can’t handle pressure, you don’t belong on the field.”

Nagi Seishiro

They were a hassle, like most things that required effort. He slouched in his chair, head tilted, clearly uninterested as the team’s PR staff ran through instructions. When you entered the room, clipboard in hand, his gaze flicked to you briefly before returning to the wall

The interview began, and Nagi answered lazily, barely putting thought into his words. But as you continued, something shifted. Your voice wasn’t pushy or overenthusiastic like the others. It was calm, steady, almost soothing. You didn’t prod him to elaborate or react when his answers were short.

Nagi didn’t like putting effort into things or people. Most of the time, he preferred to avoid unnecessary interactions altogether. But with you, it was different. He wasn’t sure why.

Maybe it was how unfazed you were by his detached demeanor. Or the way you never tried to force a reaction out of him. Whatever it was, he found himself searching for you at matches and events, hoping to see you again.

You weren’t loud or demanding like the rest of the world around him. You were quiet, steady just there. And for someone like Nagi, who found most things exhausting, that was more than enough to capture his attention

“If I keep seeing you, maybe it won’t be so bad putting in a little effort”

Kaiser Michael

Michael Kaiser loved interviews or rather, he loved talking about himself. For him, it was just another stage where he could shine. When he entered the room, he was fully prepared to charm his way through. But this time, something unexpected caught his attention

You stood there, calm and composed, with no exaggerated expressions or overeager smiles like the others. Your presence was sharp but unassuming, and Kaiser noticed it immediately

As the questions started, Kaiser responded with his usual flair, confident and theatrical. But your reactions or lack thereof unsettled him. You didn’t laugh at his witty remarks or fawn over his charisma. Instead, you remained focused, observing him as if you were studying his every word

It wasn’t something Kaiser was used to, and it threw him off balance in the slightest, most infuriating way. When the interview ended, he left the room with a lingering thought: Who were you, and why couldn’t he stop thinking about how you looked at him?

Without realizing it, Kaiser found himself looking for you at every event, every match. You became a puzzle he couldn’t solve, and for someone who was used to winning at everything, that was both maddening and thrilling

“If you keep ignoring me, I’ll just have to make sure I’m impossible for you to overlook.”

Enjoy!

[yoursinisforgiven]

EPISTLE ──

pairing: andrew x reader (darling)

cw: none (?), one extremely light sexual joke.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

The long stretch of winter break had lulled you into a false sense of serenity. Snow piled high outside, muffling the world in a deceptive calm, while the holidays unfolded in their quiet, rhythmic way. You’d always assumed everyone else had disappeared into their own corners of rest—students, professors, staff alike, all tucked away in the reprieve from academia’s relentless grind.

It wasn’t until Andrew’s casual remark shattered that assumption that you realized just how much you’d misunderstood.

“Seriously?” you blinked at him, the disbelief in your voice thick. “What could you possibly have to do? There’s no one there.”

Andrew didn’t answer immediately. He sat across from you, his chopsticks moving rhythmically as he picked at his takeout. His expression was unreadable, but there was a glimmer in his eye that told you he’d been expecting this reaction. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he finally glanced up.

“Would you like to see what we do while you students are off on vacation?” His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was something behind it—a quiet weight that gave you pause.

You raised an eyebrow, half-expecting some offhand joke about endless paperwork or an inside joke about staff mischief. But his expression had grown serious now, the playfulness fading as he set his chopsticks down with care.

──

The lecture hall was quiet, but the silence felt wrong. Not the peaceful kind of quiet you’d grown used to during your long hours here, but a stillness that carried the weight of something forgotten.

The room was a mess. Papers were scattered across desks, curling at the edges and yellowing in places as though they’d been left untouched for weeks. Books leaned precariously in half-formed stacks, some slumped over like they’d given up. Coffee mugs stood like forgotten relics of the past semester, their contents reduced to faint rings at the bottom of the cups. The faint scent of stale coffee and dry paper hung in the air.

Your stomach twisted as you took it all in, the chaos clashing with the pristine image of the space you’d held in your mind. This room had been a second home to you, a place of comfort, even inspiration. Seeing it like this was jarring.

“You have to clean all this?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I thought… I don’t know, I guess I just assumed everything paused during the break.”

Andrew laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “Paused? Not even close.” He gestured toward the room with a sweep of his hand. “The university doesn’t just stop because the students are gone. There’s always something happening. Papers to grade, research to process, meetings to prepare for. And then there’s this…” His eyes swept over the mess.

You frowned, your gaze following his. “This doesn’t happen on its own, though,” you said slowly, your voice tinged with suspicion. “What even is all this?”

Andrew smiled, amused by your confusion. “During the holidays, the university rents out spaces for events—holiday parties, conferences, you name it. They pay well, but…” He trailed off, his smile fading as his gaze darkened. “They don’t exactly leave things the way they found them.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “You’re telling me someone threw a party in here?”

Andrew nodded, a hint of exasperation creeping into his tone. “Not just here. Across campus. Lecture halls, libraries, even some of the labs. It’s a way to bring in revenue during the break, but it leaves a lot of work for us.”

You turned back to the mess, a new layer of disbelief settling over you. It wasn’t just the clutter—it was the sense that this place, your place, had been used and abandoned without care.

“Feel like helping?” Andrew’s voice pulled you back to the moment. There was a playful edge to his words, but his expression was tired. “It’s not just picking up papers. There’s a whole system to this. I might even let you skip the worst parts. The emails,” he added with a smirk, “are a killer.”

You rolled your eyes, but the hint of a smile tugged at your lips. “I don’t think I’m qualified for this kind of work.”

Andrew chuckled, leaning back against the podium with a knowing look. “Oh, trust me, no one is. But it gets done anyway.”

As you crossed the room to the seat you’d claimed as yours months ago—unofficially, but always yours—you froze. The desk was piled with papers, loose leaf sheets crumpled as though someone had rifled through them in haste. A half-empty water bottle teetered on the edge, and crumbs were scattered across the surface.

Your brows knit together. You would never have left it like this.

“You’re sure this was a party?” you asked, half-joking, half-appalled.

Andrew grinned, his tone light as he replied, “It wasn’t my party, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You sighed, brushing crumbs from the desk and shaking your head. “Somehow, I can’t see this as part of the holiday spirit.”

“Welcome to the reality of university breaks,” Andrew said, his tone dry but not unkind. “It’s not all snowflakes and hot cocoa.”

You glanced at him, his easy stance and that ever-present glimmer of amusement in his eyes. There was a warmth to him, a steadiness that grounded the chaos around you.

And despite yourself, you felt the corners of your mouth twitch upward. “Alright,” you said, brushing off your seat. “Show me what needs to be done. But I’m not touching the emails.”

Andrew laughed, the sound resonating through the empty hall. “Deal.”

──

You groan as you collapse into the chair at Andrew’s desk, the trash bag resting limply at your feet. It’s light—filled mostly with loose, crumpled papers in a kaleidoscope of colors that someone clearly thought too unimportant to bother recycling properly. You let your head fall back against the chair, your eyes drifting to where Andrew stands at the chalkboard behind you.

The rhythmic sound of the eraser against the board fills the quiet space, and you find yourself watching him for a moment. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint streaks of white chalk. There’s a focused set to his jaw, his brows slightly furrowed as he works to clear the board.

Your gaze flickers to the chalkboard itself, the surface marred with half-erased notes and what looks like a hurriedly sketched diagram. You tilt your head. Why did he even need a chalkboard? He was a literature professor, not a mathematician or scientist. And even if he had a reason, why use chalk instead of a whiteboard?

“Rock, paper, scissors for who sweeps the floor?” you call out, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

Andrew pauses mid-swipe, his head turning toward you with a raised brow. You catch the faintest smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth before he sets the erasers down. Without a word, he crosses the room to you in a few measured strides, his presence warm and steady.

Before you can tease him further, he leans down, cupping the side of your face and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“It’s okay, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “You’ve worked hard.”

The simple gesture catches you off guard, and for a moment, you forget the mess around you. His lips are warm against your skin, and you can feel the faint grit of chalk dust on his fingers as they brush your temple.

You smile, leaning into the touch despite yourself. “Hard enough to earn a pass on sweeping?” you ask, your voice light but hopeful.

Andrew chuckles, the sound deep and rich, as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “Hard enough to earn a pass on everything,” he says, his tone teasing but sincere.

You snort, shaking your head as you gesture toward the trash bag at your feet. “I think we both know I’ve got at least one more round in me.”

He clears his throat and straightens—you chuckle lightly to yourself, glad you got another reaction out of him—his hands slipping into his pockets as he surveys the room with a thoughtful expression. The lecture hall is still far from clean—papers litter the floors, chairs are out of place, and there’s a faint sheen of dust on nearly every surface.

“Well, if you insist,” he says, his lips quirking into a grin, “how about I handle the floors and you tackle the desk?”

Your eyes narrow, and you cross your arms over your chest. “How is that fair? I’ve already been hauling around the trash bag.”

Andrew shrugs, the grin never leaving his face. “Because you’re far better at organizing than I am.” A tease, perhaps some sort of reverse psychology to make you cave.

With a resigned sigh, you lean forward and begin sorting through the papers on the desk in front of you, piling them into rough categories: keep, recycle, and the ever-growing stack of “Andrew’s problem.”

Andrew, true to his word, grabs the broom from the corner and starts sweeping. You glance up occasionally, watching as he moves with an easy grace, his focus intent on the task at hand.

The silence between you is comfortable, broken only by the soft scrape of the broom against the floor and the occasional rustle of papers. It’s not exactly how you’d imagined spending your evening, but there’s something oddly intimate about the moment—the two of you working side by side to bring a semblance of order back to this chaotic space.

And in that moment, surrounded by the remnants of other people’s chaos, you feel lucky too.

──

After sorting through the last of the papers at Andrew’s desk, you stretch, your back aching from the hours spent hunched over. You glance back at your usual seat across the room, the thought of finally sitting down tugging you forward. But as you near the cluster of chairs, something catches your eye—a stray piece of paper lying just beneath one of the seats.

You groan audibly, rolling your eyes. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy to finish. You crouch down to grab it, already dreading having to untie the trash bag just to shove this one piece inside. But as you flip the paper over, something stops you.

It’s not a blank sheet or a forgotten syllabus. It’s filled with words, the handwriting neat but slightly hurried, as though the writer had poured their thoughts onto the page in one continuous stream. Your eyes skim over the lines, curiosity getting the better of you. Someone’s notes? An essay draft?

But as you read further, your stomach twists. This isn’t an essay or lecture notes—it’s a love letter.

You glance down at the bottom of the page, expecting to see a signature, but there’s no name. No identifying mark. Had it been unfinished? Or had the writer deliberately chosen to remain anonymous?

Your eyes flicker to the top of the page, where the words Dear Kayson are scrawled in bold, deliberate letters.

“Kayson,” you murmur aloud, your brow furrowing. The name feels familiar, like something on the edge of your memory, but you can’t put a face to it.

Without thinking, you rise and turn toward Andrew, clutching the letter in your hand. He’s across the room now, sweeping near the chalkboard, his focus intent on the floor.

“Andrew,” you call out, your voice breaking the quiet.

He looks up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, his expression curious as you approach. “What’s up?”

“Does a ‘Kayson’ take one of your classes?” you ask, holding up the paper as though it’ll somehow explain itself.

Andrew’s brows knit together as he leans against the broom, his gaze flickering to the letter in your hand. “Kayson…” he repeats slowly, his tone thoughtful. “Kayson Whitfield. He’s in my Modern Literature seminar, apart of the school’s volleyball team as well.”

Your stomach twists again. “Modern Lit,” you echo, glancing down at the letter. The words blur slightly as you skim over them again, your mind racing.

Andrew’s voice pulls you back to the moment. “Why? What’s that?” He nods toward the paper, his expression equal parts amused and intrigued.

You shake your head with a faint smile, carefully folding the letter in half before sliding it into your pocket. The paper feels delicate, almost fragile, as though the emotions it holds might spill out if you’re not careful. You glance at Andrew, who’s watching you with his trademark mix of curiosity and quiet amusement.

“Don’t worry,” you say, your tone light but laced with something deeper. “Just know you’ll be seeing me again in Modern Literature.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow, his lips curving into a teasing smile. “Oh? Planning on crashing one of my classes now?”

“Not crashing,” you reply with a smirk. “Just… auditing. Consider it research.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he leans back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest. The soft light of the lecture hall catches on the faint streaks of chalk dust on his shirt, and for a moment, the world feels smaller, quieter—like it’s just the two of you in this little bubble of time.

──

author’s note: writing for andrew is so unbelievably difficult, i like how this came out though.

[the-clockwork-fiend]

I had to look up fanfic cliches cuz i genuinely don't remember any shshsh </3

anyways i found "Seeing someone in a dress/suit for the first time"

and thought it could make a fun Turn the Tables prompt; "seeing them in super casual clothing for the first time" (they even SLEEP fancy)

After looking thru what characters you write for I thought it could be funny with Riddle, w/ him being the one Finally Wearing Casual Clothing :3

Hello, dear patron! You're just in time, do come in. As you could probably tell, I started an event to drum up more business. I don't suppose that would be the purpose of your visit here on this fine morning? Eh — it's raining? Ah... I haven't taken a peek outside recently, if that wasn't apparent.

1 - 20 - 25

❝ Tyrant's Day Off ❞

— Riddle Rosehearts x gn!reader...

Genre: a little angsty, mostly fluff. I am a firm believer that pre-overblot Riddle wouldn't have cut his partner any slack on rules, despite what I've seen floating around (no hate, just my personal thoughts, maybe that counts as a hc?). Following rules was way too ingrained in him at that point, even Trey couldn't get him to chill out. I hope this was to your satisfaction. Thanks for the request!

Event menu

You'd always known Riddle to be formal. It was no surprise, given how he previously ruled Heartslabyul with a vice-like grip. He liked everything to be tidy and in order, always perfect, or he'd blow a fuse. This tendency translated into every aspect of his life, including what he wore. Even outside of the school's uniform, he preferred button-down shirts and shiny, polished shoes.

There was a time when he'd tried to get you to adopt a similar style — you and the rest of the dorm, to be more precise. He believed that his dorm should be presentable at any given time; not Vil's standards presentable, he held Heartslabyul in high esteem and expected his dormmates to reflect that image. This showed in other ways too: punishing students for low grades using his unique magic, or assigning the lazier students with more chores in an attempt to instill a better work ethic.

Being Riddle's partner during this time was difficult. You were held in the same high standard as everyone else, though it was arguably a little higher. Riddle had apparently decided that you reflected upon him due to your more personal relationship.

However, that wasn't to say that it was completely bad. He was an excellent teacher and your stellar grades were an indication of that. He went through great lengths to have some quiet evenings with you, but they were always a little awkward; he had read numerous books on how to act when with your significant other, but you'd always felt that these instances were too stiff and practiced.

Not to mention the incessant pestering from your fellow Heartslabyul members. Numerous students had approached you, encouraging you to use your close relationship with Riddle to entice him to be more relaxed about the rules. Each time, your response was the same: "I've tried that already." And boy had you tried. But even Trey couldn't manage this feat, and you had similarly fruitless attempts.

You couldn't say you were all that shocked about the reason for his overblot. He'd always adhered to the rules quite strictly, and a sudden move like punching him square in the face after already being mad about the offending tart sent him far over the edge. You were more empathetic toward his behavior after learning more about his life before NRC — he hadn't told you much about his childhood — but you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel vindicated by Ace's punch all the same.

Life in Heartslabyul thankfully mellowed out after the events of Riddle's overblot. The former tyrant's loose screws were, so to say, screwed back in — mostly. Your relationship improved greatly, and the dorm became much less tense. No longer was there a looming worry of incurring Riddle's wrath when mistakes or mishaps were made. Though punishments were still handed out to rule breakers, strict upholding of the rules was a little more lax.

One of the things that didn't change, however, was Riddle's attire. You were worried that he might still being caught up in the past, but you checked yourself. They were clothes he was probably used to wearing, regardless of the meaning, and they were just clothes at the end of the day.

It was this reason in particular that made you do a double take as you passed him studying in the lounge one early morning. You were tired, having just woken up a few minutes before, and figured you were still half asleep.

You backstepped and peered into the room again. No, you hadn't been mistaken. There was Riddle, pen in hand and open textbook on the coffee table, dressed in a simple T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. His hair was still tousled from sleep, so he couldn't have been up that much longer than you. You weren't sure where or when he'd bought the clothes. In fact, you weren't even sure they were his. You'd never seen your partner dress like this, so you were definitely reconsidering your assumption that you were awake.

"Riddle?"

The boy turned. He'd recognized your voice immediately, and his eyes lit up as he caught sight of you. "Y/N. Good morning; I didn't wake you up, did I?" Your room, predictably, was next to his. In fact, he'd booted an older student out of it when he'd become housewarden and insisted that you use it. You shook your head, smiling slightly — which may have been more akin to a grimace — as the memory surfaced in your mind. "Nope, I just woke up a little bit ago. Say," you moved around the back of the sofa and sat down beside him and amusedly pointing at him. "What's with the clothes?"

Riddle looked confused until he glanced down, as though he'd completely forgotten what he was wearing until you'd pointed it out. "The rest of my clothes were dirty."

Riddle? Having dirty clothes? He was normally on top of his laundry. Still, you weren't complaining. The fact that even Riddle procrastinated a little was comforting. It was another sign of how much he'd changed, and while procrastination may not seem like a good change, considering Riddle's previous behavior, it was for the better in your opinion.

"Ah, that makes sense," you answered. You inspected the textbook that he was annotating and immediately leaned back, giving up. Too complex for your tired brain so early in the morning. You were actually surprised that Riddle was still awake reading it, but then again, this was Riddle you were talking about.

"Do you always get up this early?" you asked. Normally he was already awake and busy when you dragged yourself out of bed, but it had never occured to you how early he woke up to achieve this. Even though you were difficult to get out of bed in the morning, you woke up early enough that it never really mattered. Riddle hesitated, an unusual occurrence, before answering, "Sometimes." He offered no further explanation, and you didn't press the question.

Your stomach grumbled quietly, a not-so-subtle hint that it required sustenance if you didn't want to experience the relentlessly stabbing pain that would accompany the noises soon if it didn't. You relented and got up from the red sofa. "Have you eaten?" Riddle's eyes followed you as you stood, and he realized with a start that he hadn't when you asked the question. "I had some tea earlier," was his response. You shook your head in mock disbelief and sighed. "You can't fuel that brain of yours without food. I'll be right back."

A few minutes later, you were back at the sofa with two plates of eggs. You pushed the textbook across the coffee table and placed one of the plates in front of Riddle. He was about to protest, but you scooped up a bite with a fork and more or less shoved it into his open mouth. His cheeks flushed but he didn't say anything until after he'd swallowed.

"Thank you." He took the fork from you and set it down on his plate.

"You're welcome. And where did you get those clothes?"

His face went beet-red, a shade that almost matched his hair. "I- um, I borrowed them from your closet." Taking a closer look, you realized that the shirt and pants were yours. They were a bit small for you, but they apparently fit your partner just fine. "Oh, okay," you replied, going back to your eggs.

Riddle was evidently surprised by your answer. "You're not mad?" You were about to question why you'd be mad — partners did that normally, didn't they? — but then you remembered that Riddle had little knowledge about how dating was realistically outside of his slightly outdated knowledge from books. Also, you took this instance as a good sign; it made your relationship feel a bit more like a relationship.

"Nope." You paused, your fork halfway to your mouth. "You can grab my clothes whenever you want, you don't even have to ask." Frankly, you were very happy about this development.

Riddle was still letting the information sink in. He'd previously seemed almost ashamed, but now he was just a little embarrassed. "Alright..." he said. The conversation ended briefly while the two of you finished your eggs.

You sighed contently and leaned against the smaller boy, who stiffened at the unexpected contact before relaxing. Your plates were stacked neatly in the corner of the coffee table and Riddle was once more reading his book. With the rising sun entering the lounge through the giant window-wall on the other side of the room, you were cozy laying up against your boyfriend. The others would probably stay in bed for another hour or so, with the exception of Trey, who also had a tendency of waking up early.

The rest of your morning was pleasant, even though half an hour later it was interrupted by the arrival of Trey (and surprisingly Cater, who usually never got out of bed before 8 am). The latter immediately made himself a cup of coffee, declining Trey's offer to make it himself. "No thanks, Trey-kun. Cay-Cay can make it himself," Cater had answered before padding into the kitchen, his feet hidden in a pair of slippers.

Trey turned his attention to you and Riddle. "So what have you two been doing down? It seems a little early for studying." You'd moved to the other side of the sofa when Trey and Cater had come downstairs, and now, you sat with your legs crossed on the far cushion. Riddle replied, "It's never too early to study. Some people don't study enough, in fact." There was no question as to who he was referring to, given the sharp edge in his tone. Trey laughed sheepishly. "I bet that Ace will come around after his grades get worse." To you, he mouthed, "Hopefully."

"I heard my name?" Speak of the devil, the ginger popped his head into the room. Deuce appeared behind him, watching curiously.

"Yes, we were just talking about how terrible your grades are and when you're finally going to study," Riddle said dryly. "And Deuce, yours aren't much better." The duo shared an, "Urk!" and Ace quickly said, "Y'know, I'm feeling pretty hungry, I'm gonna go get some breakfast. Come on, Deuce." They fled from the doorway, presumably to the kitchen. You snickered, the brief interaction amusing.

Trey sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Oh, speaking of breakfast, do either of you want me to make you something?"

"I already made us some eggs," you replied. Trey glanced at the plates still stacked on the coffee table and nodded. "Alright." He left, heading in the direction of the kitchen.

You turned back to Riddle and shifted closer to him. "I think you should wear my clothes more often," you teased, though you were definitely serious about it. He got flustered again, attempting to stammer out a reply, but failing amazingly. You laughed at his response — or lack thereof — and leaned up against him once more.

"It's a one time thing!" he insisted.

"I'm just saying, I wouldn't mind," you giggled.

You're leaving? Well, I hope to see you again soon. Grab an umbrella — not the mechanical ones, they're in their prototype phase. Watch out for carriages on your way home, it'd be a shame if you got injured because one lost control. I bid you safe travels. Now, goodbye!

@xryptik @lyle-my-beloved @xen-blank @edith-is-a-cat @nervocat @nightmare-in-the-woods @floydsteeth @officialdaydreamer00 @cookiesandbiscuits @rainynightmoonlight @koihanwrites @casp1an-sea @vivisboutique @tako-cafe @creatorbiaze @l7k-a

Let me know if you'd like to be added/removed from the TWST taglist.

[xandoria]

Penelope is Spartan

An overanalyzing of 'Would you Fall in Love with Me' from someone fascinated by the more domestic aspects of Sparta.

Something that I haven't seen Epic fans talking about is the fact Penelope is Spartan. They talk about the war effort, and how sometimes, a Spartan would kill a lover's enemies as an expression of love. They talk about Sparta's efficiency in battle and how Penelope could defend herself if necessary. But they don't talk about the other aspect of Sparta.

Penelope would have had an extensive education like most Spartan women, and she would have seen what happens when soldiers come home. Young girls were often the caretakers of physically able-bodied but mentally unwell soldiers who had just returned from the wars. She would have seen the night terrors, the shell-shocked, the flashbacks. The violent outbursts towards even family followed by the guilt when they return from the war in their mind. She would have seen the afterwards of war firsthand.

In 'Would you Fall in Love with Me Again?', Penelope is seeing her husband come home, haunted by things he did on the journey home, decisions he had to make in the Trojan War, the final screams of his crew and enemies alike. She knows he is different in spirit and body, but she also knows the horrors of war do not change who you are at heart if you are strong (Spartan belief, not my own).

His question is not a glorified 'would you still love me if I was a worm?' It is a beg for her to love him as a monster, because he truly believes he is a monster. Penelope doesn't see the monster. She sees her husband hurting and lashing out because while he was as prepared for what the war would do as someone could, no one could have been prepared for the journey he experienced coming home.

She sees her husband who has watched everyone he knew and loved die. Who lost their mother (and just found out according to Penelope). Whose son is over 20 years old, who he never got to see grow up. Who came home to find himself disrespected and betrayed by people he trusted to keep his kingdom, wife, and son safe: came home to another battlefield. His question is more like 'Is this another battle I must face to come back to you?'

But Odysseus has never been moved by words alone, and she knows from experience just telling someone the 'war is over' is not enough to ground them in reality. So she poses him a question for herself and him. 'Would you take our wedding bed away?' She knows it's impossible without destroying their bed, without destroying a symbol of their love. If he would do such a thing, he truly is not her husband: the war had damaged him too much, and she could not bear to face that battle, because it would be impossible to win.

But he doesn't try. He starts breaking down, getting angry at the mere thought of her asking him to do such a wicked act in his eyes. That is their love she is asking him to destroy. Penelope can work with anger: she's been toying with suitors for 20 years at this point and likely had to deescalate situations many times herself. And she knows her husband in ways he has forgotten he exists.

She matches his anger. She shouts right back at him, snapping him out of the spiral his mind is going through at the thought of her rejection, because to him, it was a rejection of his return. He is reeling from being tricked, because it was a trick. It has been 20 years: he remembered his wife was clever, but not how much cleverer she was then him.

She's saying 'you have committed acts of war, your hands soiled by blood I cannot imagine. But I do not love your hands on their own. I do not love the monster in your eyes alone, but your soul that remains full of love for me. Your hands have committed atrocities in the name of our love and returning home, your eyes' monster roars for me. No amount of anger, time, nor the gods themselves will take you from me.'

TLDR: Penelope has experiences with PTSD from warfare, and she won't let trauma keep her husband away from her.

[ahotmesswithprivilege]

Ocean Eyes

paring: Bob Floyd x female!bartender!reader

wordcount: 2642 (scandalously short for me, I know)

prompt: “It’s like you never really see me. I’m standing right in front of you and you don’t see me!” requested by @gretagerwigsmuse (I am sorry this took so long. I hope it was worth the wait)

note: I couldn't write so I started cleaning up my WIP folder and I found this. I forgot that it was practically done and so I thought, let's share my Bob debut with the world. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Trigger Warning(If I forgot something or you want me to add to the list, my inbox is wide open. You are responsible for your media consumption, so proceed with caution, you know the drill): none, I think. Unless you consider canon Hangster one. Also idiots in love.

|| Masterlist ||

divider by @sweetmelodygraphics banner by @firefly-graphics

Reblogs, comments and constructive criticism are always welcome

!!!Minors do not interact; empty/ageless/minors will get blocked!!!

You love Bob Floyd. It’s pretty obvious to anyone who has eyes. At least that’s what you always hear from your best friend and yet he showed never any interest in you at all. There is a part of you that realises that this could only mean one thing but acknowledging the hard truth would hurt more than anything. So you ignore it and keep living in the blissful illusion that maybe one day Lieutenant Robert Floyd will wake up and finally see you.

That is until tonight when that hope should be shattered for good. The night at the Hard Deck when you are dealt the final blow.

“Is that Baby on Board in that booth? Flirting with a woman?”, Hangman is leaning against the bar waiting for you to get a fresh round of drinks ready. The question is directed at Rooster to his right and your gaze follows his and you see Bob sitting in a booth with an absolutely gorgeous redhead.

“Yeah. Phoenix set him up with her old college friend”, Rooster answers, giving you that kind of cautious look that he always sent your way whenever he thought you were in a fragile state and could implode any second. And as if to justify his worries you slam their beers down a little harder than intended and when your gaze meets his, all you see is pity in his pretty brown eyes.

“Rooster”, your voice is barely there, more a growl rumbling in your chest than anything else. It's a warning for your best friend to keep his fucking mouth shut and leave you be.

Not that it would help.

It's something you both love and hate about Bradley Bradshaw. He was not someone who gave up on people. No, he stayed even when shit got hard and you knew he'd be right there by your side through it all, holding your hand and keeping you close because that's just who he is.

And considering the look you get from his worse half, you know the same is true for him. The irony that fucking Jake Seresin would one day be one of your best friends was not lost on you. Especially considering how the two of you started off, but having Hangman cover your back was apparently a perk that came with being Rooster's best friend.

"Don't"

But Brad just lifts his hands in surrender and then they head over to the pool tables where the others are already waiting for them, leaving you behind the bar with the feeling that the shards of your shattered heart were just digging deeper into your flesh with every breath.

“Hey, sunshine”, your head snaps to the side and there you see him sitting at the end of the bar smiling at you the way he always did. The way that made your heart skip a beat and you hated that fucking traitor of an organ. And then your brain intercepts and reminds you of the images of last night. The way she had her hands all over him, turning him into a blushing mess as they stumbled out of the bar.

You have to shake your head or you'd lose focus and you cannot afford that. Not on a Saturday night.

It's not like you need to wait for him to order something, you know it all by heart, so you set his usual virgin drink in front of him and put some nuts in a bowl. Both containers are hitting the bartop a tad bit harder than necessary and before he could get another word in you were already gone.

Your behaviour took him off guard. His eyes are still following you when you already busied yourself with the order of another patron at the other end of the bar as if you wanted to get as much space between you and him as you physically could and he couldn't help the unsettling feeling that crept up on him.

This was so not you. There's a reason why they call you sunshine and that's not just because Rooster introduced you like that. You were always sweet and kind and won over the position of the patron’s favourite from Penny within the first week. You always had a lovely smile on your lips and a nice comment for everyone.

But the thing he had always liked most about you was how protective you were, looking out for the people around you. You were just the kind of person who truly cared and didn't just turn it into a performance.

The longer you are lingering on the other end of the bar without giving him even as much of a glace the more uneasy he becomes ultimately deciding to pick up his things and make his way over to the quiet corner by the pool tables that had been dubbed his even back during his Top Gun time. And from over there he has the perfect view of the bar without the hustle and bustle that would only distract from his actual mission. Figure out what was wrong with you.

You seemed tense and your interactions were colder than usual even with people that he knew you loved to bits.

Dave, one of the veterans who frequented the bar had made it a habit to propose to you whenever he saw you. It was a running gag between the two of you but even he couldn't bring an honest smile to your face.

That sure as hell was a first.

Maybe something happened?

Had someone hurt you?

Or did something happen with your family?

The best way to find out was to talk to Rooster.

He was your best friend after all and if someone knew what was going on, then it would be him.

So, Bob waited patiently until he took a break from the pool game before approaching him.

“Is something wrong with sunshine?”

Rooster arches his brow at the question, stops drinking mid-swig and puts his bottle back down.

“What should be wrong with her?”

Bob tilts his head while he studies the other's features.

He couldn't be serious about that question. Rooster always claimed to know you best of them all and he honest-to-goodness wanted to tell Bob he didn't see what was going on.

“She’s curt and tense. She didn’t even smile at Dave's proposal”

Rooster’s brow arched even more.

God for someone as observant as Robert fucking Floyd he was pretty goddamn blind when it came to you.

“Even if there was something it wouldn't be my story to tell”, he raises his bottle back up and takes a sip of his beer, watching Bob’s mind running  100 miles an hour while he tried to figure out how to proceed.

“If you wanna know what’s going on there is a simple solution”, he prompts him. He had sworn to keep his mouth shut about your feelings for Bob but helping him figure it out on his own was not breaking that promise.

At least not in his book.

“And that would be?”

“Fucking ask her, Baby on board”

Jake groaned over from the pool table and rolled his eyes.

He was so done with this kindergarten bullshit. Watching you and Bob was worse than his dance with Rooster pre-uranium mission and he knew they had been unbearable to watch.

His boyfriend shoots Hangman an angry look as if to remind him of their promise but he just rolls his eyes and sighs.

Hangman likes you, a lot. Some might even go so far as to say he loves you. Very much platonic but it's love nonetheless.

You were a major part of Rooster’s life and therefore you became a fixture in his and if he had to listen to you crying yourself to sleep one more goddamn night over fucking Baby on Board then he’d be the one going on a bloody rampage.

So Jake stalked over to Bob and stared him right in his blue eyes, his green gaze cutting like a knife.

“That wasn’t a suggestion Floyd”, he growled, nodding over to where you handed out drinks at the bar, doing everything within your power to not look their way.

Bob had no idea why the other ganged up on him like that but he couldn’t remember the last time Hangman had been this mad. With his gaze flittering between the two men and you at the bar he decided it was indeed probably smartest to talk to you as soon as possible.

“Can you please get a box of whiskey from storage?”, you barely hear Penny’s voice over the constant chatter of the bar and the music coming from the jukebox when she hands you the key.

You had tried to keep your brain busy all night and lucky for you, the Saturday had provided you with enough to do to grant yourself a small reprieve from the pain that had settled in what was left of your heart after last night.

You nod at Penny and weave through the crowd in front of the bar, attempting to smile at the patrons that greeted you but you knew that this was just a facade and considering the many concerned looks, they knew too.

When you finally got to unlock the door of the storage closet stepping inside and pulling the door closed behind you as you were heaving a sigh the muffled sounds of the bar were still echoing in your ear. You loved this place and the Hard Deck had always felt more like home than the house you shared with Rooster and Hangman. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. The air was stuffy and full of dust but it was the closest to a break you could get just about now.

That was until the sudden creaking of the door made your heart rate pick up.

"This is for staff only", your eyes are wandering around to find something to use as a makeshift weapon just in case one of the guys got so drunk he forgot his manners and basic human decency. You find a large vodka bottle, pick it up from the shelf as you turn around, almost dropping it when you are met with blue eyes.

"Fuck Bob, you scared me", you place your free hand over your heart, putting the Vodka bottle on a small table.

"I'm sorry, sunshine", your eyes wander over him and it's only then that you see how he's not really daring to look into your eyes and he's fidgeting with his hands.

"What are you doing back here Bob?", you are crossing your arms over your chest and take another step back from him, almost making you hit the shelves full of liquor behind you.

He had never seen you so distanced and borderline standoffish around any of the daggers. You were someone who needed to be close, someone who thrived on touch and physical forms of affection, but you were fleeing from him and he couldn't have imagined something as simple as a step back to hurt that bad.

"I... I was wondering...", he started and then you were the third person today looking at him with an arched eyebrow and he felt like a first grader who's supposed to take his SAT.

"What were you wondering?", you said, the tense edge still audible in your voice sent a shiver down his spine.

Bob had never met this cold version of you and he hated every second of it. He loved your warmth, the way you were lighting up even the darkest room. You were the embodiment of a sweet summer day, full of sunshine and blooming flowers with enough of a breeze to make it perfect but right now you rivalled the worst arctic winter.

"Why are you so cold with everyone?"

"I am not"

"Of course you are. You didn't even smile at Dave's proposal", he sees the way your eyes get wider for only a moment before you put that facade back in place. So the real you was hiding somewhere behind that mask you put on.

"Yes I did"

"No, you didn't. Not for real"

The fact he had actually noticed took you by surprise, but the dull ache in your chest reminded you that just because he happened to notice one thing today it didn't mean that anything changed.

The silence hanging between the two of you was deafening and the longer it lasted the more nervous Bob got.

You two had never had an issue with talking. You were probably the one person he always felt like he could talk to even if he didn't feel like interacting with anyone else. But now it felt like you were two ships in the night, drifting farther and farther away apart.

"Please. I just want to...", his voice sounds pleading and the way he reaches his hand out for you prompts you to take another step back. You cannot handle his touch, that much you know but in your desperate attempt to keep the tears from running down your cheeks you forget that you have a mouth too.

“It’s like you never really see me", the words are spilling from your lips before you even realise it, hands flying to your mouth to stop yourself. The tears that were pricking at your lashline before began to run down your cheek when you see the way his eyes widen mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally finds his voice again.

"There hasn't been a single day when I didn't"

You force your eyes shut to stop the tears from running, shaking your head as you hear him take step after step closer into your space and crowd you against the shelves.

"I don't think I couldn't"

"Then why does it feel like I’m standing right in front of you. and you don’t see me?”, your voice is small and quiet, almost drowned out by the muffled sounds from the bar but once they sink in, Bob's eyes are darting all over your face, trying to figure out what you truly meant.

You open your eyes, tears still glittering as you look up at him. He sees so many emotions swirl in them ranging from pain and fear to something softer. Something he never dared to dream of finding in your eyes when you looked at him. And then he caught your eyes wandering from his to his lips and back up.

It was not much more than a flicker, something easily missed if he had blinked at the wrong moment.

"I always see you, sunshine", his voice is soft as he takes another step closer and leans down, slow and cautious as if he's trying to gauge if he had gotten what you implied right, but you stayed frozen in your place, closing your eyes again until you feel his nose brushing against yours and your foreheads touching.

"And what about last night?", you feel like you are caught up in a dream, fearing the moment your alarm would go off and you'd have to get up and back to a reality where Bob dated someone else and you were damned to only stand there and watch.

"Jolene is nice but all she's ever seen is the uniform and the glasses. She never bothered to really look at me. She didn't see me", he lifts his hands and rests them on your cheeks, thumbs gently caressing your skin as his eyes search yours for any sign that you do not want this.

"Not the way you did when we first met", you feel like you are getting lost in the endless blue of his ocean eyes, warm breath fanning over your face as you lean in to kiss him.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated as always

If you want to read more you can find my masterlist here

[laukoslovergirl]

good graces

Pairing: Joey Daccord x singer!reader

Warnings: um cheesy and probably bad writing

Summary: Y/n is a famous singer with a not so secret crush on joey daccord. Based on my SMAU.

word count: 1.1K

Notes: i wanted to make this longer but that was not working for me so :(

You would be lying if you said the song hadn’t started as a joke. Your ex was a big sports fan. He followed them all, but hockey was his favorite so you had gotten pretty into the game as your relationship progressed. The main problem was his insecurity as you gained popularity, he continually brought up the argument that you were going to leave him for a sports player. Then you understood why he was worried about you leaving him for someone better because he was cheating you with some b-list actress. Jokes on him the songs he inspired skyrocketed your fame. Then your team thought you’d play into the bit of one of your biggest songs from your newest album. Good Graces the most popular line being ”Break my heart, and I swear I'm movin' on with your favorite athlete”.  While touring you ended the night in one of that city's sports jerseys. Famously you never wore a current player’s jersey, they all had your last name on the back and your favorite number.  You made it a point to only do two hockey teams though. His favorite Seattle Kraken and his least favorite The Toronto Maple Leafs. Finally having some time in your schedule while touring you found yourself at a Seattle Kraken game. Clad in Joey Daccord’s Jersey which you would be wearing at your concert tomorrow night on stage. It was your idea at a grand gesture to shoot your shot. You’d always found the man incredibly attractive, not to mention he was your ex's favorite player. You were feeling incredibly spiteful recently which had prompted the recent events in your life. Most notable today. You had spent some time with your team to get yourself not only on Kraken’s radar but Joey's as well. Tweets about his performance in a game. Arranging for you to read the starting line up to the guys in the locker room to also get some one on one time with them and invite them to your concert the next night. 

“Okay I’m not gonna lie to you guys, I'm nervous about this. Before I read the starting lineup I wanted to let you guys know you're all invited to the show tomorrow.” You blushed standing in the center of the locker room slip of paper in hand with the lineup. You had your best friend with you for moral support. “Vip access” you smiled at them as they let out a cheer. 

“Don’t be short stack, we love you already” Jaime Oleksiak said from his spot. You chuckled at the nickname, in all fairness everyone was short to the 6’7” giant. “I’ll pay someone on the other team to go after you” you joked with a smile. 

“Okay we got number 19 Jared Mcman, number 10 Matty Beniers, and number 7 Jordan Eberle. Defense number 6 Adam Larsson and number 62 Brandon Montour. Last but certainly not least number 35 Jdac." The boys clapped and cheered in between each name.  You looked up to see Grubauer nudging Joey out of his thoughts. 

“Okay now can i get some pictures with you guys?” you asked knowing both Kraken media had wanted the photos as well as your own PR team. The boys got up to meet you in the center of the room. “Wait hold on i gotta take off my jacket” you turned to your body guard and unzipped the big leather jacket you were wearing it had a bedazzled kraken logo on the back. Revealing a bedazzled Daccord jersey you were wearing like a dress. Taking pictures first as one big group then in smaller groups and one on one with some players. chit chatting with the boys and exchanging phone numbers and social media handles with a few.  Finally the goalie tandems turn, Joey and Philip wrapped their arms around your shoulders both their tall frames towering over your smaller body. As the boys thanked you and turned to go back to getting ready you stopped joey. 

“Wait this is awkward but I had another photo I wanted with you.” you asked, hand on his wrist. “Anything you want you can have” he finally said something to you having been pretty silent since you entered the room. You blushed and tried to escape the moment waving your best friend over. She was wearing a Grubauer jersey bedazzled like yours, but she also held a jersey with your last name on it for Joey to wear. You were still blushing over his words as he chuckled at the jersey presented to him. He slipped off his hoodie and slid on the new jersey. You couldn’t help but stare as he changed and your best friend snickered at you. You elbowed her in the side as Joey turned to throw his hoodie in his stall. You instructed Joey through the pose you wanted for the photo backs to the camera heads turned to display the back. You demonstrated the pose before looking at him, your eyes locking for a moment as he stared at you intensely. He was in the middle of you and y/bf/n. Then you took one facing the camera with big smiles on your faces. 

“Thanks Joey.” you smiled at him, your agent handing you your phone. “You look good in my jersey” he whispered to you, wrapping you in a hug, before turning and walking away. You momentarily forgot what you were even doing thinking about being wrapped in his arms. 

“Kick some ass out there boys, me and y/bf/n are gonna go find buoy” you hollered leaving the locker room. You heard wolf whistles and some chirps called to joey and you could only imagine what chaos you had just caused. 

– – – – –

Finally you were sitting in your seats. Getting ready for puck drop and to experience the game. You were currently on your phone making an instagram post. Some photos from the night. A simple dump of one of you in the stands, a picture of the ice and a photo of joey. With the caption “break my heart and i’m moving on with your favorite athlete 🩵🩷. As planned buoy made a cheeky comment and then found you during the game and y’all caused some chaos around the stadium. 

– – – – –

Beiners: I gave Joey your number. You’re welcome!! Super excited for the show tomorrow.

The game had just ended a 6-3 loss to Colorado. 

You hadn’t known one of the youngest members of the team would come in clutch as a wingman but he was completing tasks your pea brain had forgotten about. Before you had the chance to respond to matty and new text came in.

[cigarettesaftersae]

i'll like you - 07 lucky girl syndrome

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Series: reo mikage x f!reader | contains : fluff, angst, jealousy, academic rivals, fake dating

With a good sniff, the inhalation gifted you great pleasure. The well-cooked food settled down on the table was nothing but a present wrapped with a bow just right for your tummy. The soft clatter of dishes echoes through the dining room as your mom gracefully places steaming plates of food onto the table, the rich aroma of her cooking filling the air. Reo, his eager eyes sparkling like a puppy's, sits obediently by your side, his hands folded neatly in his lap. A warm smile spreads across his face as he watches your mom showcase her culinary talents, her precise movements a testament to years of practice and love.

“Is this what you have every dinner?” Reo turns to you

“If I don’t take naps”

A chuckle gracefully leaves his lip which only get glossier. Finally accomplished with tonight’s dinner, your mom sits down immediately picking up utensils as if her stomach rumbled with thunders and both you and Reo followed along with her.

“So, what do you do nowadays, Mikage?” your mom asks politely, her hands busy arranging utensils on the table.

Reo’s lips twitch upward into a charming smile, but he quickly waves a hand in the air, his tone light and friendly. “Oh, please, no need for formalities. Call me Reo,” he insists, leaning forward slightly in his seat. “but I’ve really been focusing on soccer.” There’s a brief pause where his smile deepens, and you catch the flicker of genuine pride beneath his usual confidence. Reo’s voice spikes with a glitter of excitement, perhaps his passion towards soccer has been his highest of satisfaction or maybe it was his bromance with Nagi. “I couldn’t have done it without my great friend Nagi.”

Your mom hums in approval, her gaze flicking briefly to you before returning to Reo. “Soccer, huh? That must take a lot of dedication. It’s wonderful that you’ve found such a strong connection with your teammates.”

Reo nods eagerly, his excitement undiminished. “It’s not just dedication, really. It’s… I don’t know, it feels like it’s my purpose. And with Nagi, well,” he chuckles softly, “it’s like having someone who always understands what I’m aiming for, no matter how crazy it seems.”

“How romantic,” you comment dryly, breaking the thoughtful silence as you spear a piece of food with your fork and pop it into your mouth. Your tone carries the faintest edge of sarcasm, but it’s softened by the amused smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Your mom chuckles softly at the interaction, shaking her head as she arranges more food on the table. “It’s wonderful to see such passion in young people. You don’t see bonds like that every day,” she says, her voice tinged with nostalgia.

“Right?” Reo agrees, flashing a grateful smile at your mom before shooting you a playful look, as if daring you to make another comment.

Before you can respond, your mom’s voice cuts through the moment, light yet curious. “Where’s Yuna nowadays?”

The name alone sends a jolt through you, freezing you in place like ice water running through your veins. Your hand stiffens around your fork, the lump rising in your throat making it impossible to speak. How could you answer that? Lie to your mom? No, you’d never do that—never could.

“She’s, um…” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “She’s busy nowadays.” The words leave your mouth dry and flat, as if scraped together from fragments of an incomplete sentence.

The room feels heavier now, as if unseen storm clouds had gathered overhead. The once-warm atmosphere shifts to a quiet tension, your mom’s cheerful hum faltering for just a moment. Maybe you should say more, something convincing to ease her concern, but the words won’t come. They stick in your throat like stones, immovable.

Reo, however, doesn’t let the silence linger. “I heard she’s been having lots of family over!” he interjects, his tone effortlessly light and cheerful, like sunshine piercing through heavy clouds.

Your eyes snap to him in surprise, and for a moment, he meets your gaze with a knowing look—one that speaks of silent understanding and an unspoken promise to have your back. The gloom that had settled over the table begins to lift, the tension easing as your mom’s expression softens.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” she says, the smile returning to her face as she continues setting the table.

Reo flashes you a small, reassuring smile before turning back to your mom, smoothly steering the conversation away from the subject that had you reeling. He use to make your stomach turn upside down, a vomit form in your throat, and his smile always felt deceiving but he’s never felt more beautiful.

“Thank you for having me,” Reo says warmly, his signature smile lighting up his face as you walk him out to the gates.

“If you hadn’t come over, we’d would’ve had some leftover pork,” you grumble, stuffing your hands into your pockets to fend off the chill of the evening.

Reo chuckles, the sound soft and easy. “Oh—here,” he says, abruptly stopping to pull something from his bag. He holds out two neatly wrapped boxes, their sleek design and embossed logos practically screaming luxury. It’s so obviously Reo, and you can’t help but raise a brow as you take them from his hands with deliberate care.

“What’s this? And more importantly, how much were these?” you ask, your tone laced with suspicion as you tilt the boxes slightly, their weight surprising you.

Reo grins mischievously, his violet eyes gleaming under the streetlights. “It’s a secret,” he says with a wink, his playful tone only making your irritation rise.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you untie the elegant ribbon on one box and carefully lift the lid. Inside, nestled against a cushion of soft velvet, is a black necklace. The pendant—a sleek tooth design wrapped in a dragon’s claw—shimmers faintly, its craftsmanship intricate and unmistakably expensive.

Opening the second box, you find an identical necklace, except this one is white, the dragon’s claw seemingly carved from pearl.

Reo watches you intently, his smile softening as he explains, “You can give the other to Yuna when you two are together again.”

The mention of her name makes your hands falter for a moment, your thumb grazing the smooth edge of the white pendant. You swallow hard, unsure how to respond, but Reo’s voice is gentle now, lacking his usual teasing lilt.

“She’s still important to you, right?” he adds quietly, his gaze searching yours.

You don’t answer right away, instead staring down at the necklaces in your hands. The intricate designs seem to hold more weight than just their physical presence, as though Reo knew exactly what they represented to you.

“Yeah,” you finally mutter, your voice barely audible. “She is.”

Reo nods, his expression unreadable but somehow comforting. “Then keep them safe until the time’s right.”

Another fine morning with a bleeding sun greets your moon kissed eyes. An abundance of school air is yet to welcome your skin as soon you finish brushing away your dust collected morning breath, slipping into your school uniform, and a kiss to your mom’s cheek as you rush up. No longer being provided of the coffee smell warmed up in your house. With a creek of the gate noise opening, you would usually run off to school and meet Yuna on the way. But the most avoidant fight is still ongoing. So you’ll just head to the bus alone, right?

Well this Tuesday wasn’t the case; if Reo’s sleek, lavish black limo outside waiting for you. This would be the closest you get to a red carpet upon the earth ground accompanying your feet with rose petals delightfully scattering the scene, and white flashes, that even sunglasses can’t behold, blind your eyes. How’d he get it to be so shiny? A question only the dirty wealth can answer you guessed. Nagi’s white messy hair is spotted, engraved into his cell phone games. The LED lights inside make his hair almost colorful. Then Reo slips out of the limo, feet on the ground, a signature smile vibrantly stunning you “Good Morning”

You stood silent as the rest of the bread crumps in your mouth were being chewed away. “What is that”

“What is what?” His dumbfound act made you rise an eyebrow, a sign of impatience's for a simple answer already “Obviously it’s a limo but you didn’t say you were going to pick me up in a limo, I thought kids do that for dances”

“Well a lot can benefit you now that you’re with me my love”

“Can you not call me that?’

“I was kidding—” You quickly pinch the skin on Reo’s ear then slide into the limo, resting your bag by your hip as Nagi still makes love with his gaming. Following behind was a heart-broken, wounded, rich boy. “Now my ear is red, that hurt” He whines childishly, attacking a pout towards you.

“Is baby gonna cry?” You tease back into his childish manner “you basically broke my nose last week you should be a good”

“That was an accident!”

“Womp womp” The car— or rather the limo takes off, away from your home gates directing to where you’d have to face the unavoidable quiet fight.

“We’re already here?” You lean against the window, staring across the school field and building, the hundreds of other girls and boys in school uniform entering into which you bestowed a synonym for hell.

The car door swings open, revealing a tall, older woman whose posture is strikingly upright despite the evident weight of her years. Her appearance is imposing, her sharp, angular features framed by thin wisps of silver hair tucked neatly. Across her face is a long, hooked nose—a feature some might whimsically describe as a "witch’s nose,"

The sunlight pours in through the open door, momentarily blinding you as you squint against the glare. Then, out of the dazzling light, Reo’s hand extends toward you, his fingers steady and inviting. He stands there, looking every bit the part of a fairytale prince in shining armor, though instead of a sword, he wields his signature charm.

“Shall we?” he asks, his voice warm and smooth, his smile effortlessly disarming. Without missing a beat, you swat his hand away with a quick, decisive motion. “I can walk on my own,” you mutter, brushing yourself off as you step out of the car.

Reo’s smile doesn’t falter; if anything, it grows wider, his amusement evident in the glint of his violet eyes. “I thought we needed to act all lovey in front of these people,” he says, his tone laced with playful exasperation.

Your brow furrows as you turn to him, crossing your arms. “No one’s in front of us?” you fire back, your voice sharp but carrying an edge of curiosity.

Reo sighs dramatically, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair as if your defiance is the greatest challenge of his life. “Let’s just go,” he says, his tone a mix of resignation and humor, gesturing toward the imposing building ahead. As soon as you take a step into the school grounds a line of students is in awe, cheering, reeling with an immense amount of joy to the sight of the famous future Mikage heir. You glance at the crowd and then back at him, unimpressed. “Are these your friends or fans?” you mutter, your tone dry as you watch a group of students practically fawn over his every step. Reo flashes you a grin, his violet eyes glinting with mischief. “Can I say both?” he quips, lifting a hand in a casual wave. The gesture earns a fresh round of squeals, and you roll your eyes so hard you swear you hear them creak

“Put your arm around me,” he whispers suddenly, leaning closer so only you can hear.

Your steps falter, and you whip your head toward him. “What?”

“Just do it,” he insists, his voice low but commanding, the smirk on his lips never quite fading.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flaring. “So Nagi can third-wheel? No.” Your tone is sharp, almost venomous.

Reo chuckles under his breath, completely unfazed. “He’s just on his phone, as usual,” he says, nodding toward the tall, silver-haired figure loitering nearby with his gaze glued to his screen. “Remember the plan,” he adds, his tone firm but with an edge of exasperation, as though he can’t believe he has to remind you.

You hesitate, glaring at his outstretched arm like it’s the most revolting thing you’ve ever seen. Your disgust is palpable, but so is the growing pressure of the watchful crowd, their murmurs and curious stares intensifying.

With a resigned sigh, you step closer, wrapping your arm around his with all the enthusiasm of someone being sentenced to a lifetime of chores. Reo, on the other hand, moves with effortless ease, draping his arm over your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“There,” he whispers, his tone light and teasing. “See? Was that so hard?”

You glance up at him, your glare sharp enough to cut through steel. “I already regret this.”

He chuckles, the sound soft and infuriatingly smug, and together, the two of you walk further onto the school grounds, every pair of eyes on campus following your every step. “Is this how it is everyday?”

“What do you mean?”

“The attention, all the stares?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Never mind, of course you’d like it”

Upon your arrival into your regular classroom, students of boys and girls applaud for the two pretty individuals relationship, your holding hearted arms, and oh-so loving eyes, pleading with help to begone already- your arms entwined and expressions... less than thrilled.

“LOVEBIRDS!” a group of jock boys shouts from the back, their voices loud and obnoxious. One of them even makes exaggerated kissing noises, prompting laughter from their friends. Your shoulders stiffen, and your pleading eyes scream for this to end already. But Reo, ever the charmer, seems entirely at ease, raising a hand in a mock wave as if he’s royalty greeting his adoring subjects.

Before you can untangle yourself from his arm, two girls rush up to you both, their faces lit with uncontainable excitement. One has sleek black pigtails, her uniform pristine, and the other, shorter with flowy hair and bubbly eyes, practically bounces on her toes. They block your path with beaming smiles that already give away what they’re about to say.

“Is it true?” the one with pigtails asks breathlessly. “You two are really in a relationship?”

You glance at Reo, who looks back at you expectantly, leaving the answer entirely in your hands. His smirk widens slightly, clearly entertained by your discomfort.

“Yes,” you say with a forced smile, nodding coaxingly. What else could you say or do?

The girls gasp in unison, practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh my gosh, that’s so cute!” the shorter one squeals. “You two are like... the it couple!”

“Totally!” the other agrees, her eyes sparkling with delight. “When did it happen? How did it happen? Was it love at first sight?”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. Your brain scrambles to come up with something remotely convincing, but all you can think about is how much you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

Reo steps in smoothly, his tone effortlessly charming. “It’s a long story, maybe one for another time?” he says, flashing them one of his signature grins. His hands intertwines with you, the casual gesture almost too natural, and pulls you gently along with him toward your seat.

The room buzzes faintly, filled with whispers and muffled giggles, but you’re too focused on maintaining your composure to care. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Across the room, another group of girls huddles together, their heads bent close, their voices toxic in their secrecy yet deliberately loud enough to be overheard.

“Yuna, look,” Naomi breathes, her words sharp despite the hushed tone. She leans closer to her companion, the stale scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

Yuna’s delicate head lifts at the mention of your name, her gaze drifting reluctantly toward you. Her eyes settle on your figure, seated beside Reo, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair. The sight of his violet hair close to your own makes her stomach twist, though her expression remains unreadable.

“There she goes,” Naomi sneers, her lips curling as she watches the interaction from afar. “Do you think she’s just using his money?”

“Oh, definitely,” another girl chimes in, her tone dripping with malice.

Naomi smirks, leaning back in her chair as she twirls a strand of hair around her finger. Her eyes gleam with a dangerous combination of curiosity and cruelty as she turns to Yuna. “What do you think, Yuna? She was your friend, wasn’t she?”

Yuna hesitates, her gaze dropping to the desk in front of her. Her fingers grip the edge of it, her knuckles faintly white. “Yeah... definitely,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Encouraged by Yuna’s response, Naomi presses on, her tone growing even more poisonous. “Hey, didn’t you say her mom was, like, 32? Doesn’t that mean she got pregnant at 16?”

The question hangs in the air, sharp and cutting, and Naomi blinks her lashes expectantly at Yuna, as if waiting for her approval to unleash another round of insults.

Yuna swallows hard, her voice faltering as she murmurs, “Yeah...” The word is so quiet it’s almost swallowed by the hum of the classroom, but it carries a weight that Yuna can’t seem to shake. Naomi’s laughter, soft but biting, echoes in her ears. Meanwhile, with you, Reo, and Nagi, all remain settled down 10 minutes before class starts. “You can let go now” you nudge Reo softly

“Oh, right” You feel the faintest trace of his skin as he begins to pull away, the touch so subtle yet noticeable enough to make your chest tighten. It’s maddeningly slow, a deliberate yet unspoken hesitation that leaves you caught in a moment you don’t fully understand.

Your instincts urge you to slap his hand away, to break the strange tension that lingers in the air between you. And yet, for some reason, your subconscious betrays you, allowing his touch to linger just a little longer. You hold your breath without realizing it, suspended in the warmth of the fleeting contact until reality strikes, sharp and undeniable, breaking the spell.

You clear your throat, turning away sharply as if to shake off the lingering feeling. Reo’s hand retreats fully now, his expression unreadable but his smirk faintly returning as he leans back in his chair.

.

.

.

erm hi

[lazysoulwriter]

Against All Odds - Joel Miller.

feel free to send me requests! ✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ♡*.✧

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the barren landscape. Joel Miller adjusted the strap of his rifle, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. The world had turned into a cruel place, and trust was as rare as a safe haven. Yet, somehow, she had managed to break through his defenses.

“You’re falling behind, old man,” her voice rang out, teasing but firm. She walked ahead, her steps light but purposeful. Despite the grime of the apocalypse, there was an energy about her, a fire that refused to be extinguished.

Joel sighed, quickening his pace. “Watch your tone, kid. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

She smirked but didn’t look back. “Neither are you.”

There was no denying the truth in her words. Joel knew better than anyone how fragile survival could be. Yet, she carried herself with an unshakable confidence that reminded him of someone he once knew. Maybe that’s why he had let her stay by his side, despite the gnawing voice in his head warning him not to get attached.

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

Nightfall found them huddled in the ruins of an old convenience store. Joel worked silently to secure the doors while she rummaged through the shelves.

“Canned peaches,” she said, holding up a dented tin with a triumphant grin. “Dinner of champions.”

Joel shook his head but couldn’t help the slight tug at the corner of his lips. “You’ve got low standards, I’ll give you that.”

They ate in relative silence, the crackle of the small fire between them filling the void. She broke it first.

“You don’t have to be so hard on me all the time, you know. I can handle myself.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. “It’s not about you handling yourself. It’s about knowing when to pick your battles.”

“And you think I don’t?” she shot back, her tone sharper now.

He met her gaze, his voice low. “I’ve seen people like you before. Brave, strong... and gone in a second because they thought they were invincible.”

Her expression softened, but she didn’t back down. “I’m not going anywhere, Joel. Not without a fight.”

His chest tightened at her words. He wanted to believe her, but the fear of loss loomed heavy. He turned away, ending the conversation.

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

Days later, danger found them as it always did. A group of raiders ambushed their camp in the dead of night. Chaos erupted as gunshots rang out, and Joel’s instincts took over. He moved with precision, taking down threats one by one. But when he heard her shout, his heart stopped.

She was cornered, her knife gleaming in the moonlight. Joel didn’t hesitate. Within moments, the raider was on the ground, and Joel was at her side, his hands trembling with adrenaline.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice rough.

She nodded, her breathing heavy. “I had it under control.”

“Sure you did,” he muttered, pulling her into a quick embrace. This time, he didn’t let go so quickly. She tilted her head, her gaze meeting his in the dim light. Before either of them could second-guess it, their lips met in a kiss that was anything but brief. It was desperate, as if the world could crumble around them and they wouldn’t care.

When they finally pulled back, Joel’s voice was thick with emotion. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

She smiled softly, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “I can’t promise that. But I’ll try.”

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

In the days that followed, Joel found himself unable to deny the pull he felt toward her. She was everything he thought he couldn’t have in a world like this: hope, light, and a reminder that there was still beauty to be found. One evening, as they set up camp under a canopy of stars, he finally let the words spill out.

“You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever met,” he admitted, his voice low. “And you’re making me feel things I haven’t felt in a long time.”

She looked at him, her expression softening. “Joel…”

“Let me finish,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I didn’t want to get close to you. I thought it would make everything harder. But now? I can’t imagine getting through this without you.”

Her eyes glistened as she leaned into him, their foreheads touching. “You’re not getting rid of me, Miller. Not a chance.”

He chuckled, pulling her into a kiss that was softer, slower, but just as passionate as the first. It was a promise, unspoken but understood.

The next test of their bond came sooner than expected. A pack of infected forced them into a frantic escape, their lives hanging by a thread. At one point, she stumbled, and Joel’s heart leaped into his throat. He doubled back, refusing to leave her behind.

“Go!” she shouted, but he ignored her, grabbing her arm and hauling her to safety. Once they were clear, he rounded on her, his voice shaking with both fear and anger.

“Don’t you ever tell me to leave you again!” he growled.

She stared at him, stunned by the raw intensity of his words. “I was trying to protect you.”

“And I’m trying to protect you,” he shot back, his hands gripping her shoulders. “Because I love you, dammit. And I’m not losing you.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the chaos of the world faded away. “I love you too, Joel,” she whispered, pulling him into a kiss that left no room for doubt.

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

Their journey was far from over, and the world showed no signs of mercy. But they had each other, and that was enough. Against all odds, they had found a love worth fighting for—and Joel would protect it with everything he had.

[jisokai]

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 6: & yet i’ll always choose you.

sero hanta x reader ch 6/6 | 15.8k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: violence between family members (a singular slap) notes: ready to run by one direction, shelter by porter robinson & madeon, all the stars by kendrick & sza (this is not a songfic; i forgot that song existed when i chose the title and then when i properly listened to the lyrics i realized it fit LOL)

you make a decision.

✰.

"How do you help a family miracle? You hug your sister."

- Bruno, in Encanto

Looking back, your life has primarily moved forward through a mixture of obligation and chance. There was never any sort of choosing or clinging, just an acceptance of what needed to be done. Things worked out on their own, oftentimes with you as the stagnant one and the events happening around you—through you. You lived as if life was predetermined, as if a wide length of silk has been wrapped around your chest and tugging you through life.

So it’s hard, when something—someone appears, and you want to choose him.

Silk is slippery. It’s woven water that slides against every surface including itself. With unpracticed hands, every knot will come undone, unraveling before you until it’s a puddle on the floor. You only ever learned how to sew and stitch, to bind fabric with a needle and thread. You’re the opposite of Hanta, who knows the raw silk itself—hanging for him to play an endless game of tangling and escaping. He knows the knots intricately, how to bind or set himself free in an instant.

Hanta is sad when he has to leave. You see it in his watery eyes and hear it in the crack of his voice. But he has some sort of unfathomable trust that things will work out in the end. You should too, given how your life has led so far, but you can’t.

You want him. You want him and Momo and Kendou. You want the circus and the costumes and to see the world together. You want to make beautiful things, impossible things, things that can only be forged in a place where everyone believes in magic with their full being. You want it all.

You don’t know how to chase it.

Maybe it was purposeful—choosing a dream you always thought was out of reach, one you never considered a real possibility. It’s safe here, where the choices are made for you, or never presented in the first place. But now that you finally want something… how do you start?

When the week passes and the circus is gone, in some ways it feels like it was never there. How could something that’s everything to you, everything you want, fizzle into nothing but faded memories in an instant? You cry and you hurt and you long for something that’s gone.

It feels like grieving.

Grieving, you realize, is another thing you haven’t done before.

Abuela is steeped into every detail of your life—her wrinkled hands the ones you always reached for first. She’s the one who taught you to sew, the one who called you her tucán. Abuela is the reason you and Hanta crossed paths for the first time in Quito, the reason you found yourself in Milan and by Midoriya, and ultimately Hoshi no Sākasu.

When you think about it, abuela is the thread that has been pulling you forwards.

But she’s gone—a fact you haven’t come to terms with.

The grief rolls through like a tsunami, a high wall of powerful water that roars forward with the intent to destroy and submerge. Maybe it should have been predictable, the week with the circus your earthquake, the shifting of plates radiating seismic energy through your foundation. But the water comes by surprise and at full force, knocking you off your feet and the breath from your lungs. 

You packed your schedule ahead of time with work, the following weeks filled with costumes and gowns and dresses. It distracts you, like you knew it would, your hands and your head focused on nothing but the bounce of a needle stitching fabrics. It keeps you from thinking about the circus in Switzerland, three hours away by train. Life has shifted with the absence of the circus, and you’ve found yourself back into the stagnant routine that existed before. 

Except, now you cry while you work.

It happens unknowingly at first, only noticing when dark blotches appear on the fabric between your hands. You pause, lifting the pad of your finger to trace the tears collecting on your waterline, the wetness taking you by surprise. But when it rains it pours, and you have to take a break to let the clouds of your irises clear before forcing yourself to resume sewing.

Normally there's a ghosted feeling of abuela’s hands hovering over yours. They're familiar and faint, kept at a distance and bringing just the twitch of a somber smile to your lips. But now they're firm and dense, like real skin and flesh and blood. The sensation makes you cry harder. Your crying makes them feel more real. Your hurt and your grief brings her closer, brings her to life.

You don't do anything but work and cry the first few days following Hoshi no Sakasu’s departure. You complete one dress through hours of tears. 

Your friends find you this way, sobbing with bunches of chiffon in your hands, wiping your eyes and nose with the sleeve of your shirt.

“Oh,” Chiara coos, immediately running a hand through your hair before holding your cheeks.

Davide grimaces behind her as his eyes sweep over you and your desk. “Nuh uh, we are not letting this continue.”

You clutch the fabric tightly when he tries to pry it from you. “I have orders to finish.”

Chiara scoffs. “They can wait.”

But they can't. You busied yourself strategically, so you wouldn't have time to do things like cry.

“You always manage somehow. You can take an hour break.”

It's a struggle, but you end up on your couch cocooned by a blanket and flanked by your friends. You grip the tea they made for you spitefully, the heat of the mug burning your palms. You bite your tongue, too annoyed to respond to their gentle questions, but they're Chia and Davide—eventually you cave.

You speak quietly and nonsensically, unsure how to explain everything that happened in the past couple weeks. Maybe they'll think you're crazy and chalk it up to delusions.

But they're Chia and Davide, so they don't.

“Dammit,” the latter answers. “This guy is stealing you away!”

“Davide,” the other scolds. “Be fair. From what Tucano says, he is not just a guy.”

“Neither of you are helpful,” you grumble.

“We're processing,” Chiara quips.

Davide nods. “Poorly.”

They sigh in unison, but with different tones. Davide's is whiny and tired. Chiara’s is thoughtful.

“Why didn't you say anything?” Davide eventually asks. “It's been days since they left.”

You groan, turning your head to bury into the blanket over your shoulders. Chiara watches you pitifully.

“She's been dead for months,” you eventually spit. You have to separate the words from their meanings to keep a sob at bay. Your eyes water. “I figured it was some weird delayed grief that would go away after a few days.”

Davide looks at you pitifully too now, though on his face it's more akin to disgust. “Babe…”

You avert your eyes.

“You know that's not how this works.”

All you manage is a grunt. You don't care if you're being stupid. You know you are, deep down, but it's easier to play into the ignorance.

Chiara sighs again and leans back against the couch, and then onto you. Her shoulder bumps yours, head tilting to rest in the crook of your padded neck. She speaks softly, “Haven't seen you cry since she first died.”

They're simple words, nothing incredibly deep or metaphorical, but they make your chest hurt. You purse your lips as fresh saltwater pools in your lashes, cascading down your cheeks. Your sob is a broken sound, jolting your body so harshly that Davide takes the mug from your hands at the near spill. Chiara scoots closer to you, body turning to face yours as her arm comes around your waist.

Davide keeps his distance, never the most physically affectionate, but he slides a hand up and down your arm, a soothing assurance that he's here too.

“I miss her,” you choke suddenly. The words spill out. “I think about her every day.”

Chiara hums affirmingly. “We know.”

“I—” you hiccup. “I loved her more than anyone else.”

And it's true. Abuela was your everything, the one you looked up to the most, the one you always wanted to be. You loved her more than you loved anyone. You loved her more than you loved yourself. You loved her… more than anyone else loved her.

The thought sits bitterly in your stomach, like a weight that keeps sinking and sinking and sinking. 

“What's that face for?” Davide interjects. 

You blink, neutralizing your expression when you realize you were scowling. You groan again. It's an ugly thought, no matter how true it is to you. Ugly thoughts are meant to be kept inside, not spread where they could hurt others or… be disproven.

He pats your leg quickly, a sign he won't let you escape answering. You wince at the thought of vocalizing that part of you: raw and possessive and self entitled. The part of you that justifies never going home, to keep abuela's remains to yourself. Here, in Italy—where she died in your care.

“Nobody else cared about her like I did,” you nearly whisper.

“Oh.” 

“Tucano…” Chiara trails off hesitantly. “You don’t know that.”

But you do. You’ve known it for years, eyes always taking in the room and the dynamics between your family members. You think of mamá when she raised her voice, speaking in an uncharacteristic irritation at abuela’s deteriorating mental state. Your sister was the avoidant type, feigning ignorance when she noticed something wrong or conveniently busy when help was needed. Tíos and primeros would chip in, but also hurried to pass abuela to the next person.

They cared when she was in Italy, when she was finally gone and they didn’t have to be the ones looking after her. 

They didn’t deserve her, you concluded.

You don’t answer, and your friends don’t press. Chiara stays leaning against your side while Davide rubs your arm. You know the skepticism sitting in their throats. You know Davide wants to ask why you’re only looking through a small lens, through your limited perspective. You know that Chiara wants to ask why they don’t even deserve to see her. You know that you want to ask yourself why you have the right to keep abuela from going home.

Nobody says a word. Instead you all sit there quietly, together.

“You’re going on holiday,” Chiara demands when you try to return to the studio an hour later.

“What? I was just on holiday for a week.”

Davide’s eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. “You were literally working for the circus and you were in the studio while they were here.”

You try another angle. “I have deadlines! I can’t take time off—it’s unfair to my clients.”

“You always give them longer estimates than it actually takes. Just say you had a death in the family.”

“That happened months ago!”

“Then say you had some suppressed trauma come up in your grief counseling and you need to work through it!”

You stare blankly at Davide. He widens his eyes and flips his palms as if he’s waiting for you to accept the obvious answers he’s offering.

“I can’t do that Davide, they already paid.”

“Then it’s PTO?”

You rub your eyes in annoyance. You’re tempted to claw them out entirely.

Chiara pats your back. “We’ll figure something out. But you need a break, and you can’t deny that.”

Your stomach aches like you might be sick. Maybe you do need a break, for your mind and your heart and to finally get to the grief you’ve been ignoring for months. But you can feel your lips tightening at the thought, your stomach twisting in fear. The sewing helps take you from the real world, to give you something else to focus on.

You’re worried that if you take a break, you won’t be able to start again.

The next weekend you’re hugging Davide and Chiara at the train station. Their arms awkwardly come around the giant backpack latched around your hips.

��Let us know when you get to your hostel,” Chiara demands.

“And when you’re back in range,” Davide adds.

You nod.

The pink line takes you an hour closer to your destination, whizzing north along the industrial and suburban outskirts of the city. Fields and farmlands start to populate along your route, parallel roads of green. Eventually you’re humming along the beginnings of mountains, the forests close enough that you can make out the edges of individual trees. They’re brown trunks and naked branches, fans of grey poking from the earth. But between them are clusters of green—evergreen bunches. The further you go, the taller the peaks rise, dusted with white.

You exit the train in a city situated by a lake, a large pool of blue that lays calm—still. You only see flashes of the water before you’re parked in the station, scanning your ticket and walking out onto black tile streets. The buildings are smaller here than Milan, with more space between their exteriors. A looming mountain pokes through the alleyways, a slab of white limestone erupting from the ground, topped with sparse green and heavy snow. Your heart races at the sight while you speed walk towards the bus stop. 

Soon.

It takes the bus an hour to drop you off at your destination, despite covering less than a fourth of the train's mileage. You don’t mind. Instead you sit comfortably with your bag on your lap, staring out the window as the clunky vehicle winds through the mountains. You grin the entire time, already imagining the hot cocoa you’ll make yourself tonight, huddled by the window of your hostel with a scarf around your neck.

It’s exactly what you do, peering up the edge of the mountain the building resides on. You send a message to your friends to let them know you’re fine, a selfie with your drink. Just as your thumb hits send, your phone flashes with a call.

It’s from your sister.

For the first time since abuela died, you hesitate, before eventually turning off your ringer and setting it down to go to voicemail.

You spend one night in the hostel and five in the mountains. You hike up and down summits during the day and tend to fires in the warmth of small cabins at night. The peaks are jagged rocks, granite teeth wedged in the gums of the earth, at first overlooking the northern cities and lakes before you lose the buildings behind shrouds of rocks and trees and snow. 

You don’t speak to anyone for three days—in the thick of your hiking. Your only companions are the swifts that fly ahead and the occasional owl in the trees. You curse when one takes flight, spreading glorious spotted wings. You wish you knew more of the birds here. The only other animal you catch is an ibex standing precariously on a cliffside—suspended only by mere chips in the wall. It looks unfazed by the height and the minimal footing, instead at peace, giant horns proud atop its head and sure steps carrying it upwards. You wish you could call out and ask for advice: to ask how you can do the same.

In contrast, you spend your day treading through white crystals up to your knees. It’s exhausting, your body moving slowly and through the entire day to reach your next bed. But it’s good for you; it’s what you need.

Crying comes as natural as walking, tears clumping as ice in your lashes. You huddle your body further under layers of wool and down, face burying into the cloth of your scarf. Every few kilometers you pause, catching your breath and blinking through the sun to see where you stand: high above the rest of the world. The brown of wintery grass rolls beneath you with those spiky leafless trees and clumps of evergreen. The balds are tinted yellow with harsh edges of silver from scattered boulders. You breathe in crisp, cold air—the kind that burns your lungs.

When you turn to continue walking ahead, the snow around you glistens. Sunlight strikes the frozen dust, light refracting in a pile of white sparkles. Millions of sparkles, like every star in the sky was plucked and tossed atop this mountain range—for you to shuffle your boots through and sob while you wander through thoughts and memories of abuela. You’re walking north, in the direction of Switzerland. But by now it’s been over two weeks since Hoshi no Sākasu left. They must be in Austria now. East.

The nights are cold, infinitely colder than the city. The air bites at any exposed skin, rubbing it raw to bloom splotches of red. Even so, you leave the warmth of cabin fires for extended periods of time to stare above you, into that other world in the sky. Stars twinkle in response, shining and winking and falling. They’re abundant, like every grain of sand and every snowflake on earth was scattered into the night. 

Your eyes trace the constellations you know: simple ones like Ursa Major and Orion. When you run out, your mind starts to connect the stars on its own, searching for patterns from your life. You see Santi and you see Marco. You see your sister and your mother. You see abuela.

You see Hanta.

In this moment, in all the moments from these days in the mountains, you realize again that you are a speck. You are nothingness and everything, something painfully unknown while entirely familiar. The mountains and lakes and vastness of blue atmosphere remind you that everything you don’t know is waiting for you, patiently, sitting outside of your blood and flesh for you to start heading towards it. The tiny snowflakes and speckled sky and clumps of morning ashes remind you that everything you ever need to know has been within you all along.

By the time you’re back in a hostel, showering and running laundry and packing your bag to take a bus and then the train home, there’s a resolve in your chest. You don’t know what it is quite yet or what it’s pointed towards, but you are determined to do something.

Your phone charges overnight, but you don’t turn it on until you board the bus. Rows of notifications populate your screen when it flickers to life. You clear them all and open your messages.

The most recent one is from Hanta.

You haven’t spoken since he left, not sure what to say or if you want your relationship to unfurl over text. He must feel the same uncertainty, if it’s taken this long to reach out. His message is straightforward—a quick pleasantry followed by a check in, since apparently Momo tried to reach you just after you started your hike. You can sense his apprehension through the little grey bubbles.

You respond with a photo from your third day on the mountain, the endless layers of ridges settled beneath the sky, bluer and bluer as they get further away. There’s a moment of hesitation before you send another, this one a silly selfie you took the day before—sporting icy eyelashes and red cheeks. You quickly add a third message, a brief explanation that you were on holiday without service.

After replying to the other crucial messages you turn your phone off and stare out the window, watching as forests become farmland and farmlands become cities.

Settling back into your work routine comes naturally. Your hands glide through thread and fabric, not without hiccups, but with confidence and security. There’s an ease to your movements, an embodiment of patience and distance from your craft. Navigating the shift of deadlines and compromising with your clients was awkward, but it happened.

Hanta responds to you, a little message that says your trip looks fun—and cold. You give him a short reply, a simple It was. The phone is heavy in your hand as you stare at the screen. Eventually you cave and ask him how Switzerland was, and what he thinks about Austria.

Something opens between you two after the initial hurdle is cleared. You don’t message every day, but you talk often. Hanta sends photos of him at different restaurants and landmarks—mostly with Shouto—and you respond with pictures of your sewing projects. Seeing his face brings an urgency to your chest, one that makes you want to run to the station and board the first train North.

You send a picture of your most recent gown, sheer black fabric that twinkles, sewn with pearls and metal discs. This time you take the photo in your mirror, awkwardly giving the headless mannequin bunny ears with your free hand. You stare at the picture with a furrowed brow, retaking it a couple times before you get one that you look less stupid in. After sending it you grimace. 

Your phone pings nearly immediately, several times with messages from Hanta. He says ‘SO PRETTY’ followed by a string of heart emojis. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the idiotic grin you know you’re wearing.

The phone blares your ringtone, nearly making you drop it from surprise. Your heart races, thinking it’s Hanta, so you almost answer it before you check the contact. You freeze when it’s your sister’s name on the screen.

You don’t turn off your ringer and ignore it this time. Instead you stare at it, thumb hovering over the answer button until it eventually goes to voicemail.

You call her three days later.

It doesn’t go through, since you do it in the morning. Back home it must be the middle of the night. That choice may have been purposeful—easier, if you know she won’t pick up.

In the afternoon you get an assault of messages from her: all caps, swearing, littered with typos. She calls you again and again, but you don’t pick up.

You pick up for Hanta.

He calls when you’re settling into bed for the evening. You answer while yawning, drawing out the words of your greeting. 

“Sorry,” his voice murmurs through your speaker. “Is this not a good time?”

He sounds tired, the softness of his tone filling you with warmth. You could fall asleep like this, easily.

“It’s perfect,” you reply. A twinge of guilt runs through your stomach. You don’t pick up for your sister like this.

You talk until you fall asleep, mostly hushed conversation about what you two have been up to in the past weeks. He tells you stories about Switzerland and Austria and preparation for Germany. You talk about your current projects and your time in the mountains.

The turmoil you’ve faced regarding abuela and your sister remains unspoken.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but in the morning you find that the call has ended, a morning greeting from Hanta in its place.

You call your sister again. This time it’s at a reasonable hour, but still during her workday. After three rings you think she won’t answer. But she picks up.

“Dio, quiero estrangularte,” she immediately bites through the speaker. The sound of her voice makes your breath catch, her threat completely going over your head.

“Te extraño,” you answer. I miss you.

She yells at you through the phone while you sit and listen. Or, partially listen, mostly basking in the fact that she’s speaking to you at all. The words don’t fully process, but you assume they’re threats and complaints and demands that you come back with abuela and an explanation. The berating lasts several minutes, you biting the inside of your cheeks to keep from smiling the entire time. Her voice cracks towards the end, choked noises separating her words. She’s nearly panting when she finally finishes.

“Lo siento,” you manage to whisper.

“Just—” her breath hitches. “Just shut up.”

You nod, waiting for her to continue.

She doesn’t. It’s silent for minutes. You can imagine her face, her lips parting as if to speak before they close in apprehension, the mix of a pout and glare she wears when she doesn’t know what to say. Normally you would ask her questions to get her started, intuiting what she wants to talk about. You don’t know if that’s something you can still do anymore.

You know she wants answers from you: to ask why you did what you did, how you could stomach making such a decision. But you also know that she knows why you did it. She knows you, knows how you feel towards abuela and towards the rest of your family. She knows how you are, running away when things get hard—running away, but always caving and coming back. There’s no point in asking; you both know this.

“Tía abuela is so mad at you.”

Tía abuela—abuela’s sister and your great aunt. You nod, lips pursed. “I can imagine.”

The huff of your sister’s amusement crackles through the speaker and you feel a confidence that everything will be okay.

You call frequently, every few days at the minimum. It’s awkward for the first few minutes of every call, until someone breaks the ice and eventually you’re laughing and gossiping like you used to. One of your tías is getting a divorce, your primero is newly engaged but his mamá doesn’t like the girl, and a family friend just lost an absurd amount of money in recent investments. You listen intently, eagerly taking in everything you’ve missed these past months.

“You kidnapping abuela is the hottest drama though,” your sister states blankly. “Mamá can’t escape it. People still bring it up every chance they get.”

Your stomach twists with guilt. Mamá’s always been soft to you, a stark contrast to abuela’s quips. “How is she faring?”

“Fine.” You can visualize the roll of her eyes on the other end. “She was sweet on you, but you know she’s ruthless to the others. Tía abuela is giving her a lot of shit, but she’s still the new head of the family.”

There’s a pause. You know what she’s going to say.

“I told her we’ve been calling. You should talk to her.”

You exhale. You should, to at least apologize for stealing her mother and her child all at once.

“Maybe,” you hum, and that’s the end of it.

“I’m moving to Japan,” you blurt the next time you call. It takes you by surprise, not the words you meant to say. You almost drop your phone. Why did you say that? You never came to a decision about whether or not to work for Hoshi no Sākasu.

“What!?” your sister screeches on the other end.

“What?”

She whines, “Ay, Dios mío.” You nod. After a few minutes of silence she asks why.

“I got a job offer,” you explain quietly.

“For…?”

“… A circus.”

You hold your breath during the silence that follows. She laughs. The sound brings a wave of relief through you. You aren’t sure why you were anxious to tell her—why you assumed she wouldn’t understand what it means to you.

She understands; she always does. “How’d you land that?”

You smile. “A miracle.” 

The miracles being Hanta and Midoriya. Kendou and Momo. Abuela.

“You taking her with you?”

It’s a jab and you know it—feel it. It’s your sister pleading, Come home. 

Later when you hang up, you sit quietly with yourself, phone tucked in your palms. The little rectangle is heavy with the weight of your conversations. It should be heavier, also holding your messages with Hanta and Chiara and Davide, stored with photos of abuela and mamá.

It takes several calls with Kendou before you give her the official acceptance of the position. Despite your confident claims to your sister, a piece of you was anxious the opportunity was no longer available, even with Kendou’s assurance that they could wait. When you finally breathe the words out over the phone, they don’t feel real. You ask her to keep it a secret for a little while, at least until the news settles in your own heart. Right now it’s a riptide, a violent storm within you as you sift through the emails of contracts and information.

You let her tell Momo, so long as she keeps it to herself, and you’re greeted by a warm message welcoming you to the team. Your eyes water while you respond. Your time with Momo isn’t up—there’s no longer a maybe lingering around the thoughts of being able to work together again.

It takes two weeks to tell Hanta.

He’s brushing his teeth while you mumble about your day, his phone propped up against the sink. The circus just landed in France, this being his first night in Paris. You’re on the couch, swaddled in blankets while your eyes linger around the interior on his end—marble walls, white towels, a random photo in a black frame.

“Are you rooming alone?” you ask when you finish your debrief.

He shakes his head, leaning to rinse his mouth before he wipes the residue on the back of his hand. He reaches for you and your heart races, thinking he’ll touch your face—only to jostle the screen while he leads you out of the bathroom. It’s a funny angle, the underside of his chin. It reminds you of looking up towards his face while laying on his chest.

“Nah I’m with ‘Roki. That’s how it usually is,” he answers. The next second the camera falls as if he dropped it, shaking violently with smears of creamy white and black splotches before he bounces into frame, beaming as he lays on his stomach on one of the hotel beds. His grin blooms an ache in your chest. You wish you were there with him.

You hum, saying, “That’s too bad,” before you can stop yourself.

“Huh?”

You pause, realizing where your mind was going. Heat creeps up your cheeks while Hanta stares at you through the camera. “Just—” you stop yourself, not wanting to tell him this way.

But he’s looking at you so curiously.

“I… I was hoping we could room together.”

It’s silent.

Hanta blinks at you, face and body frozen otherwise. You try to read what he’s thinking, if he’s putting it together, but he looks scarily neutral.

Then his head shifts abruptly to look at you dead on. His hand comes to his mouth, fingertips lightly pressing his lips. His expression doesn’t change except the slight widening of his eyes. He speaks quietly. “Are you… Does that mean what I think it does?”

You nod, face carefully neutral to assess his reaction.

He yelps. The camera shakes before falling and going black, but you can hear him scrambling and the bumping of the phone as he tries to pick it back up. You can’t help your smile—the fondness stretching across your face when he finally comes back into view looking like a puppy.

“Is this real?” he asks meekly. It’s almost a whisper. You wish you could hold his face and kiss him.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “It’s real.”

It’s a precious gift to watch Hanta take in the information, face shifting between emotions rapidly before finally landing on something like a pout. He’s tearing up, eyes like giant marbles as they shine with joy.

“You… you chose—” he pauses. Me, you think he wants to say. “You chose us? The circus?”

Your own eyes are glassy, you can see them glistening in the tiny square in the top corner of the screen. Your lips twitch as you nod. Yes, you’re about to say—that you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. That you chose everyone. But you pause. You’ve been scared to make decisions and declarations, scared to admit to yourself why you make the choices you do, why you pretend they aren’t choices so much as obligations you just fell into. That you had to.

You feel that way with Hanta right now. But choosing to follow what feels like a duty or obligation is still a choice. You smile.“I chose you, Hanta.”

For the next two months, you work and you pack and you say goodbye, your own life rapidly shifting as the weather warms. You decide your time in Italy will come to an end at the start of June, after all your orders are finished. You’ll spend the break period in Costa Rica, tending to the wounds long left behind. Momo offers to hire a moving service that can move your things to her house (or estate, she calls it), to give you peace of mind until it’s time to settle in Japan.

Your stomach twists in knots every time you think about it—about going home.

The moving process starts early with you purging yourself of furniture and decor and clothes you don’t want anymore. Every time you say goodbye to something, your heart feels a little lighter. You sell those costumes you know you’ll never wear again and you argue hotly with the landlady to wiggle out of the lease you signed for the next year. She caves with a scowl when you pull the dead nonna card.

Chiara and Davide assist you, preventing you from taking the decluttering too far.

(“Babe, you still have another month,” Davide protests when you take pictures of your dining table to post online for sale. “Are you planning to eat off the floor?”)

(“Tucano—” Chiara groans when she steps into your studio, feet disappearing under bundles of fabric. “How do you work in this mess?”)

You spend as much time as you can with them, soaking in the final days with your throuple—as Davide puts it. The three of you have weekly gatherings at your place, filled with pastries and fruit and wine. Some days your conversations are a time of laughter. Others, tears.

“I can’t believe I was right after all,” Davide sighs, nursing his third glass of a purplish cabernet.

You make a face. “When you said I would fall in love with one of the performers but then break up and have awkward tension?”

Chiara gasps loudly, nearly a cackle. “What?”

Davide scoffs. “When I said you would leave me for a man.”

You roll your eyes, but Chiara comes to your defense first. “They’re leaving us, first of all. And Italy, and opera dresses. Second, they’re leaving for the circus.”

Teeth scrape against the inside of your cheek as you consider her words. You recall what you told Hanta over the phone, when he asked if you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. Maybe the wine is loosening your tongue, but you find it easier to admit tonight.

“I’m leaving for the circus, but Hanta was a big part of that.”

Davide screeches an, “I knew it!” while Chiara’s face morphs into a frown.

“Hanta,” she repeats back in a mimicking voice. You slap her arm. Her head comes to rest on your shoulder. “You can’t forget about us, okay?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“We should visit! I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.”

Chiara nods quickly, hair brushing your neck. “We should go in the spring. I wanna see the sakura bloom.”

They escalate into making plans to visit, now entirely independent of whether or not you’re in Japan in the spring. You smile to yourself. Chiara was your first friend, who later introduced you to Davide as a client. A couple years passed and now they’re the people in Milan you hold closest. They were friends without you, but became more intertwined when you arrived. You hope they’ll be good friends even after you leave. 

Watching and listening to them now tells you that you have nothing to worry about.

They help you load boxes in the van at the end of June. Your last order is finished and the lease comes to its end. The remainder of your things go into a large suitcase and backpack for you to live out of at Chiara’s. You stay with her for one week, idling in your favorite places around Milan in her clothes. It’s a stretched out goodbye, one that has been happening in fragments since you first declared your departure. These days don’t feel real. You can’t fathom that you’ll soon be across the world, walking through familiar streets—ones that have certainly changed in your absence.

You and Hanta talk less as your move gets closer, primarily because the circus has landed in the Americas, the time change an increasing obstacle. Knowing that you’re following their footsteps, soon to be on the same land again, feels special. It feels like a confirmation that you’re making the right choice. 

You start listening to basic Japanese lessons and download an app to memorize hiragana. Your finger hesitantly draws the characters, lip jutting in a pout when you get one wrong. When you and Hanta do find pockets of time to talk, he gently corrects your pronunciation of basic phrases.

Chiara has to work the day that you leave, so you have a tearful goodbye at her front door before Davide drives you to the airport later in the afternoon. You wonder if this is the last time you’ll sit in his car, legs against dark leather. The thought triggers other sentimental musings, questions of the next time you’ll sleep over at Chiara’s, or the next time you’ll have a real Italian pasta.

Davide holds you at the terminal, one of the few hugs he’s ever offered. He cries easily—still reading you down, just with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose. You’re forced to promise that you won’t forget him. When you finally leave him to roll your bag to the check in line and then to security, you turn back once and catch him scowling. 

You land in Spain before boarding the eleven hour flight to San José. Floating above the ocean—separated from your friends and soaring to your family—strikes something deep in your heart. It’s a mix of aches and pains and fears swirling together, making your body feel so heavy you think you might start plummeting into the Atlantic. Your feet shuffle to cradle your bag between them, tucked under the seat in front of you. You itch to pull it out and open it, to check that abuela is still resting in her wooden box.

San José is just as you remember. Stepping outside hits you full force with an assault of hot, humid air. Your skin begins to glisten, clothes already clinging to you in the few minutes it takes to walk to the buses. The next one comes in half an hour, so you park yourself on a bench and lean against the backrest. Palm trees tower over you, their grassy leaves fanning between the ground and the sky. A cluster of sparrows floats under their canopies, entering your vision only to leave moments later.

By the time you pull your bag along the sidewalk of your childhood street, the sun has sunk beneath the horizon. You slow your steps as you reach the driveway of your home. The house isn’t in view quiet yet, shrouded behind the trees that gate you from the neighbor. You pause at the corner of the fence, fighting the knots in your stomach and the thrumming in your hands. It should just be your sister and mamá inside. You can handle them.

Despite your incessant self-assurances, several minutes pass before you step down the sidewalk. They’re slow and hesitant. Your head tilts upwards, taking in the canopies of cecropia above. The street lamp illuminates the leaves from below, displaying faded green against the black of the sky. Their shapes are round but segmented, the webbed fingers of a frog. You catch scarring on the thin branches, knots and welts in the wood that take the shape of spiraled eyes, watching you. You can hear the rustling of palm trees, the scrape of leafy hairs as they blow above you—

In front of you.

You bring your chin down, looking ahead to the lemon tree in the yard. You nearly yelp in surprise at the sight of your sister. She blinks while you flinch, hand holding one of the branches so she can clip the fruit with her other.

No greeting passes between you. You demand, “Since when do you take care of the garden?” She’s the type to complain about dirtying her shoes while walking to the car. The dresses feel like a weight in your suitcase. Would she even like them?

She scowls at the accusation in your voice. “Ever since you kidnapped the person who used to.”

You don’t have an answer, still too stunned. Her eyes similarly trace over your form, mouth twisting when she takes in your clothes.

“And you still dress like that?”

You can’t hold back your laugh. You missed her.

You missed home.

Seeing mamá is harder. She’s quiet and soft, always a subdued presence, but now with a new touch of somberness. She looks sad—and easily shattered.

You meet her at the door unexpectedly. She’s waiting when you enter, immediately standing from the sofa to reach for you. Her touch is firm over your arm, hands turning white from the intensity of her grip, like she thinks you might disappear at any moment. Tears spring without warning. You try to blink them away, to keep your face from twisting in a sob, but you cry easily.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say. You don’t add more, not sure how to eloquently apologize for stealing her own mother, for leaving, for making life at home and with the family excruciating.

Her dark eyes shine back at you, slightly curved from the twitch of her smile. She looks happy, though a quiet sort of happiness. Not one for words, her reassurance comes from how she reaches for you, pulling you into a hug. Your wet eyes land against her shoulder, steeping into the fabric of her shirt. One of her hands comes to your head, smoothing over your hair as she hums—a content sound, one she makes when things are finally coming together.

You take the box of ashes out shortly and offer them to mamá. Her face tightens when the realization strikes her, and you feel more guilt and regret swirling in your stomach. Should you have waited?

Delicate hands take the box, thumb tracing a band of dark brown towards the bottom of the lid. Her eyes soften before she stretches it back to you.

“Keep her with you,” she nearly whispers. “Until we have the ceremony.”

You swallow. Do you deserve that? To keep holding onto her after all this time? After all that you’ve deprived your family of? Mamá’s eyes don’t waver, holding a command you have never been able to disobey. You take the box.

Your mother fusses over you, helping you carry your bags to your room. She starts fluffing your pillows before offering to bring you some water, and you have to grab her by the arm to get her to stop and listen while you tell her I’m fine and Thank you. She leaves with an anxious expression, you think out of fear that you’ll vanish in the middle of the night. A quiet, “Buenas noches,” filters through just before the door shuts.

You flop onto the bed with a sigh. One of your newly fluffed pillows bounces off and lands on the ground. You sigh again.

Despite the exhaustion deep in your body, you can’t fall asleep. You lay in your childhood bed and stare at the ceiling, your vision no different than if you closed your eyes instead. Even though you’re blind to your surroundings, you can feel the relics of an earlier person littered on bookshelves and tucked into drawers—someone who had their grandmother.

You’re certain that hours pass, but you can’t bring yourself to check the time. An idea comes to mind and you act before thinking it through. You turn so you’re sitting upright on the bed, hand gently waving towards your bedside table until it lands on the wooden box you placed earlier. Once it’s safe in your hold, you rise and leave the room.

You know this journey through the hall to abuela’s room. As a toddler you walked this route nearly every night. You were frequented by nightmares, ones that disappeared as soon as you took refuge with your grandmother.

The floorboards creak under your weight, reminding you to keep to the left to minimize the noise. You take your time, hugging abuela to your chest while your other arm extends to feel for the doorknob. It makes contact immediately. You twist slowly so the latch opens quietly, then push through with your shoulder quickly so the squeak of the hinges aren’t drawn out.

Your feet shuffle forwards, soon pressing your shins against the mattress. There’s the faintest smell of lemons—a scent that tightens your chest. You crawl forwards, bringing the box to rest between the two pillows at the headboard. A wave of exhaustion rolls through you immediately. You don’t bother settling under the covers; as soon as your head touches the pillow, you’re asleep.

Closing your eyes transports you to another world, an older world that you are young within. You’re speaking a language you don’t recognize, but one you understand every word of, conversing back and forth with a boy you’ve never met. He has kind eyes and a soft voice that you want to always say yes to. He has rough hands, but they cradle yours gently. In the next moment you are both older, adults, and he is watching you sadly. You don’t have words to explain his expression, what it invokes in you, but you can tell that he is leaving—not by his own choice.

You are alone and angry and in constant fear, conjuring images in your head of what has happened to him. If you’ll ever see him again. You don’t know this man, but he is everything to you. He has left everything to you, too: a daughter. You look at her face until it becomes your own, staring at a man who is your father by name but not by blood.

The story repeats, this time with a man who gives you meaningful glances. His eyes aren’t as kind but they are entirely on you. He says he’ll give you everything. He takes it back when you learn you’re pregnant, with twins. He leaves without a word.

You’re woken by an assault of light flashing your vision. You squeeze your eyelids shut, trying to block out the blooms of painful red and white static. Turning your head offers some relief, angling yourself from the sun and instead pushing your face into a pillow.

“Get up,” a voice barks. Your sister, you realize, pulling back the curtains.

You groan, drawing it out as if asking a question.

“I’m not letting you sleep past noon,” she continues. “Come help me with the garden.”

You roll over to face her, eyes sticky while you work to hold them open. Your head has the heaviness of a stone. The warmth of the bed lulls your body back under, to whatever lives you were living in your subconscious.

“Kay,” you eventually mumble.

She looks at you skeptically before nodding and leaving, with a promise to return in a few minutes if you don’t appear downstairs.

In the fresh silence of the morning, you turn to lay on your back. Your head brushes something hard. You frown, tilting it back and forth. It scrapes against something with sharp edges. When you turn, you see abuela, her box of ashes still tucked between the pillows. You blink in surprise before going still. The dreams from last night run through your mind. You’ve never had one like that before. You stare at the box, attempting to recall the faces that passed by.

The garden work doesn’t last longer than a couple hours. You pull weeds and harvest the ripened crops—mostly peppers and bananas. The midday sun burns hot and bright and you immediately begin to sweat through the sleeves of your shirt. Your sister doesn’t let you complain, quipping back that it’s your fault for sleeping in.

When you bring the harvest inside, your mother graciously receives it in the kitchen. For the first time today you get a proper look at her face: it’s the older, wrinkled, and saddened features of that first baby in your dream. She looks like a young version of abuela. You halt while several fragmented thoughts abruptly click into place. 

Your dream, your abuela and mamá, your sister…

You.

Tears well in your eyes without warning, immediately sliding down your cheeks. Mamá doesn’t question it. She embraces you, rubbing your back carefully.

When you calm she switches topics, not probing what brought on your outburst. Instead she sifts through the vegetables carefully, picking ones to set on the counter for lunch.

“Hopefully we get a lot tomorrow, or else I’ll have to run to the store.”

You hum in question.

She stops rummaging, eyes lifting to you carefully. “Did your sister not tell you?”

You blink. “Tell me what?”

“We're having a big dinner tomorrow.”

You inhale sharply, heart racing. Big dinner is a synonym for family dinner. Tíos and primeros and amigos de la familia. Tía abuela. It was going to happen eventually, an event you can’t avoid. You knew this, you know this. But you didn’t expect it’d be this soon.

You aren’t ready, aren’t sure you’ll ever be ready. You could throw up.

“Who—” your voice cracks as you manage through the words. “Who’s coming?”

Mamá doesn’t answer.

“So everyone,” you respond to her silence. She doesn’t offer any confirmation or denial. You leave the room.

When you enter your bedroom you curl up beside the bed, shielding you from the door. Shaky hands reach for your phone, calling Hanta by instinct. You don’t know what he’s doing today, if he’ll pick up.

It only takes two rings before you hear him greeting you with a dramatic, “Konnichiwa!” before switching to Spanish. “How’s life back home?”

“Hanta,” you say flatly, urgently. He hums, the sound much lower and with a twinge of surprise. “My family’s coming over tomorrow and I only learned five minutes ago.”

There’s a drawn out sigh on the other end while he conjures a response. “How’s that feeling?”

You nearly laugh. “Like I’m going to throw up and then run away.”

He giggles on the other end. The sound makes your heart pang, but your stomach lightens with a sort of relief. “No way,” he insists. “You’ve come too far to run. And there’s no way I’m letting you put this off if it was your main hesitation for joining us.”

You smile, lips pulling tight against your teeth. “I can make my own choices,” you retort.

“Too bad, I know you already signed the contract.”

You sigh, nodding your head solemnly. You did.

He doesn’t say anything more, letting you take your time.

“I’m just…” you start, trying to find the words. You aren’t ready. You’re still processing being back home, in your old bedroom, with mamá and your sister. You’re— 

“Scared,” Hanta fills in for you. 

You fight the urge to scowl. You fail.

“Yeah,” you huff.

He giggles again, and you know it’s from the tone of your voice. “I’m afraid for you,” he admits. “But you have to do it, yeah? And you’ve already done the hard part of coming home, seeing your mom and sister. And you’re still alive and well after that, right?”

You nod at his words and hum in agreement.

“Was everything okay with them?” he asks. 

You explain what happened when you came home: finding your sister by the lemons and your mom waiting by the door, how neither of them properly yelled or expressed being upset with you.

“Woah… That’s incredible,” he says. “Maybe the rest of your family will move on once they see you too.”

“There’s no way. That was mamá and hermana. Tía abuela is an entirely different character, and I’ve already heard that she’s pissed.”

He huffs. “Sounds like my abuelo. Those people love the strongest though.”

Your call continues, you two catching up on the past few days. He speaks excitedly, but his voice lulls you to a calmer state. By the time you hang up, a piece of you thinks everything will be okay. The two of you exchange goodbyes, and then you’re left in the quiet solitude of your room. It only lasts for a minute, before the door slams open.

It’s your sister, standing with a giant grin across her face as she excitedly demands, “Who was that?”

Tía abuela slaps you the moment she enters the room. 

Your cheek stings from the contact, a sharp pain that tingles across your skin. It dulls quickly, but you wonder if there will be a bruise. The coppery taste of blood blooms against the side of your tongue. You must have cut the inside of your mouth against your teeth.

These thoughts distract you from the accompanying verbal assault: a string of insults and accusations that you’ve heard before, from yourself. You take it quietly and with a stoic expression. Your eyes trail to the floor, not wanting to meet hers as she berates you in front of your relatives. Nobody speaks when she finishes. The only remaining sound is her ragged breath.

A long pause follows. You don’t raise your eyes, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s gaze.

The silence is eventually broken by your nephew. He cries, yanking his hand from his mother in attempt to run out the door. The room unpauses, relatives rushing after him while loud commotion fills the space. A gentle touch on your cheek brings your attention to your mother. There’s a shine in her eyes, a quirk to her lips. Maybe she finds this funny. You think you would too.

Nobody speaks to you, not willing to take on any part of tía abuela’s wrath. You don’t mind, standing awkwardly to yourself in the corner, and shunning yourself in the kitchen when the others take their plates to the dining and living rooms to eat. Nobody invites you over.

Later there’s another commotion, in the living room with your nephew again. Tía abuela tries to feed him a spoonful of rice, but he refuses. She insists, and he slaps the fork from her hand. Gasps release throughout the room, your cousins immediately going to scold him, but he screams and runs. You can hear his footsteps approach the kitchen. You freeze, not sure what you should do.

He barrels straight for you, short arms coming around your hips while his face buries into your stomach. You grunt at the impact, but stand frozen and wide-eyed. His parents enter—your older cousin and her husband—with tía abuela trailing behind them. Your hands fly to your nephew’s to pull him from you and hand him over. He’s too young to understand, too young to get in trouble. But he fists your shirt tightly and yells, “No!”

You tug him again. 

“She hurt you!” he wails. The sentence is partially muffled by your shirt, wetting with his tears and snot, but everyone hears it. Your heart drops. All the adults in the doorway freeze.

You cast one careful glance to them before you make up your mind and grip your nephew by his underarms, hoisting him to your hip. His face is red, with teary eyes and black curls clinging to his temples. You watch him glance at you and then the door, laying his chest against yours as if to offer himself as a shield. Your eyes well with tears.

“I hurt her too,” you say quietly, running a hand over his hair. Your voice is firm, and loud enough that you know the others will hear.

He hiccups, head turning to look at you in shock. “You hit tía abuela?”

“No,” you say with a huff of laughter. “But something worse.”

His eyes widen impossibly, full moons against a dark night. Brown irises drift to your cheek. There must be a mark, still flared and angry. A small hand comes to touch it gently, a tingling sting radiating from the contact. You’re certain there will be a bruise tomorrow.

Tía abuela doesn’t speak to you, but others finally do. Your nephew’s outburst broke the invisible boundary, opening a gap for others to greet you. They don’t say much, eyes still cautiously flitting to tía abuela, but it’s a start. Nobody chides you, but nobody looks excited either.

Everyone but the kids. You watch your nephew whisper with his cousins, giggling as they look towards you and then dart their eyes away when you meet them. One of them approaches you during the goodbyes, gently tugging at your shirt to get your attention. He’s another nephew, this one from a family friend.

“Did you really punch tía abuela?” he asks, eyes wide with wonder.

Yours nearly pop out of your head. A stifled laugh sounds from behind you—your sister’s voice.

“Not…” you don’t know how to respond, what the appropriate explanation is for a seven year old. “Not exactly.”

His eyes stay glued to your face. You feel cornered here, wondering if you said the wrong thing. A voice calls his name. He grins wide before running off. You exhale in relief.

You get small waves and head nods from everyone else. Only when tía abuela is out the door does someone finally pull you for a clumsy, messy hug—your tía, the second eldest of abuela’s children after mamá. She holds you tightly, with the quiet promise that you’ll talk more soon. You feel her sincerity in the hand clutching your wrist.

When the door finally closes, your sister releases the longest breath you’ve ever heard. Mamá appears with an ice pack covered in cloth, motioning to hold it against your cheek. It’s long overdue, but you accept it graciously.

“That went better than I expected,” she says quietly. You agree.

“You totally could have dodged it,” your sister adds.

You agree. You could have, if you wanted to.

The bruise fades after a week, in time for the ceremony to scatter abuela’s ashes. Family members have come and gone by the house, warmed to catching up with you. You see tía abuela again, this time without the slapping and screaming. She ignores you, except for a fair amount of side eyes while conversing with mamá. When she says goodbye, her eyes meet yours for a moment right before slamming the door.

The ceremony takes place on the beach. The sight makes you think of Hanta and that beautiful tent—black sand glitters like the dust of diamonds under moonlight. No words are spoken; the only sounds being the lapping waves trying to reach your family on the shore. Tía abuela lights the candles of the vigil while mamá opens the ashes and pours them into the hands of your relatives. Tía abuela’s sharp eyes watch closely, lingering on you when mamá finally makes her way around.

Abuela’s remains are soft and light—grey ash spotted with clumps of black residue. Her body is the feathery weight of dry sand, and yet you feel like you are cupping the entire world and universe. This is not the dust that sweeps through the air after a fire; you are holding the dust of stars and planets and moons. You are holding the weight of your lineage, the connecting point between the bloodline that lives, and the blood that has passed. If you squint, you can make out shapes and images in abuela’s remains. They’re vague. Dreamlike.

One of your younger tíos begins the music with his Quijongo, the stick thumping steadily against the bowstring. You close your eyes at the sound, akin to the whistling of wind through trees. The airy notes of your cousin on the Ocarina join shortly, and then the gentle shake of Maracas. Their performance draws on for a few moments before tía abuela starts to hum. It fills your body with warmth, a feeling so intense you almost shiver in the summer heat. Her notes are clear and bodied, like her entire soul is unraveling into the air—settling above you like the salty humidity. 

She falls into a repeated chorus, the sign for everyone to join. You open your eyes when you begin to hum with her—with everyone. The sound sweeps through the circle around you, tía abuela illuminated in the center by candlelight, orange haze gently fanning to reveal the faces surrounding her in a warm glow. The humming changes when your mother shifts her intonation. Others follow her lead, adding their own twists and slides and delays to the song, pulling a deeper and richer sound through layers of complexity. You try to channel abuela’s energy with your own voice, sharpening the ends of each note and adding a roughness to your tone. 

You close your eyes again, letting a warm buzz sweep over you entirely. A charged energy has bloomed within, taken you completely, as if your body has more spirit than it can contain. Your arms burn.

When abuela has been scattered over the sands of your home, everyone falls silent. Your eyes again drift around the circle, taking in the many praying faces of your family, slowly dimming as the flaming wicks reach their end. You lift your gaze to the sky, soaking in the faint moon and sprinkled stars.

A figure flies above, the shape of a large bird. Your heart skips a beat before it races, catching the familiar outline of a macaw. They’re daytime birds, ones that sleep when the sun does.

You wonder what brought this one here, now.

The following month brings new grief. The grief of old relationships as they change and fizzle, the grief of your previous self, the grief of your pride when you say your apologies over and over—understanding the multitudes of ways you hurt your family. You grieve your anger and your spite, coming to terms with the detriments of your self righteous attitude.

There’s a special grief in the pain of being forgiven, too.

There’s a beauty in this sadness and this ache: the beauty of memory. Abuela begins to appear everywhere, and in all of those people you once thought weren’t deserving of her. It hits you the hardest with mamá, a face you see daily and with each moment growing more and more similarities between her and the deceased.

You’re envious that abuela lives in her features, in the slope of her nose and lips. Some were passed down to you and your sister, in matching smiles but otherwise your relationship isn’t apparent. Even you and your sister look nothing alike, only sharing the eyes of a man you don’t know. A man you saw in a dream now weeks ago, one who promised you everything for one brief moment.

He appears one day.

You’re freshly showered from a morning in the garden, heading toward the stairs to meet mamá in the kitchen, passing the square window on the second floor. She stands in the opening, a frame capturing a moment in time: her in the driveway with someone. He’s tall with tanned skin and curly hair—an aged version of the second man from your dream. You watch him smirk at mamá, a sharp sliver of teeth. You can’t hear her, but she waves her arms and her lips move rapidly. Her chest heaves and you think for the first time in your life you’re watching her yell at someone.

The man takes one step closer. Your mom shoves him at the shoulder. He stares at her openly before finally turning away.

His head tilts towards the window, gaze immediately locking onto you. Despite the distance, the shape of his eyes is clear: they’re sharp, intense. For a brief moment you think you’re looking at your sister. You break the stare, turning your head sharply before moving away from the glass.

You stand still for a minute, back against the wall. Your heart pounds in your chest and ears, crawling uncomfortably up your throat.

“I think I saw my dad,” you say abruptly the following day.

You watch Hanta’s face go still. “Huh?”

“He was in the driveway with mamá. I’ve never met him, or seen pictures. But I have his eyes.”

“He must be hot.” You deadpan at his response and he laughs. “Sorry. Did you get to talk to him? Or ask your mamá about it?”

You shake your head. She didn’t say anything when you came downstairs; she’s never said anything before. You’ve never felt a reason to ask, always happy enough with the family you have. If that dream from last month had any indication of the kind of man he is, you’d rather keep things the way they are.

You don’t see him again.

Your second month at home is busier now that you’ve reintegrated with your relatives. You go from spending most days at mamá’s to getting pulled along excursions to other houses and local spots. You’re put on impromptu babysitting duty for your nieces and nephews, shaken awake early in the morning to hike with your cousin, abruptly shoved into a car during the afternoon for a trip to the beach. You find yourself in markets and on the sand and in the jungle. It’s exhausting, but you love it. You missed it.

You still maintain the garden with your sister and call your friends regularly. They ground you into the soil of your home, even across the ocean. Your joint chat with Chiara and Davide populates with pictures, frequently including ones of them smiling together at your usual places. Swiping through them fills you with warmth, and a distant ache. 

Hanta is equally diligent with his communication. His responses to your own photos always result in grins that pique the interest of your family members. You learn to wait until you’re alone to read his messages.

(He sends a video one evening, of a recent training session. The phone is still, likely propped on a table or chair, while he moves through an unpracticed routine—a freestyle. It could be mistaken for casual stretching. Even so, every motion is smooth, every transition is seamless. At one point he anchors his legs before leaning back in a bundle of fabric. The camera is close enough to pick up the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You save the video with warm cheeks, watching it again several times throughout the day. He’s so captivating.)

One rare morning when you rise before your sister, you tend to the garden alone. The work is minimal: watering some sections and picking ripened tomatoes. Less than an hour later you step inside with a heavy basket of sweet red, heaving it on the counter. The consecutive thump of footsteps sound down the stairs—your sister must have woken.

You turn to greet her and freeze.

In her arms are dresses, the dresses you made her. Dresses you haven’t shown her. Her eyebrows are arched high into her forehead as she asks, “So tell me why these are exactly my size and style?”

Heat flares up your neck. Instead of explaining, you demand, “Why were you in my room?”

“Why is this my size?”

Several moments of silent glaring pass. You still refuse to answer. She laughs.

“You sap! You are so fake.” The grin on her face stretches wide. Her arm bends to press the garments to her chest while her other one points at you. “This is embarrassing for you.”

You nod, absolutely humiliated. Your plan was to hang the dresses in the back of her closet the day you leave for Japan. At the very least you could avoid her reaction over the phone. But now that she’s found them, more than anything, you’re just relieved that her eyes are shining with glee.

She likes them.

Towards the end of August you’re in regular conversation with Kendou and Momo about moving to Japan. Kendou assists your preparation for work while Momo helps with housing. The latter recommends you visit in person before committing to a lease, and insists you stay with her until you get situated. You attempt to refuse, but she doesn’t relent. When you try suggesting you at least pay her something, she laughs. 

“I’ll quit,” you threaten.

She grins, nearly singing, “Too late. Besides, I have your things hostage at my estate.”

You sigh, defeated.

The next day you get a call from Hanta in the evening. His pouting face is the first thing you see when you accept it.

“What?” you ask in amusement.

“Why’d you ask to stay with Momo? Why not me?”

Your jaw nearly drops. Can’t they let you share your own news? And why is he acting like you begged her to host you?

“Hanta, I tried to refuse but she has my stuff already.”

“You should move it to my place.”

You laugh. “You’re crazy.”

He pouts harder, puppy eyes sparkling. “Why not?”

“Hanta—” you sigh. “I thought you wanted to take your time?”

He groans, flopping his head onto a pillow. You grin.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “I just miss you a lot right now.”

The confession strikes your heart, claws an ache through your chest. He’s straightforward with his feelings and his words, sending shivers of giddiness through you.

“I miss you too,” you admit. The busy days with your family have been effective distractions, but that longing always reappears—in the quiet of the nights and mornings, or during these calls when you can hear his voice so clearly. So close. “We have less than two months left.”

He groans again. “That’s so long.”

You agree, and ask him what he plans to do when the tour finishes mid-September. The circus cast has a month break before training in Tokyo resumes.

“Last time I went to Ecuador to see mamá’s family.”

You hum. Maybe you could meet him there and catch the same plane to Japan. Neither of you say anything, but you can tell he’s thinking something similar.

By the time September sweeps in you live everyday with a buzz thrumming beneath your skin. It’s a constant energy, restless anxiety knowing that you’ll be moving soon. You and Hanta have started working out the details of meeting in Ecuador. He tells you that he’ll know his plans in a few days.

You keep yourself busy to ease your agitation, more beaches and mountains and markets. The full days have you exhausted at night, enough to sleep instead of letting your mind race in excitement.

Today you wake early, finishing the garden tasks before the sun arches overhead. You have plans to spend the day in the city with your sister. You already know where you want to eat lunch, and you can guess which bakery she’ll demand you visit afterwards. While you make your way downstairs quickly, she takes her time. The water from her shower stops running just as you reach the living room. You sigh. 

After several minutes of listening to pattering footsteps above you, the chime of the doorbell rings. You frown. It deepens when your sister calls, “Can you get that? I invited someone to join.”

You were looking forward to a day of just the two of you, not prepared to have a third presence. Knowing your sister, the guest is your older cousin—who you love, but is usually overwhelming to be around for longer than an hour.

You open the door with a huff, ready to greet her with the most enthusiasm you can muster—

But Hanta is standing at the doorstep.

Your eyes fly open at the sight. Immediately they trace his face—his dark hair and eyes. He’s disheveled, sporting stubble along his lip and jawline. His hair is longer than it was half a year ago, bunched in a knot at the base of his neck. Long wisps fall at the sides of his face, framing him. He’s in warm weather clothes—an unbuttoned tropical shirt with loose shorts and sandals, and a big backpack.

You swallow. He looks good.

He grins immediately, reaching for your hand as he says your name. You’re too stunned to hear it, focused trying to process the fact that he’s here.

“Hanta…?” you eventually ask. Your eyes burn and your nose stings. Tears surface.

His face softens, smile turning gentle. He tugs your arm, encouraging you to step closer. Your heart thumps quickly and loudly in your ears. You think your chest is going to explode.

“Yeah,” he nearly whispers. “Can I hug you now?”

You nod fervently and let him pull you by the waist. His bag prevents you from wrapping your arms around his torso, so instead you loop them over his shoulders. He buries his face into your neck with a sigh, his breath sending shivers down your spine. Your cheek presses into his hair while you inhale the scent of him: sweet oranges. There’s a thrumming against your chest, but you can’t differentiate your heartbeat from his.

“Missed you,” you mumble quietly.

“Yeah.”

Your mind races with questions. How did your sister manage to contact him? Everyone told you the circus  still had a few more days before the tour officially ended—did they finish early? Did Hanta leave early?

You don’t ask any, instead squeezing your arms to clutch him harder. His grip tightens in response and a rush of euphoria runs through you—to be held like this, by him.

The shutter of a camera breaks your moment of bliss, immediately prompting you to jerk away. Hanta’s grip doesn’t let you go far, keeping your chests pressed together while you lean your head back to turn to the sound. Mamá fumbles with her phone, grumbling that the ringer was supposed to be off. Your sister stands beside her with a giant smirk. You want to cower away in embarrassment. Hanta doesn’t let you escape him, so you resort to burying your head into his shoulder.

He laughs, a symphony of glee. You peek at his face and see no traces of fluster. He looks happy.

His grip loosens enough to let him step aside and introduce himself, but his hand holds yours tightly. The greeting he offers feels dutifully Japanese—bowing as he states his full name, thanking mamá for the care—but the words come out in Spanish. You blink at his formality and its out of place nature in your family, on him.

Mamá ushers the two of you inside, insisting it’s her pleasure and for him to make himself at home. It occurs to you that she also knew he was coming, already expecting to let him stay. You look at your sister with wide eyes, hoping for an answer, but she continues to grin smugly, widening as she deliberately looks at your intertwined hands.

She interjects before mamá and Hanta can get invested in their conversation. “You should go soon.”

You frown. “Huh?”

“I did invite someone over—for me to hang out with.” The look she gives you says all you need to know: it is your older cousin. “Unless you want everyone to know about your boyfriend today, you should leave before she comes.”

You can feel the headache forming at the thought of your extended family finding out. So you nod, hurrying him to your room to drop off his bag.

“Maybe we should go to the beach,” you tell him quickly. “This city is small and I would really like to wait a couple days before anyone finds out you’re here. The beach will be fine, and we can visit the next city over—”

Hanta leans to press his lips against your own, effectively halting your speech and thoughts. The words die in your throat as you immediately kiss him back, mind melting as his hand cradles your neck. He takes a slow step forward, backing you up to the door. He’s radiant with warmth, his front entirely flush to you, removing any distance. 

The kiss is passionate—that searing heat you’ve missed for too long. He smiles against you, softly scraping his stubble against your cheek. An embarrassing noise slips from your throat, originating from somewhere deep inside you.

He hums before pulling away, only long enough to breathe before he’s on you again.

“I missed you,” he whispers after a proper pause.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He glues himself to you for the entire day. His arms are firm over your waist while he sits on the back of your moped, you speeding along the road to the beach. He pulls you by the hand when you park, grinning wide as his feet sift through the sand. The air and ground are warm, Hanta a thousand times warmer as he holds you on the shore. You lay on your back, him on his side so he can throw an arm over your stomach and stare right into your eyes.

You speak in quiet voices about everything you can. He kisses you often, stealing them between every pause of your words. When you jokingly chide him for it, insisting you need to speak, he settles for grazing his lips over your neck and collarbone, shifting to your knuckle when he wants to see your face. 

Sometimes the conversation lulls, and all you do is watch each other with soft smiles and glistening eyes. 

In the water, his gaze becomes stronger, too strong for you to handle. When you surface from a wave, he’s the first thing you see, crooked grin and wet hair. You immediately dip back under. There’s a certain weight in his eyes that you can’t handle.

The next time you break for air, he’s out of sight. Before you can turn to look for him, a hand tugs you from behind. It’s Hanta, pulling your back to slot against his chest. His head dips to your shoulder, lips running over the skin, arms snaking around your waist so you can’t disappear again.

You close your eyes at the feeling—his heat and his honest affection. You’re embarrassed by the tender displays in public, susceptible to the gazes and opinions of others. But maybe you deserve to have this moment, to be the annoying couple at the beach.

Couple? you wonder. You shake the thought away. Whatever this… thing you have with Hanta is, you don’t know how to name it. Neither of you have spoken about labels or exclusivity, but… couple feels almost derogatory. 

The two of you stay out until the evening, not sure when your home is safe to return to. When hunger settles in you drive with Hanta into the city.

This is his first time in Costa Rica, but he's in a different element in Latin America. Speaking Español brings out facets of his personality that are less noticeable in English or Japanese—a more playful but direct version of him. You wonder what you might learn about him as you continue to study Japanese.

He hugs you tightly on the ride home, arms back around your waist. He tries to tuck his head in the crook of your neck and shoulder, but the clunky helmets enforce a distance. You ride slowly through the night, careful of the winding roads, slow enough to catch the rustle of monkeys darting along the powerline. Every time you come to a stop, your ears flood with the ringing of insects and the soft, steady tone of night birds.

The house is quiet at night. Mamá is the only one present, greeting you with a quiet smile. She offers you dinner, and then some fruit when you decline. Hanta’s lip pouts at the mention of fried plantains, puppy eyes forcing you to agree.

“You can stay in my room,” you tell him afterwards while climbing the stairs. “I just need to grab a couple things.”

He trails curiously when you skip your door to go further down the hall.

“I’ve been sleeping in abuela’s room,” you explain.

He doesn’t follow you into the space, instead waiting by the doorway. You swipe your charger and book from the bedside table before smoothing out the covers and leaving.

Hanta doesn’t ask any questions, and you don’t offer any details. You wonder what he’s thinking, what he wants to know. His eyes linger over you, watching you closely. You wish you knew him better, wish you could take one look at his face and know immediately what’s turning through his heart and mind. Maybe he feels this way towards you, too.

This time when he enters your room, his eyes drift through your shelves and desk. They brighten when he catches a picture frame, nestled with a younger version of you and your sister standing in front of mamá and your grandparents. You don’t remember your abuelo well, only having fragments of memories. The only pieces of him you recall are the ones captured in photos; maybe they aren’t even real memories, just scenes you conjured from your imagination to pretend.

“You look like your abuelo in this one,” Hanta says.

Is this too much? For him to be here, looking through your artifacts of life and smiling fondly over old pictures? Part of you still feels like you’ve only known each other for a week, still chasing him through tents and trying to discover their makers. The other part thinks you’ve been in each other’s arms through your months of separation.

A seed inside you says, He’s been with you before the circus, too.

Hanta’s still smiling when he looks at you again. You swallow, catching that joyful glint in his eyes. For him, this is long overdue.

(This being the intimacy and the affection and the opportunity to learn everything he can—to find his way into every opening of your being and make a home for himself. For both of you.)

In this stillness and quiet of the night, you search your heart for how you really feel—untampered by fears of what’s right or what others may think, what the standard for relationships is supposed to be.

You want him—like this. Forever.

Under soft covers and cocooned in Hanta’s warmth, you manage to fall asleep in your own bed. You enter a dreamless sleep and rise naturally with the sun. Your sister doesn’t barge into your room to wake you, but you still dress for the garden and get to work. She’s there already, clipping the last round of tomatoes.

She gives you a pointed look that you return with your own. Neither of you speak, instead trading glances through the morning as you join her tending. She’s nosy and wants to know the details of how you met, what your relationship is like. You communicate that it’s not her business. You know you’ll fold and tell her eventually.

When you re-enter the house, you’re ambushed by the sight of Hanta in the kitchen helping mamá with breakfast. He wears her floral apron, diligently cutting onions while answering her questions—about his work and how it led you two to meet. His voice stops when he sees you, immediately grinning. He asks if you’re hungry.

After breakfast he insists on washing dishes. Your sister volunteers to dry, so you and mamá clean the table together. You can hear your sister grilling him from the kitchen, Hanta answering every question with ease.

“He’s a good man,” mamá says softly.

You nod.

When you two wiggle into your bed a second time, he asks you to wake him if you rise first. You frown. “Don’t you need your sleep?” 

He yawns, punctuating your point. “Maybe,” he slurs. “But I didn’t like waking up alone.”

Your heart pauses while you nod slowly. He hums with satisfaction and promptly falls asleep. You kiss his forehead. His hand tightens over yours.

On the third day, one of your tía’s and multiple cousins show up unexpectedly. You’re showing Hanta the garden, explaining how to hold the clippers, when a car pulls in and you sigh, knowing this will be the end of your peace. Hanta takes the chaos happily. He says he’s excited to meet everyone, albeit nervous.

Your extended family loves him. Everyone does, you start to realize—with his calm but lively energy, his honesty, his charm. Seeing him meet your relatives strikes you with awe, and a new wave of gratitude. 

Even tía abuela can’t dislike him. You’re anxious for their introductions, but then you watch Hanta softly bow his head—that Japanese filial piety overtaking him—while he politely says, “Mucho gusto, tía abuela.”

You catch the purse of her lips, the glint in her eye as she takes him in, and you know that he’s won her over already. Her eyes flit to you with the undertones of approval and you want to hug everyone in the room from your relief.

Things don’t fully mend by the time you leave with him for Ecuador. Tía abuela still won’t hold an extended conversation with you, some cousins mention abuela offhandedly to stir tension, and occasionally one of your tíos stare at you with anything but forgiveness. But you came home; you brought abuela home with you. This time when you leave, you’re leaving her behind—scattered along dark sand and blue water.

Mamá weeps when she says goodbye, holding you long in her arms. She says that she’ll miss you, that she loves you, and that she’s happy for you. She just hopes you’ll come back. You promise that you will.

Your sister is sharper with her words, insulting you through tears as she jabs, “You better not die.”

You nod vigorously.

Quito is different than you remember; too many years have passed since your first and last visit. It’s still beautiful and lively, with long markets and silver buses stretched down the roads. You board one, eventually winding your way along jungles and mountains, passing squares of shrimp farms by the coast. Hanta lets you take the window seat, happily holding your hand while you stare outside.

Ecuador is another sort of beast, with more chaotic roads and a harsher sun than Costa Rica. As you approach Hanta’s city along the sea, crumbling concrete buildings make a repeated appearance. The work of earthquakes, he tells you, an unwinnable battle for the poorly constructed towers—salt water and sea sand hiding in their walls, ready to surrender in an instant.

The edge of the shore appears. The sand is white, almost grey like ash. Like your abuela, now scattered along the Pacific. Did she make it down here after the past few months? Will she spread to the shores of Japan—to Musutafu?

When you arrive at the front of his house, you are struck by the familiarity. It takes a moment to remember that you’ve been here before, when Hanta ran with you across the ocean and led you through his home from the back porch. But that was a home from over a decade ago. Now parts are faded and parts are changed, but you still recognize it as if it were your own.

Hanta’s family is lively. His parents aren’t home—still working in Japan—but he opens the door to greet grandparents and avunculi and cousins. You watch his abuela’s face shine as she pulls him into a hug. His slender frame towers over her, awkwardly hunching to average their heights. The sight blooms a pang of something in your chest, the sting of an injury, and you swallow to avoid bursting into tears.

After surviving the introductions he leads you to his room. As soon as the door shuts and you have a moment of quiet, the tears resurface.

“Woah, hey,” Hanta says gently when he notices. His attention immediately fixes on you, hands abandoning his bag half unpacked to cradle your face. “Are you okay? Was that too much? Was someone out of line?”

You nod and then shake your head, trying to answer yes and then no respectively. It must be unconvincing, your face still twisted from holding back sobs.

“I’m okay,” you croak. You’re just overwhelmed, and maybe envious, from watching Hanta with his grandmother. From seeing loving touches and crinkled eyes. Curly white hair and wrinkled hands.

Hanta makes a complicated face. You gauge that he’s unconvinced and worried.

“We can go somewhere else,” he bargains. “Or you can rest here until you’re ready. Or a third option I don’t know right now.”

You nod, trying to agree with the second one. You’re fully crying by now, sniffling and blinking through tears. “I promise I’m okay,” you try to convince him. “I just need to cry, I think.”

He doesn’t question you, instead nodding and gesturing for you to sit on his bed. He lowers with you, carefully hugging you into his side. It’s a mourning cry, a weeping to express a hollowness in your heart, a loss that still hasn’t filled itself. Hanta remains a silent support, rubbing your back soothingly even after your sounds shift to sniffles. You press your face into his chest, tears smearing against his shirt. 

He’s warm. He’s always so warm.

You wonder how long you’ll live like this, still crying at random as if abuela’s death was a recent one—not a year in the past. Something tells you it’ll be often. 

Maybe you should apologize to Hanta in advance.

But his hold on you—firm while gentle—reminds you of his patience. He would tell you not to be sorry.

The week you have in Ecuador together is a busy one, spent meeting more family and getting yanked to Hanta’s favorite places. This time you’re the one on the back of the moped, leaning into his warmth as he winds up and down the roads. He lives on a small peninsula in the northern coast, where you can watch the sunrise from one beach, and then cross the city to catch the sunset on a different shore. 

The water turns red in the evening as the sun dips down, the ocean reflecting the brilliant rosiness of the sky. You and Hanta bob on surfboards in the water—yours long and wide and foam, his narrow and made of resin-coated wood. You soak in the remaining light, that fiery ball of light tucking under the horizon. There’s a tug at your heart when you remember the tent of floating oranges. When you glance at Hanta, he’s already staring at you. He grins.

You only get to see the coast of Ecuador during your stay, not touching mountains or jungle.

“Next time,” Hanta promises.

Next time.

Life doesn’t feel quite real when you board the plane together. Your goodbye to Hanta’s family felt more dramatic than your own, mostly because everyone was weeping and offering hugs all around. Tears pricked your eyes when his abuela pulled you for a hug, asking that you take good care of him. You promised you will.

You slide into the window seat, immediately pulling up the shade to look outside. You’re at the front of the wing, still parked on a giant slab of foundation and surrounded by the tunnels of the airport. Hanta plops down next, immediately snaking his arm around your waist and leaning into your side.

“Excited?” he asks.

Terrified is a more accurate description. “Yeah.”

He hums like he wants to ask more, but he keeps his questions to himself. You turn to look at him, his gentle eyes. They’re dark, dark like the night sky and shimmering with the sparkle of a thousand stars, ready to be plucked and pulled and woven into a timeless tale of love.

He has his abuela’s eyes.

(Is this how it’s going to be—you always searching for meaning and connection to the dead, never able to let them rest entirely, finding ways to make them alive time and time again? Is this who you are—someone who rereads the same book since childhood, clutching it close like a holy scripture that guides you forward?

But they are all you know, all you’ve ever chased, a child watching a display of magic and wanting nothing more than to be part of it.)

The voice of the flight attendant sounds through the speakers. Her voice crackles through the intercom as she reads from the safety brief.

Your eyes drift to Hanta’s skin. It’s darkened considerably since returning to Latin America. His cheeks and nose are splattered with an array of freckles. They’re constellations against his skin, a map of everything you’ve wanted. He leans to press his face against yours, like he can transfer those markings if you touch for long enough.

You turn to the window when the plane starts to roll forwards. Hanta’s chest presses against your shoulder while he leans to watch with you. His hand comes over yours, holding your fingers gently before raising them for a tender kiss.

There’s a jumble of knots in your stomach, like one thread tossed and turned until it became impossible to unravel. You’ve never been to Japan. You’ve never been contracted for a circus company. You don’t know Japanese and you don’t even have your own housing. All you have is a visa and the promise of a job awaiting your arrival. This is different from moving to Italy, fueled by nothing but the hunger for money. This time it’s a hunger for life, a hunger to find something—or, to follow what you’ve already found.

This time when you leave this part of the world, the part with your home, there is no obligation to do anything but what you want. A total freedom, the freedom to chase whimsical childhood dreams. Dreams of stars—The Circus of the Stars—and outrageous costumes and people you love.

The plane starts to dart down the runway, picking up speed to eventually lift and soar into the sky—a white aluminum bird against cerulean blue. Hanta’s lips press into your temple, hand squeezing yours. You grin while staring at the city of Quito below, clusters of buildings fading away with each passing second. The vessel of the plane chugs onwards and upwards, brushing through a mist of clouds—through the clouds, until they’re an ocean below you.

You squeeze Hanta’s hand back, interlocking your fingers like threads on a loom. Despite your fears, you feel ready.

Ready to stretch out your lives like the billions of stars in the sky, and to weave them together in a continuous, unbreakable fabric.

✰.

The circus is coming. And this time, you’re coming with it.

just a note about aerial silks: aerial silks for performance are not made of real silk, they're typically made of like some sort of synthetic fiber like nylon or lycra for safety purposes but i'm pretending like that isn't the case for the ~metaphors~

my sappy afterword can be found here

[pawnshopbleus]

These Are the Days Chapter Fourteen - Girl in Red

Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader High School au

For the summary, warnings, and more, please visit here.

previous chapter.

cw: a fight and mention of homophobic slur used (word not written out)

Abby couldn’t be happier. When she saw the look of surprise on your face when you opened the door, she knew that’s where she wanted to be: with you and her friends. 

Ellie and Dina left early in the morning, and Jesse followed them a few minutes later. Abby lay there with you slumped on her shoulder. As she looked around, she noticed the lack of photos and decorations. Abby’s home was littered with pictures of her as a kid, on fishing trips with her dad, her at her eighth grade dance, there’s even a picture of Ellie on her living room wall. Your house — although beautiful in its own right, lacks the homeliness a person needs to grow. 

Abby sighed at the thought of you missing out on so much due to the neglect of your parents. You have the right to be an awful person. You have the right to shut everyone out, but you don’t. You are the best person Abby’s ever met. You changed her life for the better, and she hopes to do the same. 

Soon after the clock strikes nine, you stir awake and groan, the tangy taste of beer still lingering on your tongue. You don’t move from your spot, fearing that this is all a dream. That you will move a limb and be transported back to your bedroom in California. No matter how much you miss your beachy town and your overpriced everything, you’d rather stay here. At this moment, nothing else matters except you and the girl who changed everything for the better. 

Abby says your name. The second you hear the beautiful timbre of her voice, you can tell that she’s been up for a while. You look up at her, your tired eyes working against the rays of sunlight streaming in through the curtains. 

“I need to ask you something,” she said, her voice laced with worry and something else. Hope, maybe? “Will you be my girlfriend?” 

…

“This is Vic Issac with KKWF radio; how may I help you?” 

“I just found out that my husband of ten years cheated on me with his secretary. I mean, how cliche is that? I am more upset at-” 

Your hand quickly moves to turn off the radio in Abby’s car. You would rather hear a car alarm than hear someone complain about their relationship problems again. Abby’s hand finds purchase on your thigh as she steers and weaves effortlessly through the streets of Bellevue. 

It has been a week since Abby asked you to be her girlfriend. In other words, it has been a week of pure bliss. She picks you up in the morning, opens the door for you, and drops you off after softball practice with her letterman safely in your arms. You’re pretty sure your bike is starting to feel neglected with how little you use it now. 

Abby pulls into her normal spot at the front of the school and rushes over to your side of the car. When you’re with her, she treats you like a princess. You wish you could do the same, but Abby insists that she’s fine. 

Jesse isn’t too happy about the new couple in the group. As the only man, it was hard enough, but now, as the resident fifth wheel, he is starting to feel like dating apps are a good option. 

You and Abby had been successful at avoiding Owen all throughout the week. If you saw him walking down the hall, the two of you would rush into an empty classroom. If he was in the lunch line, you and Abby would sneak out and eat somewhere down the road. 

Maybe it was fate that brought the three of you into this situation. Or maybe it was the fact that Owen is one of the worst people on the planet. 

You didn’t see him barreling down the hallway with a smug look on his face. It wasn’t until his shoulder met yours that you finally recognized his presence. 

“Watch where you're going,” Abby spat. 

“The fuck you just say to me?” Owen walks menacingly toward Abby.

The two of them square up. Abby, being only a few inches shorter than Owen, puffs her chest out to make herself seem taller. The tension in the middle of the hall was so thick it could be cut with a knife. 

“I said, watch where you’re going.” 

“What are you gonna do about it-” The next word out of Owen’s mouth is a word only uttered by the ignorant. It’s ugly and hateful and has no place in anyone’s vocabulary. 

Everything happens too fast for you to recount. Owen is on the floor. Abby is on top of him, delivering blow after blow while he struggles against her weight. People close in on the three of you. Some are taking videos while others chant. You can see Ellie, Dina, and Jesse cheering Abby on. 

You snap out of your trance and try and get Abby to stop. This is a side of her you have never seen. The primal urge to protect those who mean the world to her is noble, chivalrous, and destructive. As you watch her in this state, you can’t help but look at the way her muscles ripple every time she cocks her arm back or the way she grunts in anger. You shouldn’t be feeling this way when she’s in distress, but damn, does your girlfriend look hot. 

…

The front office is colder than the rest of the school. Abby’s knuckles are bloody and bruised under the ice pack provided by the nurse. Owen is alive, but his ego isn’t. After getting beaten up by his lesbian ex-girlfriend, he can kiss his social life and everything that came with it goodbye. His dad isn’t all too happy either, but there’s only so much you can do when you’re about to go to prison for tax fraud. 

The principal's secretary comes out of the shadows and beacons the two of you forward. “Now, don’t be scared and tell the truth,” She opens the door to the principal's office and closes it behind you.

The principal, a tall, slender, and elegant woman with a little midwestern twang to her voice, greets the two of you as you sit down. Her office is warmer than the climate you just left, but being under her gaze sends a shiver down your spine. On her desk sits a cup full of pens, two picture frames facing away from you, and a placard in the middle of her desk. Engraved in fancy letters is her name, Principal Servopoulos. 

“I can’t say that I’m happy to have you in my office under these circumstances. The behavior you exhibited today is unacceptable, Ms. Anderson. What possessed the captain of the softball team to act that way?” 

Abby's leg bounces as she looks down at her injured hand. You can’t help but feel slightly responsible for the outcome of this situation. If you could have just stood your ground and told Owen to fuck off, maybe the two of you would be in your history class, holding hands under the table. Hypotheticals aren’t going to help in this situation. 

“He deserved it,” Abby grits. 

Mrs. Servopoulos shakes her head. “That is neither here nor there. What is important is that you assaulted another student. As a principal, I cannot allow you to participate in any of the upcoming school activities, and I will have to revoke your title as team captain and member of the softball team.” 

Your eyes go wide. “You can’t do that! Abby’s worked too hard for this.” “Ms. Anderson is lucky she isn’t expelled!” “And what punishment is Owen getting for calling her a — that word?” 

“As the principal of this school, I cannot discuss the status of other students,” Mrs. Servopoulos said, leaning in close and whispering as if she were sharing secret information. “But as a lesbian woman with a wife and a kid, I’m going to make him regret opening his mouth.” 

… 

After school, Abby didn’t want to go home. She couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment on her dad's face. She could kiss all hope of going to college goodbye as her record would be permanently stained.

She could say she didn’t know what came over her, but that would be a lie. She knew exactly what it was. The urge to protect you from the one thing that made her life a living hell. 

As her knuckles met his skull, she could feel all the pent-up tension and frustration she held in the past few years. Punch after punch, she felt herself getting better. Was it a conventional way of overcoming something? No, but it felt good. 

Abby drove the two of you to the pier and refused to let you pay for anything. She was the one who got into trouble, after all. 

The ferris wheel creaked and groaned under the the two of you, tt’s hinges tired after so many years of use. Abby's arm is thrown across your shoulder, bringing you in close. 

“I’m sorry we can’t go to homecoming,” you sigh. 

“I’m the one who can’t go. You didn’t do anything, so, to quote Principal Servopoulos, ‘you are exempt from any punishment.’” 

“If you can’t go homecoming, then why should I? We’re in this together now, whether you like it or not.” 

“I don’t deserve you,” Abby says under her breath. “I’m sorry for getting you into all of this mess.” 

“You shouldn’t be sorry. You saved me, and I’ll be forever grateful.”

Under the twinkling stars and the silvery moon, Abby looks even more radiant than usual. You push a strand that had found its way out of her braid behind her ear and let your hand linger there momentarily. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

You can’t remember who asked who, but you can remember her soft, velvety lips touching yours. 

Tag list: @rew1nds, @colbyweirdo, @mylettterstoyou

Thank you for reading!

Next Chapter - Coming soon

[soraya-snape]

There was this HP creator on TikTok that I was starting to really like. But then she said that “Snape is not a good guy (OK kinda agree but the way she said it sounded more like “he is a bad or even really bad guy” which is obviously not true) and that he only tried to save Harry which was the least he could do” and this is the part where I was like?!?!?!

He might have started off only trying to save Harry (actually Lily at first) but then he actually tries to save the whole wizarding world. Like remember that time he told Dumbledore “Lately only those I couldn't save.” or when he tried to save Lupin at the beginning of DHp1 or told Phineas Niggelus Black to not call Hermione a mud blood. And let's not forget how he spied for Dumbledore during the first and second war, which is definitely more than the least he could do. I could go on but I think people with enough braincells get that he was not just trying to save that one boy but actively going against Voldemort's values and also kinda his own (or at least the once he was taught as a kid/teen). And like the example with Lupin shows also protecting those who, from his perspective might not deserve his help (considering Remus was a bystander at his bullying who actually had the power and the duty to stop it and also while mostly being civil towards Snape in later years still made his life extremely hard [I still love Remus but let's not ignore his flaws]).

Yes maybe he was a cruel teacher even bully to some of his students (we actually canonically only know of the trio and Neville) but at the same time also beloved and admired by some (mainly Slytherin but considering how badly they were treated by almost everyone else I actually think it's good of Snape to favour them especially considering what he went through during school simply because he was Slytherin. If you have a problem with that, perhaps you should complain first about everyone mistreating the Slytherins before complaining about someone treating them nicely, even if it is unfair). 

But besides that his position in the second war (and also the end of the first one) on the good side is clear and not only to save Harry but also everyone he simply could save. And if you don't see it, maybe you should get your eyes checked, or I don't know...