Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Abel
Celia & Florence
Daisuke ---DONE (ch.3)
Dorian ---DONE (ch.4)
Curt & Rod (request)
Eddie & Volt ---DONE (ch.1)
Skylar ---DONE (ch.6)
Tony ---DONE (ch.2)
Jacque (request) ---DONE (ch.5)
Johnny (request)
Hector (request)
Betty (request)
Mac (request)
Tina (request)
Kristof (request)
Hanks (request)
Scandalabra (request)
Mateo (rq)
Kopi (rq)
Cabrizzio (rq)
Amir (rq)
Barry (rq)
Jean Loo (rq)
Mitchel Linn
River (rq)
Chance (rq)
Dirk (rq)
Freddy (rq)
Tyrell
Lux (rq)
Doug (rq)

Cam (rq)
Wallace (rq)

Luke Nukem (rq)

Chapter Text

Today is the day you’ve decided that you want to visit the Breaker Box for the first time since the whole… thing. You’ve missed coming here, missed dancing with everybody.

You stare at the door, slowly entering the bar. Johnny’s familiar crooning fills your ears, as do the boos that always follow after. They’re all in good light- or most of them are, Cam is for real about it.

Eddie is busy at work when you sit down at the bar, watching him work, pouring drinks with practiced ease. His head turns, as if he felt your eyes on him, a smile pulling at his chapped lips.

“Hey, Eddie. My normal, please?” you request, smiling back at him.

“Of course, livewire,” he mixes up the whiskey sour, sliding it to you, “on the house.”

“Thanks,” you nod, sipping on the strong drink. Eddie hums affirmatively in response, getting called away to keep pouring drinks.

A flicker of white appears in your peripheral, Volt’s stunning face coming into view, “My, my, look who’s here.”

“Hey,” you greet, smiling softly at white-haired man, taking the hand he holds out for you, letting him press a kiss to your knuckles.

------------

Eddie steals glances at you while he works, ignoring the way his heart twists at the sight of you. They’ve already apologized and you’ve already forgiven them, but he can’t help but feel guilty. He pushed you away, didn’t kiss you. He never thought that would be his last chance to kiss you.

“How are you, livewire?” Volt asks, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, “You look simply ravishing this evening.”

“I’m wearing sweatpants, Volt,” you snort, shaking your head at him, “And I’m good, thank you.”

“Sweatpants or not, you’re stunning,” he insists, calling Eddie over with a raise of his hand, “Don’t you agree, Eds?”

“You look fine,” Eddie rolls his eyes at his other half, handing him his drink, “As always, livewire.”

“Don’t listen to him, you’re much more than fine,” Volt huffs, sighing at Eddie's understatement, “I need to go, host-ly duties, but save me a dance?”

“Of course,” you nod, giving his hand a light squeeze before he heads off to the stage.

Eddie watches you two interact, affection taking over his raging guilt for a moment, “He’s right, y’know? You’re ‘simply ravishing.’” Eddies tells you once Volt is out of earshot, slightly mocking the other.

“Thank you, Eds,” you laugh, pushing your empty glass forward slightly, “How’ve you been?”

Eddie takes the glass, placing it into the sink and pours you another, “I’ve been good. Busy.” He gestures around the packed club, setting your drink in front of you.

“Yeah, I noticed,” you nod, graciously taking the drink, plucking the cherry from the top, twirling the stem between your fingers, “You’re not overworking yourself, are you?”

“Your hands are going to get sticky playing with that,” he tells you, quirking a brow. Every time, you play with the cherry, then complain your fingers are sticky at the end of the night, “You do it every time, livewire.”

He’s totally not avoiding the question. He hasn’t been overworking himself, honest to god truth. He’s just been…Busy. Everyone started coming around more after the incident, whether to drown their sorrows or to be around the others.

“You’re avoiding the question,” you immediately point out, an unamused look on your face, setting down the cherry because he’s right, your fingers are sticky now.

“No clue what you’re talking about, spark,” Eddie shrugs, busying his hands with wiping down glasses. Someone calls for him and he happily takes the excuse, “Duty calls.”

------------

You frown as Eddie darts away, unimpressed by the way he’s avoiding the question. You just want to hop over the bar, wrap him in a blanket and force him into bed for a day (or two, or maybe three).

You finish your second drink, heading out to the dance floor. You dance with your lovers until they slowly start dispersing, performances finish up, and closing time encroaches. You linger behind, still owing Volt a dance, and Eddie owes you an answer.

“Ready to pay up for that dance, livewire?” Volt approaches you from behind, helping you off the bar stool.

“Always,” you nod, smiling as you take his hand. He pauses by the dj booth to turn on a slow song before leading you to the middle of the empty dance floor.

The beginning melody to Aerosmith’s I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing fills the room, “Mmm, a classic,” you hum, settling your arms loosely around his waist.

“I found it fitting,” Volt comments, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, leading the slow sway, “As I never want to miss a moment with you.”

“That's cheesy,” you say, giggling like an idiot, “I missed you.”

“Guilty as charged,” he winks, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “so did I. I missed you dearly.”

“Idiot,” you scoff fondly, pursing your lips to keep yourself from laughing at the completely stupid pun.

You continue swaying, quietly humming along to the song. After it ends, you look over your shoulder, saddening when you find Eddie nowhere in sight, “I’ll be right back,” you tell Volt, quickly pecking his lips.

“I’ll queue up our next song,” he says, giving your arm a squeeze in return as you disentangle from him.

You enter the backroom, shivering as you enter the chilly room. You peek around shelves, looking for a certain grumpface. You find him in the last row, reorganizing all the expensive liquors.

“Hey,” you whisper, coming up behind him and setting a hand on his shoulder.

He jolts slightly, causing all the bottles to rattle. Eddie sets a hand over his heart, turning around to face you, “Jesus, didn’t hear you come in,” he puffs, grabbing your hand.

“Sorry,” you wince, smiling sheepishly at him. It drops when you feel his hands trembling, more than they would be after a jumpscare, “I believe you owe me a dance.”

“I don’t remember promising you a dance,” he retorts, narrowing his eyes at you with playful suspicion.

“Oh, you didn’t, not tonight. It’s kind of in the relationship agreement,” you inform him, slowly nodding like this is obvious information, “Clause sixty-nine: ‘whenever your livewire pleases, you are legally required to dance with them.’”

“‘Clause sixty-nine’, really?” he raises a brow, looking entirely unimpressed with you, “And I still don’t recall signing this relationship agreement. Besides, I would love to, but I’m busy.”

“I don’t think the bottles are going anywhere, Eds. Please, one dance? I’ll even let you pick the song.”

------------

Eddie huffs, annoyed at himself for how mushy you make his heart. He shouldn’t give into the begging, but you’re impossible to say no to, “One dance,” he begrudges, letting you pull him to the dance floor.

“Ah, there you are,” Volt grins, stealing Eddie from you to kiss him, “Did livewire convince you to take a break?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie grumbles, returning the kiss with faux frustration, “I don’t know how they do it.”

“I’m magic, baby, don’t’cha know?” you quip, wiggling your fingers at the duo, “Now come onnnnnn.”

“Impatient,” Eddie tuts, snatching your hands out of the air, pulling you to his chest. Eddie laces your hands together, leading the dance. He holds your hand tightly, keeping his own steady.

“So, I’m pretty sure that I asked you a question earlier,” you comment, dragging his attention back to you. He sucks his teeth, feigning obliviousness.

“No clue what you’re talking about,” he shrugs, twirling you around, so your back is pressed to his chest, “You ask a lot of questions, livewire.”

“Uh-huh, sureeeee,” you groan, spinning back around to face him, “You promised you wouldn’t overwork yourself.”

“And I kept that promise,” he claims, dipping you in hopes to distract you, “I even got eight hours of sleep last night.”

You groan, regaining your ground and lightly pushing him away from you. Eddie hates being away from you, but he knows it’s his fault.

“Right, and your hands are just experiencing a mini earthquake,” you grab his wrist, raising his arm to present him with his own hand, “It only gets this bad when you’re exhausted.”

Eddie snatches his hands back, shoving them into his pockets, “I’m fine, I swear,” he insists, swallowing thickly.

“I don’t exactly believe you,” you admit to him, sighing softly and wrapping your arms around his waist.

“Neither do I,” Volt hugs him from behind, leaving Eddie incapable of escape, “Talk to us, Edison.”

“Don’t use my full name,” Eddie grunts, squirming in place, trying to escape your grip, “I’m fine.”

“Edisonnnn,” you drawl, pinching his side. You seem intent on drawing the truth out of him, one way or another, “C’mon. We promised we’d all be honest with each other.”

Eddie grunts, kicking your shin in response to the pinch, “Fine, I feel like shit, is that what you wanted to hear? I still feel guilty about what happened and I feel like you should hate me,” he snaps, finally managing to worm free from the hug, scrubbing his face with his hands.

------------

You’re momentarily stunned when Eddie suddenly snaps at you, taking a step back from him. Your face falls when he finally admits what’s wrong with him, as does Volt’s. You reach for Eddie, but he shakes his head.

“Eddie, you didn’t do anything wrong. We’ve already talked about this,” you tell him, not making another attempt to grab him.

“Just because you’ve forgiven us, doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven myself,” he murmurs, his eyes downcast, pressing his thumb into his right palm, massaging the muscles. “I was an asshole and I can’t accept the fact that you just forgave me.”

“Well fucking accept it then!” you shout, throwing your hands up. Of course you forgave them, forgave him; you did not go through a month of distance just to not forgive them. “I forgave you and it’s not like I did it immediately! Took me over a month to do so, in case you forgot that!”

“Of course I didn’t,” he yells back, running a hand through his hair, “that month was torture!”

“Maybe we should calm down,” Volt suggests, stepping between both of you before either of you decide to throw hands.

“I am calm!” both you and Eddie snarl, turning your glares onto Volt.

“Look at that, you’re on the same page,” Volt points out, smiling awkwardly, “Let’s sit and talk about this like grown adults, yeah?”

It obviously wasn’t the question he made it sound like because he grabs both of you by the ear and drags you guys over to a booth, shoving you into opposite sides. Volt stands at the end of the table, arms crossed over his chest like he’s some sort of referee.

“Now, let’s share our feelings in a calm, quiet way. Eddie, you can start,” Volt flourishes a hand at Eddie, using an irritatingly calm tone.

Eddie glares at Volt before turning to face you, “I haven’t forgiven myself for the way I acted,” he admits in a calmer tone than before.

“Good job, your turn, livewire,” Volt nods at you, tapping his fingers together like some sort of counselor.

“I think it’s stupid you haven’t forgiven yourself. You were just doing what everyone else was,” you tell him, staring at him blankly. This was supposed to be a fun night, not whatever this is.

“Well, I think it’s stupid you forgave me at all,” Eddie retorts, running his tongue over his teeth, “I don’t deserve it.”

“Bullshit,” you hiss, clenching your jaw, adjusting the dateviators on your nose. Volt clears his throat, shaking his head in disapproval of the tension rebuilding. You take a deep breath, starting over:

“I think it’s not stupid I forgave you. You did what you did for a reason--a stupid reason, but whatever--and when I asked for space, you all gave it to me. If I thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness, I wouldn’t have given it to you.”

Eddie pauses, mulling over your answer. He knows you’re right and that he’s resorting back to self-deprecating ways, but that doesn’t mean he has to accept it. Maybe, for once in his life, he wants to be allowed to wallow in his self-pity.

“Eddie, I love you, but I swear, I’m going to smack you if you don’t get it through your thick wires that you are not some monster,” you tell him, the anger finally melted from your tone, coming away for something softer. You reach across the table, taking your hands in his, rubbing your thumbs over his knuckles.

“...you wouldn’t,” he denies, finally not rejecting your touch.

“Argue with me again and find out,” you urge, a tight smile pulling across your lips.

“Ah-ah-ah, let’s not start this again,” Volt slides in, setting his hands atop yours and Eddie’s. “But I agree with them, Eddie and if they don’t smack you, I will, and you know I don’t lie.”

“I hate you both,” Eddie mutters, but the way his lips twitch up says otherwise.

“We love you too,” you chuckle, leaning across the table to kiss him. Volt follows your lead, kiss Eddie, then you.

“I reckon you two ought to finish your dance,” Volt hints, jutting his head at the dance floor, walking off without waiting for an answer.

You and Eddie both agree, traipsing to the middle of the room, curling into each other. Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls starts playing; a carefully selected option by Volt. Volt comes back over to you, holding Eddie from behind.

“I’m glad you guys know who I am,” Eddie whispers, perfectly in time with the lyrics, “And I’m sorry, again.”

“Thank you for letting us,” you whisper back, resting your forehead against his.

“I told you, you wouldn’t smack me,” he points out, a smug grin on his face, just for it to drop when Volt bats his hand upside Eddie’s head.

You burst into laughter at the face Eddie makes, tears springing to the corners of your eyes, doubling over. Eddie stomps on your foot and it just makes you laugh harder, falling to the ground.

“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, clutching your stomach, unable to stop the laughter. You smack the ground, rolling onto all fours, trying to catch your breath. “I’m sorry, I can’t stop.”

“Laugh it up,” Eddie rolls his eyes, leaning down and helping you pack onto your feet. You lean against him, still giggling.

“I’m sorry, I love you. It’s just…” you trail off, the last dying giggles leaving you. “You should’ve seen your face.”

------------

Eddie and Volt watch as you roll around on the floor, absolutely delighted by the fact that Volt just smacked Eddie. Eddie feels like he should be upset with you for laughing, but he can’t find it in himself. It’s been so long since they’ve heard the sound of your laughter and it’s sweeter than any music they could ever play.

Eddie picks you up, letting you lean your weight against him, smacking his chest. Volt comes around, sandwiching you between them. They start swaying again, not bothering to turn music on.

It takes a moment to find the rhythm with three people, but you manage. You always do.

Chapter Text

You’re on your way out of the Breaker Box when you trip over somebody. “Dayum, look at you falling for me,” Tony teases, yet he sounds almost hesitant to make his normal joke.

You snicker, flipping him the bird, “Yeah, me and my bruised butt are swooning.”

“Want me to kiss it, make it feel better?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows at you, grabbing your wrist and hauling you onto your feet with ease, “Everyone knows a kiss from me fixes anything.”

“You…are horrible,” you mutter, pursing your lips to stifle your laughter. He’s ridiculous in the best way.

“Ahh, you love me and you know it,” he tells you, wrapping an arm around your middle, pulling you closer.

“I do,” you confirm with a dramatic sigh, draping your arms over his shoulders. From this distance, you can see the small beauty mark underneath his left eye, something most wouldn’t notice, but you absolutely adore.

“Yeahhh, you do,” he nods, dipping you low and kissing you, “Now, get outta here, I’ve got work to do,” he says, lightly tapping your butt.

------------

God, he hates to see you go, but he loves watching you leave. For once, he actually wasn’t kidding about having work; he’s been up to his knees in house repairs. Nothing major, just things he neglected and has finally decided he should fix for absolutely no reason.

Ok, there is a reason. Of course there’s a reason and it’s you. He’s been so anxious about letting something slip through the cracks and the result being something horrible happening to you. Thankfully, after you talked with everybody, the anxiety eased, but it still lingers.

He also feels guilty about making you cry, over a joke, of all things. An inside joke he loves having with you. He’s glad you don’t hold any resentment towards the joke because of it.

“Hey, Stefan,” he greets the oven, setting down his toolbox, staring at him like he might explode.

“Oh, hell no, you are not touching me,” Stefan immediately tells Tony, eyeing the toolbox with suspicion. “I’m in perfect shape anyway, I don’t need to be fixed or whatever it is you think you do.”

Tony rolls his eyes, nudging his toolbox away with his foot and raising his hands in a peaceful show, “I’m not touchin’ you, or I am--not in that way, you’re not my type--I.. I need your help,” he finally manages to spit out.

“You need my help? Ha! In your dreams,” Stefan laughs, slapping his knee over-dramatically before going right back to his deadpan expression. “Get out of my kitchen.”

“It’s not for me, it’s for the human,” Tony quickly adds, hoping that changes Stefan’s mind. He wants to do this, but he is not going to beg. Hopefully.

Stefan hesitates for a moment, turning around to consult with Mr. Cluckles. He obviously isn’t happy with what the chicken timer has to say because he gets all huffy, “Fine, you’ve got two minutes to convince me. Mr. Cluckles, set a two minute timer.”

Tony sighs in relief, nodding before straightening his back, looking like he’s preparing to give a speech to the president, “I want to make dinner for them. As an apology, y’know? My ma always said the way to someone’s heart is through the stomach.”

“Your mother’s a smart woman,” Stefan nods, stroking his chin in throat, bobbling his head back and forth in what Tony assumes is a mental game of tug-of-war. He sincerely hopes the oven is willing to overlook his dislike for him, just for a few hours.

“Alright, I’ll help. For them, don’t get it twisted, I still don’t like you,” Stefan finally concedes, running a hand down his face. “Do you have anything planned or did you come in here, hoping to make something all willy-nilly?”

“I have something planned, it’s an old family recipe, passed down from Tony to Tony,” Tony confirms, hands planted firmly on his hips, proud of himself.

“Alright, give it to me,” Stefan holds his hand out, thumping his foot like an impatient bunny.

“It’s not a written recipe! It’s a recipe from here,” Tony taps his chest, right over his heart. “Ma said that’s where all the best recipes live.”

“Oh! Your ma said it? Your ma seems to say a lot of stuff!” Stefan exclaims, getting heated up. How dare this tool come into his kitchen and ask for his help without a proper recipe.

Mr. Cluckles bawks, drawing Stefan's attention. They converse in murmurs and clucking until Stefan finally calms down again, “Mr. Cluckles has pointed out that your mother is right, recipes from the heart are the best.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony nods, looking between the chef and the chicken timer. He can’t believe his fate rests on the hope that Stefan agrees with a chicken timer, “Soooo.. You’ll help?”

“Mr. Cluckles and I have decided to help you. One time only and if you mess up anything, you’re banned,” Stefan threatens, jabbing a spatula into Tony’s chest, “What is this ‘from the heart’ recipe?”

Tony rubs his hands together, rummaging through the cabinets. He doesn’t know where anything is, but he’ll figure it out. “The same thing Italians have been making for centuries: pasta.”

------------

You spent the day with Parker, playing a bunch of games. You made the mistake of asking to play a new game that neither of you have played, which resulted in an hour-long rule-reading session. Other than that, it was a fun day; you enjoyed the day with him.

And now it is dinner time! Getting yelled at for not understanding the rules of a game immediately worked up quite the appetite. The smell of aromatics permeates the air and your mood brightens further: Stefan must be cooking something and it smells absolutely delish.

You’re surprised to find Tony standing at the oven, stirring a pot of what seems to be some sort of sauce, “Tony?”

Tony jumps, causing his spoon to fly up, splashing sauce onto the ceiling and the floor and the cabinets, “Shit! Sorry, Ms. Mayor, and Florence,” he grimaces, grabbing paper towels to wipe up Florence.

You let out a shocked laugh, covering your mouth to stop yourself, “I think you’re forgetting somebody,” you point at Cabrizzio, watching him stand on a chair to try and clean up Celia.

“Nah, I’m not cleaning that tryhard up,” Tony scoffs, glancing down at you with a smirk, finishing up, thanking everybody that Celia isn’t stained.

“Oooh, green looks good on you, Ton,” you tease, grabbing a towel and wiping up Cabrizzio yourself, “What’s up with this?” you ask, tossing the paper towels into the bin, coming up to the stove, stirring the sauce.

“Ha-ha, I’m not jealous of that phony romantic,” he states, though the way he rolls his eyes at the way you clean Cabrizzio up says otherwise. “I’m makin’ dinner, what’s it look like?”

You grin, bumping your hip against his, handing the spoon back to him, “No duh, you’re cooking. It’s just the fact that I’ve never seen you cook, so I’m more wondering… Why? And what, because it smells heavenly.”

“Can’t a guy cook a proper meal every now and again?” he asks, bumping your hip back, “And thank you for noticing, it’s a classic: spaghetti!”

“Fancy,” you snort at his dramatic reveal, leaning over to smell the dish.

“Hey! It is fancy! I handmade the noodles and everything. I’d say that’s fancy,” he argues lightheartedly, pulling the pot off the stove to strain the noodles. “It’s an old family recipe.”

“That is kind of fancy,” you acknowledge, grabbing a plate for him, “What’s the occasion: homesick?”

“Grab another one,” he requests, taking the plate from you to serve up dinner, “It’s date night.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, grabbing another plate and passing it to him, “Date night?”

“Date night,” he echoes in confirmation, setting the served plates onto the dining room table, “Dinner is served, sugar.”

He pulls out a chair for you, bowing at the waist and flourishing his hand. You sit down, waiting for him to sit down before taking the first bite of your meal. The meal in itself may be simple, but this is nearly orgasmic.

------------

Tony watches intently as you take the first bite, almost crying in relief when your eyes light up, “Am I impressive or am I impressive?” Tony teases, brushing his foot up your leg. “The Ton-meister always delivers.”

He relishes in the way you giggle, the way you kick his foot away, “You delivered, Tony. I appreciate it. This is nice.”

Tony preens under the praise, puffing his chest out slightly, “You deserve it,” he tells you, grabbing your free hand, holding it in his.

He hesitates for a moment before speaking up again, “My ma used to say to me ‘Anthony, one day, you’re gonna fuck up, like all the men in our family do. And when that day comes, you’re not gonna wallow, you’re not gonna act like you didn’t do nothing wrong, you’re gonna march your ass into the kitchen and make this dish,’” he quotes, using a ridiculous accent that’s a mix between jersey, italian, and chainsmoker.

“Said that it fixes everything,” he drops the accent, watching for your reaction, “That and a good bottle of wine and if you don’t drink: an apology. Which I owe you.”

------------

You listen to him carefully, not wanting to interrupt his little one person show. Listening to him talk about his family is always fun; they seem like a rowdy bunch, you’d love to meet them one day. You’re not really sure how that’d work, though.

“Tony, you don’t have to. This,” you gesture at the table, at the meal--which somehow tastes even better than before after learning its origin, “is plenty.”

“It’s not, I made you cry. There’s only one reason you should be cryin’ around me,” he states, his tone going suggestive, just for a second. “I know we’ve all already apologized, but I still feel horrible about it.”

“--and don’t say anything, listen for a minute,” your mouth snaps shut when he stops you before you manage to say anything.

Tony stands up, coming over to you. He turns your chair, kneeling in front of you, pressing your hands to his lips, “I, Anthony ‘Tony’ Bocks, have royally fucked up. I made you cry. I hurt you and I never want to do that again. Unless you ask me to.”

You smack him upside the head for that comment, scoffing to cover your laughter, “Do not cheapen the moment.”

“As if, I’m expensive. Premium charges,” he retorts, rubbing the back of his head with mock annoyance, “Now, give papa some sugar, Sugar,” he grins, pulling you out of the chair, dipping you low, planting a fat kiss to your lips.

“Seriously, I am sorry,” he murmurs against your lips, gently rubbing his hand up and down your thigh, tracing circles with his thumb.

“Ah, I know,” you assure, tangling a hand in the hair on the nape of his neck.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he starts, winking at you.

“Hell yeah, I do,” you respond, grinning at the familiar routine.

He spins you around, pressing your back to his chest, swaying you back and forth, “You know I’m talking about,” he repeats, peppering the side of your necks in kisses.

“I know what you’re talking about,” you giggle, squirming at the ticklish texture of his beard, “I love you,” you whisper, tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder.

“I love you too, Sugar,” he whispers back, brushing hair out of your face, kissing your forehead.

The two of you go back to dinner, finishing the lovely homecooked meal--only after he forced you to Lady-and-The-Tramp it--ending up on the couch, watching some cheesy romance movie that Tony insists on pointing out everything he finds inaccurate.

------------

He looks down at you when he feels your weight grow heavier, smiling when he sees you asleep in his lap. He pulls the blanket over the two of you, carding a hand through your hair. He looks up at the ceiling, past it to the sky.

“Thanks Ma. I owe you one.”

Chapter Text

You’re pretty sure Daisuke has been ignoring you, at the very least avoiding you as much as possible. He’s always busy, which isn’t uncommon for him, but he’s always made time for you and you’re pretty sure if you don’t spend time with that poetry loving, busybody dummy, you’re going to explode.

He’s busy working when you come into the kitchen and you’ve learned from your mistake--that you’ve made multiple times--knocking on the wall to announce your presence, instead of sneaking up behind him, “Hey, do you think you spare just a second- or more than a second, like a handful of seconds, maybe even a minute or two?”

“Yes teacup, I have a few seconds to spare for you,” Daisuke assures, setting down his clipboard and closing the cabinet he was inventorying. “Maybe even a minute. If you play your cards right.”

“Epic, c’mon,” you grab his hands, pulling him over to sit down, “Let’s talk.”

He doesn’t let go of your hands, flipping them over, brushing his thumbs over your palms. He’s staring so hard at them, you’re almost worried he’s going to burn holes into your skin. “Talk about what?”

“About why you, my precious little poet, have been avoiding me,” you tell him, staring him directly in the eyes.

You’re so over dancing around everybody and you’ve learned that, especially with Daisuke, straight up communication to get to the root of the problem is easiest. It might hurt a little to get the truth out, but it’s like waxing: it hurts, but it gets the root out.

“I…Have been,” he admits, only after heavily debating denying it. There’s no point, you’ve learned to read him easier than you do his poetry. “I apologize, Teacup.”

“Apology accepted,” you promise, smiling softly, taking one of your hands back to set it on his cheek, tracing your fingers over the smattering of freckles that paint his skin.

He wraps a hand around your wrist, holding it to his cheek. His head tilts, pressing his lips to your palm. His lips are soft, like porcelain, against your skin, and warm, like a cup of tea.

“You haven’t been avoiding me because you’ve been mad at me right?” you ask, unable to resist the urge. You want all the feelings out right now.

“Why in the world would I be mad at you?” he asks right back, sounding almost offended at the prospect of him being mad at you. How could he ever be upset with his muse?

“...Because I dropped a cup?” you remind, pouting at his offense. He can’t be offended! You broke a cup, he should be mad. God, you remember the look he gave you the day you chipped him; it still haunts you.

“Oh. Oh, no, I’m not mad at you for that,” he promises, pulling you into his lap. He holds you like you’re fragile, a treasure to be treated with care. “That was an accident, how could I be mad at you for that?”

He rests his chin on your chest, looking up at you with the widest, sweetest puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen. “I did think about making you use paperware, however. Or perhaps some of the children’s plates; the ones with suction bottoms.”

You laugh, kissing the top of his head, “That’s fair,” you agree, pulling the teacup from his hair, ruffling his hair into place. “That still doesn’t explain why you’ve been avoiding me,” you point out, brushing your fingers through the ends of his hair.

“I feel guilty. About that night,” he murmurs, his eyes glassing over as he thinks back to that night.

He feels like throwing up every time he remembers the way the cup had sliced through the delicate skin of your palms. The way the clearness of the glass became red with your blood. He was--is--angry about the broken cup. Though, at himself and not you, like you’d assumed.

“You were hurt because of me,” he brushes his thumbs over your palms, feeling every callous, ridge, and line.

“I was hurt because I freaked out and made the dumb decision to try and pick up glass with my bare hands in the midst of a panic attack,” you tell him, a slightly self-deprecating chuckle leaving your lips, “Look, not even a scar.”

You flip your hands over, presenting him with your unscarred palms. Daisuke traces his fingertips over each line of your palms, sending tingles through your veins. He pauses, pressing his thumb against a specific spot.

“Where’d this one come from?” he asks, dragging his fingernail over the rough spot of tissue.

“A scrap from when I was a kid, wiped out at the pool, took a chunk from my palm and busted my chin, see?” you tilt your head up to show him the scar that remains from the result of your childhood clumsiness.

“Ah, so not my fault?” he whispers, lightly pressing his lips to your chin.

“Not your fault,” you confirm, scrunching your nose up at the kiss. The scar is still tender, making the kiss ticklish.

He pulls your sleeve up, tapping a grey spot on your arm, silently requesting an explanation, “Oh, yeah.. That one,” you roll your eyes, annoyed at the memory, “Some jerk in middle school stabbed me with a pencil.”

His eyes darken slightly, but he doesn’t comment further on that, pinching the scar just above your elbow, “Another fall. I tried skateboarding, once upon a time. Did not end well.”

He hums in response, moving to your other arm, twisting it around carefully. Daisuke caresses a mark on your inner arms, looking up at you briefly, “A burn mark; I accidentally bumped my arm against the top of the oven while I was trying to pull out cookies.”

“You’re quite chipped, teacup,” he remarks, setting his hands atop your thighs, pulling you closer to him, “And strong. You’re so strong.”

“That’s because the chips make me stronger,” you say, resting your head on top of his, nuzzling your nose into his hair, “Is that cliché to say?”

“Slightly, mayhap, but it’s true,” Daisuke concurs, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, his breath fanning across your skin, “Every chip has a story, the very story that creates you. I’m glad to be a part of that story.”

“I’m glad you’re a part of my story too,” you whisper, letting your eyes fall shut, “Just promise me you’re not going to make me use silicone dishware. I hate the feeling of them.”

He laughs airily, lightly pressing a kiss to your neck, “I won’t make you use silicone dishware,” he promises, giving you a slight squeeze. “No promises about paper, though,” he adds under his breath.

You bark a laugh, shoving his shoulder, “Daisuke!”

Chapter Text

Dorian watches from the front row as you beg Skylar for an answer, watching as you break down in front of everybody. You’re crying and yelling, unravelling at the seams. He doesn’t know what to do; he’s thought he was the strong one, but he never realized that there was someone ten times stronger beside him the whole time and they were cracking. Crumbling apart until you shattered.

He stands up, skipping the three steps up the stage, trying to cut down any distance. He needs to get to you. “You’re right,” Dorian says, keeping a blank expression, “We were scared and it made us selfish. All we thought about was ourselves.”

You deserve the truth. You deserve to know how selfish they all are. How selfish he is.

You can’t seem to find the words, only nodding at him in response. Dorian begins approaching, keeping his steps slow and light, like coming up to a skittish animal. You’re looking at him like you don’t recognize him.

He pulls you into his arms, tucking you against his wide frame. You protest weakly, smacking against his chest until you’re too tired to continue fighting, “Fuck you.”

He doesn’t apologize, nor does his grip on you falter. He holds you the way he always does, like he’s scared he might lose you if he lets go. For once, he’s worried that might be the case.

“Don’t leave again, please. I can't do this.”

He’s almost worried you might hear the way his heart shatters. He holds you tighter, letting you exhaust yourself. Dorian can feel your weight slump against him, adjusting you to scoop you up, carrying you to bed.

He watches over you while you sleep, ignoring the way his heart twists with every whimper that leaves you. He can only hope you aren’t having a nightmare again. He’s had a chat or two himself with the shadowy entity that is nightmares; she’s entirely unpleasant.

------------

Dorian finds himself struggling over the weeks. He’s everywhere, literally. Every time you enter a room, you have to pass him. Most of the time, you simply compress, bringing your shoulders in and shuffling through the doorway awkwardly, like you’d rather die than touch him.

He keeps up with his jokes, even letting out the occasional ‘whee’ when you open him, trying to draw out that laugh of yours. Sometimes it works, gaining him a pity laugh.

Dorian has been waiting for somebody to crack. For anybody to acknowledge the elephant in the room. It’s been four weeks since you’ve asked them for space. Four weeks! And while he’s more than happy to comply with your boundaries, as you had his, he can’t deny the way his skin crawls.

The first to crack is Skylar. There’s a handful of the dateables gathered in the kitchen, watching Skylar pace like a caged tiger, biting at the ends of her hair. She’s suggesting that everyone starts doing small gestures, helping around the house in small, but meaningful ways.

Nobody steps forward, looking around the room hesitantly like they're looking for someone to be the brave one. Dorian steps forward, running a hand through his hair. It’s not a horrible idea and he feels bad for the glasses.

“I suppose I’m in.”

He doesn’t have time to dodge before Skylar jumps into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a kiss to his cheek that leaves lipstick behind, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she cheers, releasing him and stepping back.

Dorian’s agreement caused a chain reaction, others coming forward to agree to help. The plan is set into motion. Dorian, the gentleman he is, doesn’t have to change anything; he continues to open himself for you, making small talk in a tone an octave softer than the one he uses for anyone else.

------------

He’s at the foot of your bed with Skylar, Phoenicia, and Betty, watching you sleep. It’s only slightly creepy. Skylar is, once more, fretting over something. He’s not too focused on her right now, more so paying attention to you.

Dorian sits down next to you on the bed, setting a hand on your head, then your forehead, and cheeks, and neck. His thumb brushes over the pulse point in your neck, feeling the strong pumping of your blood thrum under the skin. It’s soothing, feeling it beat under his fingers. A pulse means you're alive.

“Should we make the gestures bigger?” he hears Skylar ask, momentarily stealing his attention from your sleeping form.

He stands up, walking back over to the door. He’s had his share of being near you, lest he be greedy. “I thought the point of the gestures was to make their day better, not to be noticed,” he comments, holding his clasped hands in front of him.

If the house were to start making bigger gestures, ones bound to disrupt your day, their whole purpose would come undone, pointing back to one thing: selfishness. The one thing that got them into this whole thing to begin with.

Dorian steps aside to allow Betty to escort Skylar out of the room. He doesn’t fall asleep, he can’t. He spends the whole night watching over you, never moving from his post.

------------

“Heyyyyy, Dorian,” he’s snapped out of his reverie by a pattering of hands against his chest, blinking the film from his eyes to find you standing in front of him.

“Morning, love,” he greets you with a smile, catching both of your wrists, putting a stop to your chest-bongo session, “You’re peppy.”

“Thank you for noticing, I’m in a fantabulous mood,” you inform him, doing a little spin to show off your outfit. “I even got dressed.”

“I can see that,” he nods, taking in the outfit. It’s a smart outfit: a dashing red shirt and actual pants instead of your normal lounging around pants. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you again, I feel lovely,” you smile at him, but he notices it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. There’s a pinch in your brows too. He notices, he always does when it’s you.

“I promised I’d help Lady Memoria with something today, so I will see you in approximately thirty seconds when I get up to the attic,” you’re kissing him before he can even question it, scratching his beard like he’s a cat and skipping off without another word.

You kissed him today, the first time in over four weeks. He thought he’d be happier about it, but he’s not. All he can feel is a pit in his stomach and a you-shaped hole in his heart. The others notice it too.

It’s like there’s a switch that’s been flipped; you’ve gone from roommate to lover overnight. In the back of Dorian’s mind, he can’t help but wonder if this is what it felt like for you, to have the one you love change 180 in a matter of days.

Dorian listens as Mayor Celia and Skylar talk about what possibly could’ve happened overnight that made you decide to start your affections back up again and none of it is good. He pushes himself up straight, clearing his throat, “Might I suggest we talk to them this time, instead of dancing around it like a bunch of idiots?”

Mayor Celia looks over at him and nods, a passive smile on her lips, “I believe that’d be for the best, Dorian.”

He’s silent as you get coaxed into the living room, the dateables surrounding you like this is some sort of intervention. Skylar is the one who speaks to you, using a soft tone and kind words.

“I just… I don’t know, I figured I’ve been avoiding all of you long enough,” you say and something in him snaps. He wants to shake you until you get it through that thick, lovely skull of yours that you’re not doing anything wrong.

He settles for using his words instead, speaking through a clenched jaw, “You haven’t been ignoring us, though, love,” Dorian points out, staring at you scrutinizingly, “You asked for space and we were all happy to provide it.”

You argue with him anyway, but others jump in before he can say anything else. It wears you down because you finally admit what’s wrong: Doug. When he gets his hands on that slimy ball, he’s going to strangle him. With his bare hands. And enjoy it a little bit (a lot).

He blinks and you’re being hugged by people. He hovers in the back of the crowd, but ultimately decides to join in, sitting down on the couch next to you, setting a hand on the small of your back, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

You curl up with him when you start the movie for Movie Night™, resting your head on his chest. Your weight is soothing, even if his arm starts to prickle with sleep halfway through. After several ridiculous animated movies (including The Lego Movie, The Lego Movie 2, The Lego Batman Movie, some show called Ninjago?, and KPop Demon Hunters) everyone decided it’s time to turn in.

Dorian looks down at you, only to find you already looking at him, a tired smile on your lips, “I missed you,” you whisper to him, snaking your arms around his middle.

“I missed you too, love,” more than you could ever know. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “Do you want me to strangle Doug? I’d do it.”

That makes you laugh, a real laugh, burying your face in his chest, “As tempted as I am to say yes, I don’t think you’re allowed to kill existential dread.”

“I could try,” he states, shifting his arm from out behind you with a groan, flexing his tingly fingers, “Let’s get you in bed, yeah?”

“Mmm, I suppose,” you nod, rolling off of the couch with a dramatic groan. He holds his hand out for you to take, feeling his chest loosen when you take it.

Dorian leads you upstairs, pausing in the doorway, “G’night, love,” he kisses your forehead, going to leave, but a hand around his wrist stops him.

“Stay?”

It’s such a simple request, one word, but it breaks him down. Your words echo in his mind: Don’t leave again, please. I can't do this. You sounded so heartbroken, so tired, so betrayed. He promised to stay, so stay he shall.

“Of course,” he nods, entering the room with you.

It’s hushed as the two of you enter the room, Dorian guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed. His hands slip under your shirt, slowly pulling it off of you. You do the same for him, unbuttoning his shirt with care.

You’re bare in front of him, moonlight filtering through Curt and Rod, illuminating your features. He stands between your legs, feeling stripped in more than one way, as raw as he was when he was a strong oak in the forest. For once, he doesn't mind it, doesn't mind being vulnerable if it means being with you. He wants you to see him like this.

Dorian can feel your thumbs brushing over his sides, your forehead pressed against his stomach. He wants to stay like this forever, he thinks. It’s selfish, but he can’t help it. Not when it’s you. Your hands slide up his sides, fingers dancing over the tattoos that paint his skin.

“Did these hurt?” you whisper, resting your chin on his stomach, looking up at him.

“A little bit,” Dorian admits, setting a hand on your cheek, tenderly caressing your skin, “Why, thinking about getting one?”

You snort, rolling your eyes at him, “Maybe, you never know,” you shrug slightly, pulling down onto the bed.

He climbs into bed with you, settling in on the right side. He pulls you to his chest, resting his head atop yours. Your arms curl around him, your breath fanning across his chest. Crickets chirp somewhere outside the window, leaves rustle.

Silence falls over the two of you again and your breathing has evened out, so he’s assumed you’ve fallen asleep. He’s proven wrong when your voice breaks:

“You promise to stay?”

“Always, love. Always.”

Chapter Text

Captain Jacques Pierrot: a fearsome pirate that makes men shudder at the mere mention of his name, a gruesome (speculative) killer, and the lover of many. Though, there is only one that truly holds the key to his heart.

That’d be you. His darling, his partner in adventure, his most favorite victim to endow stabbings upon.

“Oh, Captain Jaaaacques, where art thou?” your voice breaks through the bustling noise of the deck, his cockroach army busy at work.

Jacques comes down the stairs, joining you on the lower deck, “I didn’t realize you were visiting today,” he comments, taking your hands and bringing it to his lips.

“But it’s Friday?” you point out, brows furrowing slightly. Every Friday, you come visit him on his ship and the two of you have a sword duel (that you may or may not let him win, occasionally).

“Ah, is it? I didn’t realize,” he mumbles, looking away from you to bark an order at one of his cockroaches.

You don’t believe him, not for a minute. Normally, he’s counting down the minutes until battle time, hiding around the ship to ambush you, “Oh…Well, shall we?” You wave your toothpick sword through the air. You guys created it together, using spare craft supplies to make it pretty.

“Sorry, I’m busy, my heart, captain-ly duties,” he states, shouting at one of his crewmates for not swabbing his deck to his liking, “We can reschedule.”

“I guess so,” you shrug, narrowing your eyes at the captain. You sheathe the toothpick sword, frowning, “I won’t keep you then, goodbye, my love,” you hum, leaning down to kiss his cheek, hoping to fluster the pirate.

He barely reacts, waving a hand through the air, “Uh-huh, bye,” then he’s hobbling off to go chew somebody--somebuggy--out.

------------

Jacques watches over his shoulder as you leave, feeling annoyingly guilty at the sight of your pouty expression. He loves dueling with you, it’s the highlight of his week (even if he has to let you win sometimes).

However, sword fighting puts your life in danger, even if he goes easy on you, or if he were to use a foam sword. You’ve gone through the efforts to win his heart, he refuses to drive a sword through yours.

He turns his attention back to his crew, who are all watching you, “Oye, back to work, you bugs!”

------------

You come back the next day, pouncing on the captain when his back is turned, muttering to himself while he charts out maps, “Fight me,” you order playfully, wrapping your arms around his neck in a loose headlock.

Jacques laughs, remaining unperturbed despite the headlock, “Nice try, firstmate, I heard you come in,” he tells you, patting your arm.

“Son of a bitch!” you whine, stomping your foot like a child, “I was quiet.”

“You were quiet, but you can’t one up the master,” Jacques assures you, almost condescendingly. He peels your arms off him, reaching up to pat your cheek in consolation.

He sets a hand on your lower back, leading you out of the room, “Try again another day, my heart.”

You scoff, throwing your hands up, entirely appalled that he just kicked you off his ship. Rude! You look over to the invisible camera, The Office style, raising your brows.

It hits you what exactly is going on: that tater tot is avoiding fighting you because he’s scared of hurting you. Which is really surprising because you didn’t realize he was afraid of anything. You tap your fingertips together, eyes narrowing.

“Captain Jacques Pierrot, you will fight me again,” you declare to no one specific, but you notice Dante standing behind you. “Don’t ask,” you snort, kissing the hottie’s cheek, “Love you!”

You skip off before he can answer, pushing the dateviators higher up your nose. You need to create a plan. Normally, you’d go to Jacques to help, but considering he’s the one you’re plotting against, it’s probably not the smartest thing to do.

You set off, visiting a couple of your battle-worn lovers: Kristof, Chance (who isn’t violent himself, but his sessions can be surprisingly ferocious), and Tydus. They all have one suggestion: anger. Jacques is a tiny man with a lot of anger, if you push him hard enough, he’s sure to crack.

You feel bad about it, but it has to be done! You sneak onto the ship, sword held low by your hip. Most of the crew is off deck by now, probably off for lunch. You slip into the messhall, finding Jacques standing at the front of the room, rambling on about their future endeavors.

It’s cute, watching him being so passionate about his sailing. It’s one of the many things you love about him. You can’t get distracted by that, though. You slink through the shadows, tiptoeing closer to him.

Then, you pounce. You jump onto him, tackling him to the ground, sword pointed at him, “Fight me or die, Captain,” you demand, using an admittedly slightly ridiculous accent!

Jacques growls, taken off guard by the sneak attack. He goes to shove whoever dares to attack him before he realizes it’s you, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“One upping the master,” you inform him, smirking at the captain. ‘Can’t sneak up on the master,’ bullshit. “You are going to fight me.”

“I think not,” he flips your position, taking over on top, flicking the brim of his hat out of his face, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Exactly!” you groan in annoyance, smacking his forehead with the hand not holding onto your sword, “You’re not going to hurt me. You never do,” you whisper, hoping to Rongomaiwhenua he gets the hint.

The gears in his head seem to start churning, a lightbulb going off over his head, “Ah… You’re right,” he nods, rolling off of you, standing up and offering you a hand.

You take it, helping yourself up, “Soooo…” your brows raise, looking at him expectantly.

“Soooo…” he echoes, narrowing his eyes at you, a smirk spreading across his lips, “En garde,” he pulls his sword, raising it up.

“En garde,” you parrot, raising your toothpick and clashing it against his cocktail sword.

The crew cheers as the two of you maneuver around the room, moving out of the way when you jump onto tables. They whoop as you start to back out of the room, still dueling…just taking the fight somewhere else.

------------

“I let you win,” Jacques announces, his hair spread across the pillows.

You gasp, utterly offended at that, “You did not! I won fair and square,” you retort, swatting his chest.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he drawls, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. He brushes his hand over his cheek, “Consider it an apology for being a bad captain to my first mate.”

You lean into his hand, still scowling at him, “Ok, apology accepted, but I still beat you- Fairly!” you giggle, flicking his nose.

“Mhm, maybe we should have a rematch,” he suggests, wrapping an arm around you and bringing you in closer

“Maybe we should,” you agree, scooting closer to him, “Round two?”

“Round two,” he nods, leaning in.

He snatches your sword from the bedside table, pushing you off the bed to get the upper hand. You yelp, recuperating as quickly as you can, tossing a pillow at him in retaliation.

Round two begins.

Chapter Text

“Skylar, Skylar, Skylar…” you repeat to an empty room, spinning around in circles, wobbling slightly.

You’re kind of hoping that saying her name enough will summon her like Beetlejuice, but so far, your efforts have been for naught. Her app hasn’t been working and you can’t exactly dateviate the dateviators.

You’re not sure if she’s purposefully doing it or if Phoenicia is in need of another update. You groan, pulling your phone out; she’s not warm, so that’s a good sign.. You think. You click on Phonecia’s app, backing up slightly when she pops up.

“Good morningggg, my love,” Phoenicia beams, wrapping you in a tight hug, “What hot goss can I fill you in on?”

“Morning, Phoenicia, I actually need help with something,” you tell her, hugging her back, “Are you ok, Sky’s app isn’t working and I wanted to make sure you were ok.”

“Oh, yeah, honey! I’m peachy,” she assures you, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, “I don’t know why Sky’s app isn’t working. I can go check on her, give me two minutes and I’ll be right back with that pretty, little lady!”

You nod, shuffling your weight nervously, waiting for Phoenicia to return. You pop your lips, rocking between the balls of your feet and your heels. She returns with a grim look on her face, and you internally start freaking out… Maybe a little externally too.

“Oh, my god. Where is she? Is she okay? Did her suspension of disbelief break again?” you try to peak over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of a certain pink haired woman.

“Sweetheart, calm down. She’s resting. Her suspension of disbelief is fine, but--”

“But?” you ask a little too loudly, interrupting Phoenicia, which gains you a smack on the back of the head, “Sorry. Continue.”

“Mhm.. Anyway, as I was saying she’s sick--”

“Sick!?” you exclaim, staring at Phoenicia like she might’ve personally inflicted Skylar with the plague. You get smacked again, a little harder this time.

“Quit interrupting me!” she orders, glaring at you, “Again, as I was saying. She’s sick. I think she’s been overworking herself.”

Your mouth opens to interrupt her again, but she pins you with a stern look and you think otherwise, allowing her to continue.

“As you’re aware, she was the one who initially suggested avoiding you and I know we apologized, but she still feels guilty, so she’s been working overtime to make sure everything is working in pristine condition,” she explains, rubbing her thumbs in soothing circles on your arms, “You can speak now.”

You release the breath you were holding, your entire chest deflating, “Can I see her?” is all you ask, deciding to spare your lovely phone your barrage of questions.

“I think she’d like that,” Phoenicia nods, taking your hand and leading you to Skylar’s room/apartment thing.

You know that all of the dateables have their own place, but you’ve only ever actually been to Eddie and Volt’s place, since it’s right above the bar. Phoenicia releases your hand, gesturing towards the door, which you can hear coughing and sniffling coming from inside the room.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Always happy to help,” she smiles, kissing the corner of your mouth before taking her leave.

You knock on Skylar’s door, slowly opening it, “Sky, honey bee, you in here?” you peek into the room, frowning slightly at the pile of blankets on the bed, the only sight of life being tufts of pink hair poking out.

“Noooo, go away, I’m sick,” she groans, her voice stuffy and nasally.

You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you’d be able to get sick from her, but you push forward. Even if you can, it’d be worth it. You shut the door behind you, sitting down on the edge of her bed, taking the time to look around her room.

“Hey, Sky.. Heard you were feeling under the weather,” you murmur, setting a hand on the lump of blankets, hoping that she can feel it. “Your white knight is here to nurse you back to health.”

She finally pops her head out, looking all sorts of pathetic: red and runny nose, bag under her glassy eyes, the works. She pouts at you, seemingly trying to glare at you in disapproval, “I don’t want to get you sick.”

“Can you even get me sick? I mean, how would that work?” you wonder, laying down in bed with her. You set a hand on her forehead, wincing at the warmth coming off of her, “Oh, honey bee, you’re burning up.”

“I know, I’ve been trying to sweat it out,” she mumbles, grabbing your hand, pressing it to her chest to cuddle with it.

“Do you need anything?” you ask quietly, brushing your free hand through her slightly damp hair, lightly scratching her scalp.

“No…I just want you,” she admits, reaching out for, pulling you into her chest like her own personal stuffed animal. She blearily nuzzles against your chest, squishing her cheek into your skin.

“That works,” you chuckle, curling up with her. You rest your head on top of her head, sighing softly.

“Night-night,” she slurs, eyes fluttering shut, quiet snores leaving her.

You fall asleep shortly after her, surprisingly lulled by her little snores. You don’t know how long you're asleep before you're jostled awake by Skylar rushing out of bed, the sound of heaving following shortly after.

You toss the covers off of you, following her into the bathroom, watching her lean over the toilet. You come up behind her, gathering her hair in your hands, holding it back for her. It’s over as quickly as it started, leaving Skylar resting her forehead against the rim of the bowl. It takes you a second to realize that she’s crying.

“Oh, Sky… Hey, it’s okay,” you whisper, sitting down on the floor next to you, rubbing circles onto her back. You get it, you cry every time you get sick too.

“No, it’s not okay,” she argues weakly, watching her tears hit the bathroom tile.

------------

“It is. It’ll be okay, it’s probably just a twenty-four hour stomach bug,” you tell her, still rubbing her back.

The genuine care in your tone makes her sick to her stomach- again. You’ve always been so good to her, to everybody, even after all they did to you. She reaches behind herself, weakly pushing your hand away. She doesn’t deserve your comfort.

“It’s not okay!” she exclaims, sobbing into her arm, “How can you still look at me after everything that’s happened?”

If she hadn’t been such an idiot with an idiot-er idea, then you never would’ve gotten hurt. Everybody would still be happy.

“Sky--”

“No, no, no! Don’t you ‘Sky’ me,” she scoffs, swatting your outreaching arm, “what I did was horrible. I’d hate me. I’m pretty sure some of the dateables hate me, I get it.”

She sniffles, growing more annoyed at herself and her stupid clogged nostrils and the way the lights are making her head spin and you. Stupidly perfect you, with your concerned puppy dog eyes and caring smile and sweet tone. If you were even slightly less lovely, life would be so much easier because she wouldn’t feel like major shit!

“I-I-I.. I’m horrible!” she mumbles, knocking her forehead back against the porcelain.

------------

“Skylar, you’re not horrible,” you tell her, setting a hand on her thigh, brushing your thumb over the fabric of her fuzzy pajama pants, “And nobody hates you: not me, not the dateables, and I really hope not yourself.”

When she doesn’t immediately reject the hand on her thigh, you slowly pull her into your lap, cradling her like a treasure. You brush your hands through her hair, resting your chin on her shoulder.

“It’s just the sickness talking, okay? You’re being dramatic,” you add, carefully rocking the two of you back and forth.

“It’s not,” she denies, shaking her head, accidentally bumping your heads together. You wince, but don’t move, not wanting to spook her.

“It is,” you insist, lightly kissing her shoulder before moving her out of your lap and standing up. You help her up, letting her lean against the counter. “You are going to brush your teeth and lay back down and I am going to go see if I can get Stefan to whip up some soup.”

Skylar wants to argue, she really does, but she doesn’t have the energy. It’s probably for the best anyway and soup does sound really good, “Okay.”

“Okay,” you parrot, kissing her hot forehead before leaving her alone in the bathroom.

You return a little over twenty minutes later, finding Skylar asleep in bed again. You peel some of the blankets back, pressing a hand to her forehead; she feels less warm than she did earlier, so that’s good.

“Mmm, your back,” she mumbles sleepily, cracking one of her eyes open. She perks up when she sees the bowls of soup, “Chicken noodle, no celery?”

“Ahh, no. It’s actually split pea and celery soup, Stefan said he wanted to try something new,” you tell her apologetically, a solemn look on your face. It cracks when she stares at you like you’ve grown three heads, “Kidding, it’s chicken noodle.”

“You’re so mean,” she huffs, sitting up in bed, “I could be dying and you’re teasing me.”

“Does it help if I said that I brought rolls?” you ask, sitting down on the bed in front of her, setting a tray down between the two of you, placing the food down.

“A little,” she nods, taking the spoon you hold out for her, “Thank you.”

“Mhm, happy to help,” you tell her, ripping one of your rolls in half, dipping it into your bowl of soup, “You feel any better? You didn’t feel as warm as you were.”

“Yeah, I think puking actually helped,” Skylar whispers, more focused on slurping up the soup like a heathen, “Mm-mm-mm, this is really good.”

“Yeah, Stefan always delivers. I’ll have to get him to give me his recipe one day,” you agree, following Skylar’s example and ditching the spoon.

“Ha! I don’t think he loves you enough for that,” she giggles, tearing a chunk of her roll off and tossing it at you, bouncing it off your forehead.

You scoff indignantly, tossing it back at her with a snort, “Yeahhh, I know. He may love me, but he’ll take those recipes to the grave,” you sigh wistfully, setting your bowl down. “As long as he keeps making them for me, that’s fine.”

“Exactlyyyy, I rue the day he stops cooking for us,” she nods slowly, eyes shut in bliss as she finishes up the last dredges of her soup, setting the empty bowl on her bedside table.

“Let’s hope nobody pisses him off enough that he cuts us off.” You finish shortly after her, moving the tray to the floor.

You scoot forward a little, taking her hands in yours, brushing your thumbs over her knuckles, “Do you want to talk about earlier?”

Skylar tilts her head away from you, refusing to meet your gaze, “Not really.” She chews on her bottom lip, sighing, “But we should.”

“Yeah, we should, do you want to start or should I?” you ask, grabbing a blanket to drape over your laps.

------------

“I’ll start,” she tells you, fiddling with a fraying string on the blanket, pulling at it until it snaps. “You obviously know how I feel about…everything and the role I played in it..”

She sighs, finally looking at you again. She reaches over, setting a hand on your cheek, caressing your skin. You’re so sweet it makes her teeth ache, “I made a stupid decision out of selfishness and that hurt you and I’m so, so sorry.”

Her voice cracks, tears welling up in her eyes, but she pushes forward, “I know that I’ve apologized, probably a million times by now, but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough- it’s not enough. You said it yourself, apologies aren’t just a fast track to making everything right.”

Her breathing shudders, wiping her tears off with her sleeve, “That’s why I’ve been working so hard, y’know? To make sure everything is perfect for you, making sure everyone is running at their peak.”

“Sky, honey bee, that’s not your responsibility,” you murmur, leaning into her palm, mirroring the gesture and putting a hand on her cheek, swiping away a stray tear she missed.

“I know, but I feel like it is. I’m trying to prove to you that I still deserve your love,” she presses her face into your palm, nuzzling against it, “I’ve been trying to prove to myself that I still deserve your love.”

There, she said it and she didn’t spontaneously combust. That’s a good sign. She finally takes a breath, focusing on the feeling of your hand on her face.

------------

You just want to squeeze Skylar so tight right now, wrap her up in a hug and only let her go once she realizes that she’s always worthy of your love. You scoot over to her, pulling her into the tightest hug you can manage.

“Honey bee, of course you’re deserving of my love,” you promise, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “I love you, okay?”

“But--... nevermind, okay,” she nods, burying her face into your shoulder.

The two of you lay back down, limbs entangled with each other. Your hand runs through Skylar’s hair, scratching her scalp.

“I still can’t believe that you’re not mad at me,” she mumbles into your skin.

“Uh oh,” you gasp, pulling her away from you, looking at her with a grime expression.

“What?” she looks worried now, pink brows pinching together.

“I think your suspension of disbelief is broken again,” you tell her, pursing your lips and shaking your head like a doctor who just delivered a horrible prognosis.

Her worried expression drops, now looking annoyed at you, “Seriously? I thought there was something wrong!”

“There is! It’s broken!” you exclaim, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her lightly.

“It’s not!” she retorts, smacking your shoulder.

“Then take your disbelief and suspend it!” you quip, pursing your lips to try and keep your serious facade up, “Because I’m not mad at you.” You finally break, a smile replacing the thin line your lips were in, booping her nose, “I promise.”

“You’re an idiot,” she scoffs, booping your nose back.

“You’re a bigger idiot, considering you think that I should be mad at you,” you point out, flicking her nose.

“Hey!” she rubs the tip of her nose, pouting at you.

“Is your disbelief suspended?” you ask, narrowing your eyes, holding your hands up in a clawed position, ready to tickle if necessary.

Skylar’s eyes widen when she realizes what that threatening motion is, “It’s suspended!” she promises.

You sic the claws on her anyway, tickling her sides while she squirms and squeals, “I didn’t hear you! What’s been suspended?”

“My disbelief!” she squeaks, trying to wiggle her way away from the torture.

“Your disbelief of what?” you question, hooking a leg over her hip to keep her in place.

“That you're not mad at me and still love me,” she answers quickly, face turning red, “I deserve your love and you're not mad at me.”

The tickling stops once she finally admits it, a pleased smile on your face. You squeeze her tightly, kissing her forehead, “That’s right. You deserve love and I’m not mad at you.”

She pants, pushing you away, “You’re mean,” she huffs, sticking her tongue out at you like a child.

“I know, I’m so evil,” you giggle, pulling her back into a hug.

“The evil-ist.”

She cuddles into your chest, finally catching her breath, letting her eyes fall shut. You can’t tell if she’s tired from the sickness or if you wore her out. Either way, it’s probably a good idea for her to get some rest.

“I love you,” you whisper, pulling the blankets over the two of you.

She doesn’t hesitate this time or argue that you shouldn’t, “I love you too.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, loser,” Tina pops up, looking as angular as ever, “I was wondering when you’d finally come visit me again.”

“Hi, yeah…sorry. It’s been hectic,” you apologize, scratching the back of your neck awkwardly. In the midst of everything, Tina did kind of get neglected.

“Uh-huh, yeah, ‘hectic,’” she air quotes hectic, rolling her eyes, “If by hectic you mean that everybody was a little dramatic over a movie and you decided to steal my drama queen crown and break down, then sure, it’s been ‘hectic.’”

Tina regrets the words the second they fall out of her mouth, spine straightening to an angle you know was possible. She watches your reaction, wanting to smack herself when she sees the way your smile falters.

“That’s not what I--”

You interrupt her, not wanting to hear her excuse, “It’s fine, you’re right, I’ve been super dramatic.”

“No--” she doesn’t get to finish because you’re walking off.

“Son of a bitch,” she swears, stomping her foot and running a hand down her face.

She didn’t mean to call you dramatic, or she did, she just worded it wrong. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she was a little butt hurt over the fact that you forgot about her during all the drama. But that doesn’t give her the right to call you dramatic when your reaction was completely rational.

She’ll make it up to you.

#2:
Tina’s always been fine with being in the closet, less people to bug her, but it’s also harder to interact with you. And it’s so easy for you to avoid her, which she’s pretty sure you’re doing, considering she hasn’t seen you in three days.

She’s been stuck venting in her diary, writing about that stupid face you made and how you made her cold heart crack like tempered glass getting smacked with a hammer. Stupid you with your stupid wide eyes and stupidly heartbreaking pout.

A hand lands on her shoulder, making her toss her diary up, whipping around to chew out whoever dares interrupt her sexy brooding (pouting). Then she sees it’s you and her entire demeanor melts.

“Oh! Hey, sexy! What have I told you about sneaking up on me like that?” Her tone is sickly sweet, trying not to sound like a total bitch.

She sets a hand on your arm, taking the time to fondle your bicep, “Lucky for you, I’m in a good mood, so I’ll forgive you as long as you stick around to watch Love Triangle Island with me.”

------------

“Oh…yeah, lucky me,” you nod, chewing on your bottom lip, picking at the dry skin.

You weren't necessarily looking for an apology, but it stings that she doesn’t even acknowledge what happened last time. In fact, she wants an apology because you scared her. Maybe if she was a little more observant…

You sit down on her couch, your whole body stiff as the intro to L.T.I starts. You’re not a huge fan of the show; it’s toxic and gross and not a single one of these couples ever makes it out of the villa, but Tina likes it, so you put up with it.

Tina’s shoulder presses into yours, leaning closer to you, so she can fill you in on what’s happened the past few episodes you missed:

“Ok, so Samantha and Jeremy broke up last episode because Samantha kissed Elladine- Elladine, is a bombshell who replaced Cora--who got voted off because she was a total biatch and deserved it--in the Zack and Jack triangle. Zack and Jack aren’t mad at Elladine because they’re lowkey into the whole foursome thing. Which is totally get, the more the merrier, y’know?”

She pauses, looking over to make sure you’re listening, which you are…Kind of, ish. “Or, I guess you don’t know, since you couldn’t find a third for us. Which I don’t get, considering there’s like a hundred of us in the house.”

------------

Tina smirks, obviously teasing you. She’s perfectly fine without having a third in your relationship. She wasn’t, at first, but she’s come to love you all the same, and it’s not like she doesn’t have other relationships! She got her threesome with that little ginger freak and that absolute bombshell Reggie.

“I mean seriously, there was one thing I wanted and you couldn't do that,” she clicks her tongue, shaking her head, her earrings jingling quietly.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, bottom lip trembling, “I just…I don’t know.”

Her head whips away from the TV when she hears the strain in your voice, stunned by your wobbling lip. Oh, god, what’d she say wrong this time!? She was teasing! She was!

“No, no, no, it’s okay! I swear, I like our relationship. Honestly, having multiple lovers at once is tiring, you’re a breath of fresh air,” she insists, grabbing your wrists when you stand up, not wanting you to leave without allowing her to correct herself.

“I mean, god, that hanger freak is exhausting, I didn’t realize I could be out-flirted,” she groans, pulling you between her legs, “And don’t even get me started on Reggie, I can’t stand being out bitched.”

Your hand smooths over her bangs and she barely resists the urge to smack your hand away from her perfect style. “I was just teasing, I promise.”

“Okay, I’m sorry for overreacting,” you squeak and she wants to smack all the apologies right from your lips.

You leave with glassy eyes for the second time in the past week and Tina almost feels like crying herself.

#3:
Tina is going to apologize and she’s going to do it properly. Granted that’s what she thought last time and look where that got her. Whatever, she’s good at this. She’ll totally get you to accept her apology- No! This is about apologizing to you, not getting you to accept it.

“You’re going to make me sick with your pacing, beautiful,” Amir tells Tina, who’s been pacing in front of the mirror, rehearsing her apology for the past thirty minutes.

“Not sorry,” she mutters, blowing on her freshly filed nails, “Does it sound good?”

“It sounds like an apology,” Amir says, eyes flitting back and forth while she continues pacing, “It also sounds like you’ve practiced it.”

“That’s good,” she beams, reading over her prewritten apology again.

“Ehhh,” Amir frowns, rotating his hand in a so-so gesture. “I said it sounds practiced. Practiced isn’t always the best… Apologies should be from the heart.”

“This is from the heart!” Tina scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest, scowling at the mirror (which is not something she does often), “I’m just practicing, so I don’t make a fool of myself…again.”

“Is it from the heart?” Amir asks with a sympathetic look, setting a hand on Tina’s arm, “Because, and take no offense to this, please, it sounds like something taken from Love Triangle Island.”

“It.. Does not!” she exclaims, huffing and looking away from Amir.

She looks down at the paper, muttering the words under her breath:

‘My darling, you’re the one of the only ones for me.’

‘I’ve made some dumb mistakes, but I hope you can find it in you to forgive me.’

Even an ‘I know we can win this.’

Son of a bitch, it doesn’t sound like a Love Triangle Island speech, it is a L.T.I script. She subconsciously copied Jonathon’s (only one of the most iconic contenders on L.T.I) speech to Rebbeca (the hottest bombshell to date).

“I assume you agree?” Amir asks, noticing the way Tina is huffing and rolling her eyes.

“Shut it!” Tina hisses, smacking Amir’s arm, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

Tina stomps off without allowing him to respond, not wanting to be corrected. Tina flops onto her bed, knocking her head into the mattress a couple of times.

“I smell drama,” Reggie says in a sing-song voice, sitting down on the edge of Tina’s bed, setting a hand on her back, “Spill, angle girl.”

“I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to apologize,” Tina answers, her voice muffled by the mattress.

“You’re apologizing?” Reggie scoffs in amusement, laying down on his side next to Tina, “To who?”

“The human,” she looks up at Reggie, scowling at the look of amusement on his face.

“Ah, I suppose if there’s anyone you should be apologizing to, it’s them,” Reggie nods, pulling Tina’s beater from her hair, watching it cascade over her shoulders. “What’d you do this time?”

“I was a bitch,” Tina rolls her eyes when Reggie pulls her hair out of the bun, brushing it over her shoulder, “Like a real bitch and not just my…y’know, normal bitch.”

“Mmm, makes sense,” he hums, pulling Tina’s hair back over her shoulder, brushing his fingers through it. “Now, why can’t you apologize?”

“I tried, once. Ended up making them cry and then I decided to write an apology and turns out, I can’t even do that. I plagiarized Jonathon’s speech to Rebecca,” she admits, letting Reggie play with her hair.

“Oof, I remember that speech,” Reggie groans, twirling braids into Tina’s hair, “Back when Love Triangle Island was actually entertaining.”

“I’m choosing to ignore that,” Tina scoffs, swatting Reggie’s hands away, “Can you leave, I’d like to brood in peace.”

“Fine,” Reggie raises his hands in mock surrender, standing up from the bed, “Hope you can figure it out. Or don’t, either way, I’m in for a treat.”

Tina flips him off, making Reggie laugh, waving as he leaves the room. Tina sighs, rubbing his hands down her face.

How is she supposed to apologize to you if she can’t have an original thought?

#4:
You approach Tina, making sure to knock on the door before coming in, “Hey.”

Tina spins around, her face going from shocked to happy to almost disappointed in two seconds, “Heyyy!”

“Hi,” you nod, awkwardly shuffling in your spot. You’re not quite sure why you came, or if she’s even happy you did.

“Hi!” she echoes, just more cheerfully than you, “Okay, soooo, fill me in.”

“Fill you in?” your brows furrow, confused on what she needs filling into.

“Yeah, the tea? C’mon, we haven’t had one of our drama seshes in foreverrrr,” she groans, taking your hands and leading you onto the bed, pulling you down next to her.

“So, spill,” she orders, setting your hands into her lap, grabbing a random bottle of nail polish off of her sidetable. “Oof, when was the last time you cut your cuticles?”

------------

Tina begins brushing the silver polish onto your nails, making sure to get the perfect angle against your cuticles for the perfect manicure. She decided that instead of a worded apology, she’d show you how sorry she is.

You guys have little ‘tea’ parties every now and then, filling in Tina on the drama around the house that she can’t reach. She enjoys doing them with you; it’s bonding time with you!

“I guess…uhm, nothing’s really happened recently,” you shrug, making her gasp when the nail brush draws to the side, getting nail polish all over your finger.

“C’mon, nothing? Not even a little mishap?” she inquires, cleaning up the nail polish with a bit of acetone. “C’monnnn, you mysterious little thing. Don’t be shy,” she goads.

“I’m being serious, it’s been tame around the house!” you insist, pulling your hand back when the acetone hits a hangnail.

“Hey!” Tina yanks your hand back, rolling her eyes at the messed up polish. “There’s seriously nothing to tell?”

------------

“Tina!” you gasp when she yanks your hand back, pulling it away from her. You wipe the wet nail polish onto your sweatpants, only slightly regretting the action. “Stop!”

“What? Why? You love our little drama seshes,” she frowns, confused by your outburst.

“I do, but not right now!” you throw your hands up, running a hand through your hair, biting down on your bottom lip, “You didn’t even try to ask me what I want to do. Because, honestly, all I wanted to do today was hang out with you without any drama, which I don’t know why, considering all you are is drama, drama, drama.”

She stammers, standing up off the bed. Well, yeah, she likes drama, but she isn’t all drama. “Way to be a bitch!” She sounds almost proud, if she wasn’t so hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you shout, unable to reign in your tone.

------------

You’ve apologized to her twice now and she hasn’t managed to get one apology out. She really does suck at this and you’re right, anyway. She didn’t ask what you wanted to do and she totally deserved that.

“Stop apologizing!” she shouts back, stepping forward to grab you, but you back away from her.

“I’m gonna go,” you mumble, leaving the room before she can stop you.

She gapes, staring at your back, then the empty spot you once stood in. Jesus H. Christ, how does she keep fucking up!? She grabs one of her pillows, screaming into the fluffy material.

#5:
Tina is genuinely on the verge of giving up. She’s over being a total fool and failing at apologizing. She has several other lovers who have absolutely nothing wrong with her drama obsession, so why would she need you?

Stupidly cute, sweet, perfect you. You don’t understand her in the way Reggie does, or the way Hank…3, she thinks, does. You’re not huge on drama or catfights or Love Triangle Island.

Maybe that’s her problem, she settled for someone who doesn’t like anything she does. She pulls out her diary, flipping to an empty page, scribbling out her thoughts.

‘Dear diary, I’m tired of trying to apologize to them.’

‘I can’t do it right.’

‘Not that they make it easy, god they’re infuriating.’

‘Last time we spoke they said I was all ‘drama, drama, drama.’’

‘Which, like, no duh. I made that clear from the beginning, didn’t I?’

‘I’m mad at them now, kinda thinking about breaking up.’

She sighs when she writes the last line, hurriedly erasing it. She doesn’t want to break up with you, not ever. She focuses on doodling your face, making sure to get every angle of it correct. She sighs again, dreamily this time.

She sets her diary down, deciding that she should go visit her drama king and freak prince. Maybe they can help take her mind off of you.

------------

You knock on Tina’s door, ready to apologize for being a jerk yesterday. When she doesn’t answer after a moment, you peek into the room, finding it empty. You sigh softly, entering anyway.

You spy her diary on the top of her comforter and you can’t help yourself. You decide to take a sneaky-peek, just for old times sake. You skin through the pages, occasionally giggling at her ridiculous anecdotes.

You finally reach the most recent entry, tracing your fingers over the pencil doodle of yourself. You smile slightly, going to read the entry. Your eyes catch on the last sentence, trying to read the erased part of the sentence.

Your heart drops when you finally manage to figure out what it says: ‘kinda thinking about breaking up.’ You didn’t realize that you were that bad. Sure, you were a jerk the other day, but you didn’t think it was bad enough that she would want to break up.

You slam her diary shut, tossing it back onto the bed haphazardly, leaving her room before you burst into tears.

------------

Tina returns from her dalliance slightly less satisfied than she hoped to be. She kicks her shoes off, letting her hair down, wholly prepared to settle in bed with a good snack and Love Triangle Island playing.

When she flops down on the bed, she realizes that her diary isn’t in the same place she left it. She assumes that someone just got nosy because she’s majorly interesting, then it hits her: what if you got nosy? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve snooped.

“No, no, no,” she mutters, flipping through to her last writings, tracing her fingers over the half-erased statement. It’s visible enough you could’ve read it. Shit.

The one:
You definitely read the entry; you haven’t visited since that day. Tina is freaking out a little bit and she never freaks out. She swears she’s going obtuse.

“What’s so wrong with having people hate you? I loveee it,” Reggie drawls, watching Tina pace like a caged tiger, an amused smirk on his lips.

“They don’t hate you, do they?” Tina snaps, shooting daggers at Reggie, “You, the concept of rejection, love somebody.”

“Well…Yeah,” Reggie shrugs, pursing his lips. Yeah, he loves you. You’re you. “Listen, just talk to them.”

“I can’t exactly talk to them if they’re avoiding me,” Tina points out, her jaw tense, “I need help,” she admits quietly, letting out a deep sigh.

“I think I can help!” a cheerful voice comes from behind them, Holly coming around the corner. “I’ve totally been eavesdropping, so sorry about that, but I kind of have a plan!”

Both Tina and Reggie look at the bustling girl with suspicion, looking at each other, then back at her. “Okay, spill decor girl,” Tina waves her hand, looking at Holly expectantly.

“Okay, here goes.”

------------

Betty had come to grab you, telling that Holly has been throwing herself into her self-destructive work tendencies and your help was needed. You hurry upstairs, bursting into the room, ready to drag Holly into bed, kicking and screaming.

You freeze when you see Tina standing there, looking all prim and proper, hands clasped in front of her. You look around the room at the few others that are out: Reggie, Betty, The Hanks, and Holly, actually.

“What’s going on?” you ask, eyeing Betty suspiciously, “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she whispers with a giggle, pressing a kiss to your forehead before gesturing for everyone to follow her, leaving you and Tina alone.

“Please don’t leave,” are the first words out of her mouth, stepping forward towards you.

“Why shouldn’t I? You’re the one that wants to break up,” you remind, tucking your arms across your chest defensively.

------------

She groans quietly, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I don’t want to break up, I was being dramatic. As always.”

“Y-you don’t?” you ask quietly, looking at her in surprise, “But you--”

“Wrote it down? Yeah, I know. I was butthurt and was being stupid,” she tells you, coming forward, hesitating for a second before grabbing your hands.

“I really, really don’t want to break up,” she admits, squeezing your hands, “And I have been a total bitch recently. And I’m sorry about that.”

Holy shit, she finally apologized. She actually got the words out! Oh, yeah, score Tina!

“I just missed you, okay?” she tells you, wrapping your arms around her shoulders in a hug, “You’re nothing like me and I really, really like that. It’s so sexy, opposites attract, y’know? We’re like Roxxanne and Alex from season two of Love Triangle Island.”

You can’t help but snort at the reference. You remember fawning over the couple when she forced you to watch the season. It’s the one and only time you’ve ever seen her root for a monogamous pair in the show.

“Well who’s Roxxanne and who’s Alex?” you ask, seemingly dropping the defensive tension in your body.

“Seriously? I’m obviously Roxxanne,” she scoffs, side-eyeing you like you’ve personally offended her with that question, “I mean, god, have you seen her jawline? Absolutely angular.”

“Right, right, my apologies,” you murmur, an amused smile on your face.

“Hey! No apologies, even if they’re not serious. I’m doing the apologizing,” she states, pulling back from the hug to look you in the eyes.

“I have been a total jerk and I know that’s kind of my thing, but I’ve been…excessive and I hurt you. I don’t want to do that,” she tells you, sighing softly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“I know,” you nod and her entire body seems to sag in relief, dropping her perfect posture for once in her life.

“Y’know, I have been trying to apologize to you for two weeks now,” she admits, head tilting slightly, a relieved smile on her face.

“You did good,” you assure her, kissing the top of her head, letting your lips linger, “You wanna watch Love Triangle Island?” you mumble against her hair.

Goodness gracious, she loves you so hard right now, “You know I do,” she nods, pecking your lips. “Race you to bed.”