#and when i remembered...it was a game of catch up

[timbitshockey]

there are, of course, fluke hits and bad luck in any contact sport. there will be times that players miscalculate a check or turn into contact unaware or run into each other too hard accidentally. in those moments i feel sympathy for all players involved, especially when the player who caused an injury is clearly emotionally affected. i remember when pat maroon (who is certainly not a saint on the ice) accidentally clipped evander kane’s wrist with his skate — he stopped playing hockey in that moment despite the game continuing, and he desperately attempted to get a ref’s attention and get kane help. that is what happens when you accidentally hurt someone.

when specific players continually and repeatedly end up the aggressor in “fluke hits” and “bad luck” while showing absolutely no remorse, i don’t understand the urge anyone has to try to defend their actions as technically legal or obviously unintentional. he doesn’t feel bad about it. why do you feel bad on his behalf? if you’re a fan of a player who consistently uses attempts to injure others as a strategy then you should own it with the same pride the player does. bennett did that to stolarz on purpose and avoided accountability with the media and will recieve no disciplinary action. he must be ecstatic right now. his teammates, many of whom play with the same intent to injure, must be celebrating how much easier their road to the cup has become.

this is one of the most frustrating things about this sport and it’s a failure on every level. the players, the coach, the team, the refs, the department of player safety, the league. everyone knows that there are players on this team who aim to injure opponents and nothing is done, just like nothing is done for the troubas and wilsons and rempes across the league. as long as it makes for good tv, right? as long as some dude in a sports bar somewhere says this is good old hockey the way it should be played and buys a bennett jersey and watches tkachuk on the tonight show.

after stolarz was clearly severely hurt — throwing up over the bench and being taken to the hospital on a stretcher, remember, as the league will attempt to downplay the results of the play style they refuse to punish — i saw tkachuk attempt to slam his knee into mitch marner’s, nowhere near the puck. mitch dodged the contact, and tkachuk chased after him with a cross-check, visibly frustrated he didn’t catch one of the leafs star players by surprise with a painful and illegal hit. to me it seems pretty clear that that is not someone who learned a valuable lesson from seeing the effects of a teammates’ “fluke hit” and “bad luck.” that is someone attempting to injure a key player on a team that is injuring key players on purpose as a strategy, which is a strategy the team has been using throughout round one and throughout playoffs in the past and throughout the season.

and why wouldn’t you use that strategy? the league won’t punish you and you don’t feel guilty. everything is working the way it was designed to on every level — players to coaches to teams to the refs to the department of player safety to the league.

i don’t want to watch someone sustain a serious and life-ruining injury on my tv. most people don’t. the only thing that’s heartening about this situation (aside from the news that stolarz is out of the hospital, and his recovery will be on the forefront of many of our thoughts for the rest of the postseason) is seeing more and more pushback against the way this system is designed every time a player takes advantage of it. be angry and be loud and hope against hope that they’ll listen eventually.

the stanley cup is just a trophy. it is not worth more than players’ health, safety, and long-term quality of life. get over it and get mad.

[yvaineseleneposts]

would you ever write singlemom!reader x Nico or anyone? 🥹

A/N: I hope this does your request justice, because I have no clue how to write singlemom!reader or any motherly fics

Requested: yes by @one-sweet-gubler

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Singlemom!Reader

Words: 2k

Warning(s): none (I think)

You weren’t looking for anything — especially not love — when you agreed to take your six-year-old son, Jamie, to his first Devils game. Hockey had always been something your ex loved, but Jamie had taken to it in his own way. Obsessed with jersey numbers and face-offs, he chattered endlessly about his favourite player: Nico Hischier.

“I like him because he’s the captain,” Jamie said solemnly, clutching his tiny Hischier jersey, too big for him but worn constantly. “And because he always skates fast, even when he’s tired.”

You smiled and ruffled his hair. “Then let’s hope he scores tonight.”

You didn’t expect to catch Nico’s eye. You certainly didn’t expect him to catch yours — not in a sold-out Prudential Center, not from your modest seats near the glass. But in the third period, after a hard-won goal, he skated by, met your gaze — and lingered.

Maybe it was just coincidence.

Except… after the game, a staff member tapped your shoulder and said, “Nico Hischier asked if you and your son would like to come down to meet him.”

You blinked. “Sorry, what?”

Jamie was beaming. You were stunned. And Nico? He was… surprisingly shy.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, crouching to Jamie’s height. “Nice jersey.”

Jamie couldn’t speak, just nodded, eyes wide.

Nico grinned, then looked up at you. “I hope this isn’t weird. I just—saw you in the stands. Thought your son might like this.” He handed Jamie a signed puck. “And maybe… I thought I’d like to say hi.”

You blinked again, heat rushing to your cheeks. “That’s very kind of you. He’s a big fan.”

“I can tell.” Nico’s voice softened. “And you?”

“I’m… more of a coffee fan,” you replied, half-joking. “But I’m warming up to hockey.”

He laughed, that boyish, crooked smile melting something in you you hadn’t realized was still frozen. “Maybe I could help with that. If you ever want to… grab that coffee.”

You hesitated. It had been a long time. You weren’t sure you remembered how to do this. But then you glanced at Jamie — who was still talking Nico’s ear off now — and realized you were already doing the hardest job in the world. Maybe you deserved something soft. Something sweet.

You nodded. “Okay. But only if you promise not to quiz me on power plays.”

“No promises,” he grinned.

Nico never rushed you. Never made you feel like your son was an obstacle. In fact, half your “dates” took place at playgrounds or pizza joints with booster seats. And somehow, he never minded.

“I like this,” he said once, after helping Jamie tie his skates. “It’s real.”

You weren’t used to real. But you were starting to crave it.

He kissed you on a Thursday. Lightly. Like a question. And for the first time in years, you said yes.

It had been three months since Nico kissed you. Three months since he'd officially become part of your orbit — not just yours, but Jamie’s too.

You'd worried, in the quiet of night, whether this was fair to Nico. Whether the weight of loving you and your child would be too heavy for someone with skates instead of roots.

But he never gave you reason to doubt. He showed up with hockey cards and coffee, sat through school plays with his arm around your shoulders, and texted you photos of Jamie napping in his lap after “movie night with the boys.”

So when he asked, "Will you come to the team family skate?" — it felt more like a milestone than an invitation.

You hesitated. “Won’t that be weird? I’m not a wife or a fiancée or—”

“You’re my person,” he said, voice low and sure. “That’s all anyone needs to know.”

The rink felt different when it wasn’t packed with roaring fans. Empty stands. Warm smiles. Players skating with toddlers holding onto their sticks for balance, wives wrapped in puffer coats, babies strapped to chests.

Nico had his hand wrapped around yours, Jamie bouncing beside him in his tiny Devils beanie.

“Are you sure you can skate?” Nico teased as you laced up your borrowed skates on the bench.

“Barely,” you muttered. “If I fall, you’re catching me.”

“Always,” he said, eyes soft.

You didn’t fall — not at first. You wobbled, held onto his arm like a lifeline. Jamie took to the ice like he was born for it, zig-zagging with more confidence than grace.

“You look good out here,” Nico said, smiling.

You raised a brow. “I look terrified.”

“Still good,” he murmured, leaning closer, brushing his lips against your cheek — public, tender, intentional. Like he wanted everyone to see.

That part surprised you most: how proud he was. How openly he loved you.

A woman skated by and gave you a warm smile. “You must be Nico’s girl. He talks about you all the time.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Good things, I hope?”

“The best. And that little guy?” She nodded toward Jamie. “Nico already calls him his shadow.”

Later, Nico was skating backwards, arms open, coaxing Jamie forward. “Come on, bud, bend your knees! I’ve got you!”

Jamie grinned, wobbled, then threw himself forward — Nico caught him, lifting him like he weighed nothing.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, watching them. A lump formed in your throat, thick and unfamiliar. Was it happiness? Relief? Hope?

He skated over with Jamie on his hip. “He says he wants to be captain when he grows up.”

You laughed, brushing snowflakes from Jamie’s beanie. “Ambitious.”

“He’s got good taste.” Nico looked at you — really looked. “So do I.”

Later, in the locker room hallway, Jamie sat sipping hot chocolate, wrapped in Nico’s extra hoodie that swallowed him whole.

Nico took your hand. “You okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

He exhaled, nervous now. “I know this isn’t how most things start. But I’m not going anywhere. I want this—” he gestured toward the two of you, “—you, him, all of it.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Even the hard parts?”

“Especially those,” he said, stepping closer. “I want to be the guy who shows up. Always.”

You kissed him. And this time, it wasn’t soft or uncertain. It was a yes. A promise.

That night, as Jamie fell asleep in the car, Nico glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled.

“What?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Just thinking… he called me ‘my Nico’ today. Not Mr. Hischier. Not ‘the hockey guy.’ Just… mine.”

You rested your hand on his. “You are.”

Jamie’s cheeks were flushed, curls poking out from beneath his new youth team helmet. He skated wobbly but determined toward the bench, his jersey hanging off him like he was still growing into it — which he was. The name on the back read YourLastName — but Nico had joked they’d need to stitch Hischier underneath one day too.

“Nice hustle, bud!” Nico called out, kneeling on the ice in his Devils tracksuit, whistle hanging from his neck.

Jamie beamed.

You sat in the stands, watching the exchange. There was something deeply full-circle about it: Nico guiding Jamie through drills the same way he once coaxed him across the family skate rink months ago. Only now, there were other kids, other parents. And yet somehow, Nico made Jamie feel like the center of it all.

“He’s so patient with them,” one mom beside you said, watching Nico tap a kid’s stick and offer a quiet high-five. “He doesn’t act like he’s a star.”

You smiled softly. “He doesn’t have to act. That’s just who he is.”

But the season brought new challenges too.

Road trips got longer. Away games meant silence in group chats and phone calls that dropped before bedtime.

One night, Jamie padded into the living room in his pyjamas, clutching the stuffed hockey puck Nico had won him at a carnival.

“Is Nico coming home tomorrow?”

You hesitated. “Not tomorrow, buddy. Couple more days.”

Jamie’s lower lip trembled, but he nodded. “I just miss him.”

You pulled him into your lap, his weight familiar and comforting. “Me too.”

You hadn’t meant to say it. But it was true. When Nico was gone, it was like a light dimmed in your home — like something was always slightly off. You used to be good at being alone. You had to be. But now… now it just felt empty.

Two days later, Nico showed up with coffee and that smile. You opened the door before he knocked.

“Hi,” he said, soft and tired from travel.

“Hi,” you said back, trying not to launch yourself at him — and failing.

He wrapped his arms around you, face tucked into your neck. “Missed you.”

You closed your eyes. “Me too.”

Jamie came flying down the hallway, nearly skidding in his socks. “NICO!”

That was the best part — watching Nico drop his bag and scoop Jamie up like nothing else mattered. And maybe that was when it clicked. He was part of this life. Your life. Not just on weekends. Not just when the schedule allowed. He was woven into the fabric now.

Later that night, with Jamie asleep and your couch dimly lit by a single lamp, you curled into Nico’s side, finally speaking the truth that had been pressing on your chest for weeks.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to be two people,” you said quietly. “Nico the boyfriend. Nico the NHL captain.”

He turned to you, expression soft. “I’m not trying to be two people.”

“But you are doing it all,” you whispered. “And I know that’s not easy. But I also know… I want you here more. In my life. In Jamie’s life. Not just for skates and sleepovers and Sunday dinners.”

He looked at you then — really looked. Like your words had landed exactly where they needed to.

“I want that too,” he said, voice low. “I already feel like I live half here anyway.”

You gave a quiet laugh. “Then maybe it’s time we stop doing halves.”

He leaned forward, forehead against yours. “You mean it?”

You nodded. “Come home, Nico. For real.”

There was a beat. Then his hand slipped into yours, anchoring you.

“I was just waiting for you to say that.”

The next morning, Jamie bounded into the kitchen to find Nico making pancakes in his socks, whistling some cheesy pop song.

“You stayed over!” Jamie grinned, eyes wide.

Nico grinned back. “Think your mom’s gonna let me stay a lot more.”

Jamie didn’t even blink. “Good. You make better eggs anyway.”

[vanswarpedtour]

We sat down to chat with MySpace’s beloved MILLIONAIRE$ about their return to the Warped stage, old mems, and excitement for what’s to come. Learn how to LIVE FA$T and PARTY HARD before catching them at all three stops in DC, Long Beach, and Orlando this year!

How does it feel to come back and play Vans Warped Tour in 2025?

Melissa: When we got the offer, I legit was like, “REALLY? It’s actually back?!?” In my mind, it was not gonna come back.

Meredith: When I found out I was in disbelief, I was like, “Really???”

What’s your craziest Warped memory?

Melissa: [The realization] didn’t hit me until the moment I walked onto the stage for the first time. I’d never done a FESTIVAL festival…nothing like Warped Tour. I remember walking on stage and being like “Woah! Am I ready for this?”

We were treated like the losers, like the outcasts. Another girl in the band, someone threw a shoe and hit her in the face. We got a lot of shit talked to us that we laugh about now. I think it’s this redemption thing, playing this year. Like, “Fuck all you guys! Look who’s still fucking here bitch!”  

Meredith: I was going to Warped Tour every summer…I have great memories of lying to my mom and telling her I was spending the weekend at a friend’s house, and then getting in a car with a bunch of kids and driving up to Dallas in a beater not knowing if we’re gonna make it *laughs.* And then just getting a gnarly sunburn, and hanging out with my friends, not even really caring who’s on the lineup, we’re just going for the vibe.

What’s something you have to do before every performance?

Meredith: For our headline shows, we’ll have our DJ play a set, and we’ve curated that playlist with our favorite music. We hype up beforehand and dance around backstage!

Melissa: We also do our little “double double” hand thing…

Meredith: Yeah we also do uh, *patty cake/elevator hand game motion* little hand clap thing–

Melissa: And we also have nails on, so it’s like this *awkwardly does the hand motion.*

Meredith: Yeah, instead of a huddle we do a little secret handshake thing.

What’s your favorite song to perform live and why?

Melissa: I don’t know! That’s a hard one! No matter what order the set is, the first song when we jump on stage is the most hype. Also, we normally play “Alcohol” last. I think that one is so ingrained, everyone is having fun. I’m so excited to be on stage, and it’s sad to have to leave the stage, so it’s like giving my last moment of “Let’s just do it!” even if I’m exhausted.

Meredith: Yeah, that one’s just so iconic. And no matter who you are, I feel like everyone knows the words, and it’s easy to sing along even if you don’t. By that time, everyone’s balls to the walls. My favorite song is “Stay the Night.” The melody is really fun, and the dance we do to it is like old school Dream Girls vibes, and I like those types of songs.

Describe MILLIONAIRE$ in three words.

Meredith: Unapologetic. Iconic. Hot.

Melissa: Party. Besties 🫶. DGAF.

What’s your favorite part of Vans Warped Tour?

Meredith: Seeing so many friends that are also on the lineup. I think it’s really fun that we all get to do this together and it’s gonna feel almost like summer camp in a way *laughs.* Hanging out, seeing lots of friends, and watching a lot of bands that we love–there’s so many bands on the lineup that we’re both fans of. At the end of the day, even though we’re playing, we’re fans of this music, so that’s cool!

Melissa: It’s so nice to hang out again with the people we grew up listening to. Getting to see them perform and performing alongside them is a really cool feeling. I’m so happy to say they’re keeping the scene alive in Warped Tour too.

If you could collaborate with any other band or artist, who would it be and why?

Meredith: We got asked this last year at When We Were Young, and I think we said Charli XCX. That would be crazy. Maybe a metalcore band would be cool. We’re both fans of metalcore and there’s a lot of bands in the scene that are awesome right now. Yeah, I think that would be so fun!

Melissa: Yeah, and we could sing with them, or do our cutesy rap too! I would want to do a song or a tour with people that still want to keep the scene alive. I just wanna have fun, it’s not some competition. When we do shows and songs, I want it to be fun, I like that part of music!

Do you have anything exciting planned for your Warped set (that we can know about)?

Meredith: Party vibes, fun, and high energy. We’re working on a way to spice it up even more.

Are there any new or upcoming releases fans should keep an eye out for?

Meredith: We’re planning to do another release with Graveboy Records which is really exciting. To be determined when that’s gonna be, but new music is on the way, and maybe some other stuff that we can’t talk about yet.

What tips do you have for up-and-coming bands/artists?

Melissa: Never give up. No matter who talks shit about you, I don’t care, never give up! Just believe in it. It’s always been in my heart, a lot of people are like, “How are you still wearing the bow?” and all this mean stuff–it’s like dude, this is just me! Believe in your music, because other people will believe in it too.

[papayainsectorone]

Teach Me

════════════════════════

summary: A chance reunion with Oscar at a party leads to a night of exploration, vulnerability, and intimacy—where he learns to ask for what he wants, and you’re more than willing to teach him.

content: 18+! smut, nsfw descriptions, oral sex, praise kink

word count: 4,7k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: this turned out to be great potential to add some parts, so maybe stay tuned if it does well

════════════════════════

You hadn’t seen him in years. Not really. Not since both your lives split off into entirely different rhythms—his dominated by circuits and airports, yours by everything else.

And yet, when you bumped into him again at a mutual friend’s party, he still had the same shy smile. Still held eye contact like it meant something. Still remembered the dumb in-jokes that made you laugh harder than the alcohol.

You ended up talking for hours. About nothing and everything. And somehow, that turned into walking back to your hotel together. And somehow, that turned into sitting too close on your bed, the TV playing something neither of you are watching, knees touching like it’s a game of dare.

You can feel how tense he is. Not nervous like scared—but nervous like hesitant. Like he’s not sure what’s okay to want.

“You’ve always been so good at this,” he murmurs eventually, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then away again. “People. Talking. Flirting. I don’t think I ever got the hang of it.”

You tilt your head. “When would you have? You went straight from karts to cars. The rest of us were fumbling through school dances—you were chasing podiums.”

He huffs a laugh. Quiet. Embarrassed. “Yeah, but even then... the other guys, they still talked about it. About girls. Hookups. I never really—” He breaks off. “I was just thinking about racing.”

“That’s not a crime,” you say softly.

His voice drops a little, barely more than a whisper. “Feels like I missed something.”

You glance at him sideways, curious “Are you a virgin?”

His head snaps toward you—wide eyes, startled. Then he lets out a small, awkward chuckle. “Yeah... I mean—no.” He exhales sharply. “I’m not totally new to this. I’ve had sex.” A shrug. “We were young. It was fast. Awkward. Over before I could really think about it. And then... I don’t know. Life just kept happening.”

“Do you want to learn now?” you ask.

His breath catches. Then: “Yeah.”

Your thumb brushes his cheek. His skin’s warm, a little flushed. You lean in just enough for him to meet you halfway if he wants to.

He does.

The kiss is gentle. Curious. He doesn’t rush it, and you don’t push him. Your hand cups the side of his neck, feeling the soft thrum of nerves and anticipation under his skin.

When you pull back just enough to speak, your voice is almost a whisper.

“You don’t have to pretend you know what you’re doing.”

His fingers tighten slightly where they rest on your thigh. “Good,” he murmurs, a little breathless. “Because I really, really don’t.”

You kiss him again, slower this time, letting it linger. His hand drifts to your waist, unsure, but you press into his palm to tell him it’s okay.

When you pull back, his cheeks are flushed, his lashes low.

“Okay,” you say softly. “New rule.”

He blinks. “Rule?”

You nod. “You have to talk to me. No hiding it. If you like something, you say it. If you want me to stop, you say it. If you want more…” You trail your fingers lightly down his chest. “You say that too.”

He swallows. “Even if I sound stupid?”

“You won’t. I promise.” You smile, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “There’s no wrong answers. Just tell me what feels good.”

He hesitates only a second before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”

You lean in again, mouths meeting, and this time you ease him gently back against the pillows. Your knee slots between his thighs, your hand sliding under his shirt, just brushing warm skin.

His breath stutters.

“That okay?” you murmur.

“Y-Yeah,” he whispers. “It’s… good. Warm.”

You laugh under your breath. “Good start.”

You guide him through every little step—how to touch, where to focus, how to relax into the way your lips find his neck and your hand curls low on his stomach.

Every time he gasps or moans, you stop and make him tell you why.

“It—when you do that thing with your thumb,” he pants, eyes fluttering. “It… it makes everything feel tighter. Better.”

You press your mouth to his jaw. “That’s what I want. For you to feel everything.”

And he does. Slowly, sweetly, in breathy little confessions and nervous laughs, in the way his hands start to get bolder, braver.

He listens. He learns. And he lets you teach him with lips and tongue and open praise.

It’s messy, a little clumsy, but none of that matters—not when he’s watching you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. His hands are on your back now, sliding under your shirt like he’s memorizing you.

You roll your hips just enough to make him shiver.

“Still good?” you ask, voice low.

He nods quickly, too quickly, then corrects himself. “Yes. I like… when you move like that.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”

He fumbles for a second, eyes flicking away. Then, quieter: “More. I want more of you.”

That’s all it takes.

You ease his shirt up and over his head, kiss your way down his chest, slow and soft. His skin is warm, marked with a few nervous trembles, but he’s breathing steady through it now. Trusting you.

When your hand slips lower, he gasps, hips lifting into your touch before he remembers to speak.

“Yes,” he says, breathless. “That—please, don’t stop.”

You smile against his skin. “Good boy.”

He whines. Actually whines. And it goes straight through you.

His hips twitch again like the words themselves tug at something deep inside him. His fingers curl tight into the sheets, his jaw slack with need.

“God,” he pants, like the sound of praise is almost as intoxicating as your touch. “Say it again. Please.”

A soft, almost shy laugh escapes you as you pull back just slightly, looking down at him. You tilt your head, fingers brushing along his jaw.

"Did you like that, Oscar?" you ask, your voice low, teasing in a way that makes his breath catch. "Me telling you how good you're doing?"

His eyes snap open, pupils blown wide. His face flushes a deeper shade of red, and for a moment, he doesn't say anything—just stares at you, caught in a mixture of surprise and a shy kind of awe. Then, his hips buck involuntarily against you, as if the praise itself set something off inside him.

His chest heaves, and he stammers, his voice tight. "I… I… yeah, I liked it. It—it felt… good."

You lean in closer, your lips brushing just above his ear. "I could tell." You press a little firmer against him, watching his face twist with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. "You’re doing so well, Oscar. You like hearing me say it, don’t you? When I tell you how good you’re being for me?"

He bites his lip, the flush on his face spreading all the way down his neck. “Yeah… I… I want to hear it.”

You let the words sink in, savoring how they make him squirm beneath you, how much he craves that affirmation. And you know, in that moment, you could keep going—make him beg for it, make him crave your praise until he’s dizzy with it.

You give him what he wants.

“You’re doing amazing. Such a good boy, Oscar.”

That breaks him.

"Fuck, please," he says, voice trembling.

His grip tightens on the sheets, and you can feel him shift beneath you, eager, almost frantic. His body is a perfect contrast to the hesitant boy he once was. Now, he’s confident in his need, in his craving for your approval.

"Please," he gasps, his voice rough and shaky. "I need to hear more…"

Your fingers hover just above his waistband, your breath hot against the sensitive skin of his abs. Oscar’s body trembles beneath you, the anticipation almost too much to bear, and youcan feel his nerves radiating through the tension in his muscles.

You look up at him, voice soft but coaxing. “You’re doing so well, Oscar,” you murmurs, lips grazing his skin lightly. “But I need you to tell me what you want. What feels good? You just have to say it, baby. I’m here to listen.”

His eyes meet yours, uncertainty flickering in them, but there’s something else too—a hunger, a desperate need to feel good, to know that you want to hear what he’s craving. His hands curl into fists at his sides, still not sure how to ask for it.

You kiss his thigh gently, lips lingering for just a moment before you pull away, letting the tension build. “It’s okay. You can tell me, Oscar. I won’t bite. Just tell me what you need.”

Oscar swallows hard, his voice trembling when he finally speaks. “I… I don’t know what to say…”

You smiles softly, hand brushing his side soothingly, the touch gentle, patient. “It’s alright. Just start slow. Tell me if it feels good when I touch you like this.” You move your fingers again, grazing the waistband of his pants, letting him feel the heat of your proximity. “Does that feel good?”

He nods, his body reacting with a soft moan that escapes before he can stop it. “Yeah… yeah, it feels good… But I… I want more…”

Your heart races at his admission, the vulnerability in his voice making her pulse quicken. “More?” you whisper, your voice barely audible, yet full of warmth and encouragement. “Tell me what more feels like. I want to know what makes you feel good, Oscar.”

Oscar’s breath catches, his face flushed, but he nods again, this time with more confidence. “I… I like when you’re close. When you touch me, but… maybe with your mouth…”

Your eyes soften at his words, and you leans in closer, your lips brushing against his skin. “I can do that,” you murmur. “Just tell me if it’s too much or if you want more, okay?”

He shuffled to the edge of the bed and as you gently slide the last of the fabric down, his body exposed now, not prepared for the sight that greets you. You pause for a moment, eyes widening slightly, unable to hide the surprised expression that cross your face.

"Fuck, Oscar," you breathe, voice low and full of disbelief, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "How did you hide that?" Your gaze linger on him for a beat longer than you mean to, taking in how he stands there, vulnerable yet undeniably… impressive.

Oscar’s face flushes a deep shade of crimson at her reaction, his body stiffening with embarrassment.

But you’re not going to let him feel self-conscious for long. You lean in closer, your breath warm against his skin, your gaze flickering up to meet his once more.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper, your voice soft, reassuring. “You’re exactly what I wanted.”

With that, you lower yourself further, your hands resting on his thighs for a moment as you look up at him, silently asking if he’s ready. He nods, barely a whisper of a sound escaping him, but you hear it—his consent.

You move slowly, deliberately, pressing your lips to his skin just below his navel, tasting the heat of him before continuing your descent. His body flinches slightly, a soft gasp escaping his lips as your mouth moves lower, your lips brushing over him with a delicate pressure. You feel his hips twitch beneath you, and you pause, your eyes flickering to his, seeking confirmation.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you murmur, your voice soft, but with the authority of someone who knows exactly how to guide him. “Just say the word, Oscar.”

He shakes his head, his hands fisting in the sheets, and his voice trembles with need. “It feels good,” he breathes, his chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. “Please, just… don’t stop.”

You smile, knowing you’ve unlocked the vulnerability in him, the one that lets him speak his desires. And you’re more than willing to give him what he needs. With that, you finally take him in your mouth, slow at first, the heat and taste of him overwhelming your senses as you move in rhythm with his quiet gasps.

As you continue, the sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel him struggle to keep his composure. The way his hips buck unexpectedly sends a jolt of shock through you, and you stumble for a moment, a slight gag catching in your throat. Tears well up in your eyes from the sudden movement, but you quickly recover, a trail of spit still connecting you both, glistening in the dim light.

For a moment, you just breathe, letting the surprise and intensity of the moment settle, your hand gently resting on his thigh as you look up at him. “Did you like that?” you ask, your voice a little breathless, your eyes soft with the mix of surprise and affection.

Oscar’s chest heaves, his breaths coming quick and uneven as he watches you. His eyes are wide with a mix of shock and excitement. “Oh my God… yes,” he pants, his voice hoarse with need, a little desperate now. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I—”

You smile, wiping your lips gently, savoring the way he’s unraveling in front of you. “It’s okay, Oscar,” you say, your voice soothing, though there’s an underlying teasing tone.

You take his hand, guiding it to your hair, your fingers lightly curling around his wrist, urging him to take a little control. “You can take some control,” you murmur, your voice low and full of trust. “Just guide me if you need to.”

Oscar’s eyes widen in surprise, his hand trembling in your hair as you lower yourself again, your lips brushing against him, waiting for his guidance. His breath catches as you look up at him again, your expression soft, yet encouraging.

As you pause, waiting for him to take the lead, his mind is spinning, and a sudden surge of confidence rushes through him. He’s starting to get it—how it feels to guide you, how much you’re willing to trust him with this. Slowly, he exhales, his hand tightening in your hair, not pulling, but gently guiding your head down as his hips buck up again, this time with purpose.

Your eyes meet his, and for a brief moment, he freezes, unsure if he’s doing it right. But your smile, the way you relax under his touch, reassures him. “That’s it, Oscar,” you murmur, your voice low and soft, as you sink further into him, your mouth finding its rhythm again. “You’re doing perfect.”

The control he feels is intoxicating. He guides you just a little more, feeling his own body grow tighter with the sensations. The rush of pleasure builds, and it’s almost too much to handle. He squirms beneath you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stares down at you, his breath hitching with the overwhelming feeling.

"I think I’m gonna…" he starts, his voice faltering, a mixture of panic and desire in his tone.

You pull off for a moment, your lips still glistening, a soft smile playing at the corner of your mouth as you look up at him. “It’s okay, Oscar,” you breathe, your voice soothing and encouraging. “Just let it happen. Let me know where you want it to be.”

Your words are the reassurance he needs. He exhales a shaky breath, his grip on your hair tightening again as he gently moves you down, his hips bucking once more in need, desperate for the release he’s been holding back.

“Please… can you…” He doesn’t know how to ask for it, but the words tumble out, raw with need. “Can you… finish it? I… I want you to.”

You smile softly at his request, your eyes locking with his.

You lower yourself once more, moving with deliberate slowness, each motion intentional as you take him in.

Your tongue glides over the tip, circling gently, your pace steady. His hand remains tangled in your hair, fingers brushing the softness as you move. Each subtle bop of your head brings him closer to the edge, the sensation growing more intense with every second. The pressure builds inside him, and though he tries to hold back, it becomes overwhelming. With a deep, almost primal grunt, he loses control, his hips jerk upward, hitting the back of your throat — the final spark that ignites everything.

The pressure inside him snaps all at once, and his body shudders violently beneath you. One hand grips your head, pulling you down harder without thought, caught in the grip of release, while his other arm locks tight behind him, bracing against the mattress and forcing his upper body forward. His back arches, hips lifting fully off the bed, his torso folding over you as if every muscle in him is straining toward you, unable to hold anything back.

But you don’t stop. Your mouth stays on him, your throat tight around the tip, taking every inch as his body bucks beneath you. One hand holds his thigh steady, the other stroking him gently through the aftershocks as he gasps through a stuttering stream of “Oh God… fuck… you feel so good…” The words fall from him unfiltered, broken by the rawness of the release.

When the tension finally ebbs from his muscles and his breath slows, he collapses back onto the bed, chest rising and falling. Only then do you let him slip from your mouth, slow and careful.

The silence between you both is comfortable, filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing, and you move to sit beside him, your fingers gently brushing over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your touch.

"You okay?" you ask softly, your voice a soothing contrast to the intensity of the moment just passed. Your eyes are full of warmth and care, checking on him in a way that makes him feel safe and cherished.

Oscar nods, still catching his breath, his eyes meeting yours. A soft, almost shy smile tugs at his lips, and his hand reaches for yours, gently pulling it to his chest. "Yeah… I think I’m just a little overwhelmed," he admits, his voice quieter now, full of a mixture of contentment and vulnerability.

You smile, your thumb gently tracing over his hand, the simple touch grounding him. "It’s okay. You did amazing," you say, your voice tender, reassuring.

He blushes slightly, the praise settling into him like a warm blanket, making him feel both shy and proud in equal measure. His voice almost shy as he looks at you with wide, honest eyes. "I… I didn’t expect it to feel THAT… good."

You chuckle, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your touch tender and careful. "We can do that again, whenever you like."

He smiles, all flushed cheeks and messy hair, eyes still a little glassy from the afterglow. “Yeah?” he breathes, disbelief and hope threading through the single word.

You nod, leaning in until your foreheads touch, your thumb still gently stroking his temple. “Yeah,” you whisper, as if it’s a secret just for him. “You just have to ask.”

Oscar swallows hard, his heart thudding all over again—but for a different reason now. Not nerves, not lust. Just this quiet, aching affection building in his chest. “Okay,” he says softly. “I… I think I will.”

You grin, pressing a kiss to his cheek—sweet, not rushed, not trying to stoke the fire again, just sealing the promise between you. Then you rest your head on his shoulder, fingers drawing slow, lazy shapes on his chest.

For a while, you don’t speak. You don’t need to.

He eventually tilts his head to glance at you, his voice sleepy but sure. “You’re really good at making people feel safe.”

And he doesn’t say anything after that—just holds you a little tighter.

[starkeyslibrary]

CHASING MAYBE

pairing: bsf!reader x rafe

word count: 3.1k

authors note: i had two similair requests in my inbox and decided to combine them! hope you don’t mind!! 🙈thanks for the requests! <3

The party was already packed when you and your friend strolled in – loud music shaking the windows, neon lights spilling across sweaty bodies, and someone already yelling about running out of White Claws.

You roll your eyes. “Five bucks says that’s JJ.”

Bri laughed beside you, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Ten bucks says he drank them all himself.”

“Fair.” You said, grinning as you linked arms with both Bri and Lex. “Now, ladies – remember the mission. Free drinks, good lighting and no catching feelings.”

Lex wiggled her brows. “Too late for you, babe. Someone’s already staring.”

You didn’t have to ask who. You already knew. Rafe Cameron, over by the pool table, was watching you like you hung the damn moon – same cocky smirk, same slightly tilted head like he was trying to figure you out.

You arched a brow. “Let him look. Doesn’t mean he gets to touch.”

You made your way through the crowd, laughing at nothing, catching attention like a walking power trio. Inside the kitchen, you grabbed a red solo cup and poured yourself something strong.

“Cheers to bad ideas,” Bri said, lifting her cup.

“To being the problem, not the plan,” Lex added

“To not catching feelings,” You said, clinking their cup.

Half an hour later, you were leaned against the counter, cup still in hand, while your friends danced in the living room. You were mid-scroll through your phone when you caught the stare. Again. This time, shameless.

“You keep staring, Rafey, I’m gonna start charging you,” you called over your shoulder without turning.

Rafe smirked, sauntering towards you with that damn smug walk like he’d just scored the game-winning shot.

“You wearing that just for me, sweetheart?” he asked, eyes dragging down your fit.

“Please,” you scoffed. “This is for me. You’re just collateral damage.”

He grinned. “Yeah? Funny, because you’ve been looking at me like you wanna cause some.”

“Only to your ego,” you fired back with a sharp smile. “It’s gotten dangerously swollen lately.”

Topper whooped from the background, and Rafe just shook his head, sipping from his own cup as he leaned a little too close.

This was your thing — banter with teeth, glances that lingered, touches that almost crossed a line. But it was always safe, always wrapped up in a joke. Neither of you pushed it. Yet.

Your gaze flicked to the sliding doors leading outside. “I need air. Try not to miss me too much.”

You didn’t wait for his answer — just walked out, letting the warm night air wrap around you. The backyard was dimly lit, the glow of the bonfire at the beach barely visible beyond the dunes. You took a deep breath and leaned against the porch railing, letting the music fade into background noise.

Behind you, right on cue — came his voice.

“You know I can’t let you have a dramatic exit without me,” Rafe’s voice came from behind you, smooth like sin and summer.

You didn’t turn around. “Not dramatic. Just needed space. Some of us don’t have a god complex that requires being at the center of every room.”

He stepped up beside you, looking out over the yard with a smirk. “I like your space better.”

That earned him a tiny smirk from you, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning fully. “Don’t get cute, Cameron.”

“Too late.”

You stood like that for a beat — close, the air between them humming with that something you never talked about. Rafe glanced over, studying your profile like he was memorizing it.

“You ever think about it?” he asked.

You finally turned to him. “About what?”

He was close now — closer than he should’ve been. “Us. You know… what’d happen if we stopped pretending.”

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering for half a second — not because you were shocked, but because finally. You tilted your head.

“That almost sounds like you want something serious, Rafe. Which would be cute if I didn’t know you better.”

His grin faltered just barely. “Maybe I want you.”

You laughed softly. “You want the chase, baby. And you’re good at it. But I don’t fall for pretty lies.”

You turned to walk down the porch steps when—

“Y/N—” he said, just a little rougher.

You stopped.

And then he was there again, closing the space, hand reaching gently for your wrist, spinning you to face him. He looked at you like you were fire and he was tired of being cold.

You stood like that — eyes locked, lips a breath apart, the air buzzing around them. His hand cupped your cheek this time, hesitant but wanting.

You didn’t pull away.

He leaned in slowly, eyes flicking to your mouth—

“RAFE! Yo, Rafe! Get your ass over here, man!”

Topper.

You pulled back fast like you’d been slapped. Rafe blinked, visibly torn for one second — and then, just like that, the mask slipped back on.

He stepped away. Shrugged.

“I’ll be right back.”

And just like that, he walked off — no sorry, no explanation. Gone.

You stood frozen for a second, chest tight, eyes narrowed.

Then you scoffed under your breath and turned back toward the street.

He wasn't gonna play you like that again.

Not this time.

You texted Bri.

“I’m done. Catch an Uber?”

You didn’t text him the next morning.

You didn’t snap him back. Didn’t like his dumb story of him and Kelce trying to fix a golf cart either.

And when he called once, then twice, you declined the second one and didn’t bother replying to the “u good?” that followed.

You were good. Just not with him.

Instead, you were at Bri’s place, legs tangled with yours on the couch, a greasy slice of pizza in one hand and Lex painting your nails a dangerously sharp red on the other.

“I’m just saying,” Lex said, blowing on your nails, “if he wanted to kiss you, he would’ve. And if he didn’t want to be an ass about it… well, same logic.”

You snorted. “Amen.”

Bri reached for her water, slumped on the floor. “I never liked him anyway. His jaw is too perfect. Feels like a trap.”

“It is a trap,” you muttered, staring at your phone lighting up again with his name. You silenced it. No reply. Again.

Lex raised a brow. “Still trying?”

“Three missed calls and a ‘u good?’ text,” you said with a fake-sweet smile. “Very emotionally intelligent.”

Bri made a gagging noise.

Rafe was unravelling.

It took him less than 24 hours to realize something was off — and even less time to get pissed about it.

You had been nothing but cold, collected and absolutely untouchable. So when he saw you at the dock two days later he pulled up next to your Jeep, window down, Ray-Bans perched low on his nose.

“You avoiding me?” he asked through his car window, voice all lazy confidence. But his grip on the steering wheel? White-knuckled.

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “That depends — are you used to girls waiting around after you ditch them mid-moment?”

Rafe blinked, caught off guard. “Okay, damn. You’re still mad about that?”

“Oh, still mad?” you snapped, shoving your phone in your bag. “Didn’t know there was an expiration date on being disrespected.”

He grinned, trying to defuse — or distract. “Babe, you’re dramatic.”

“And you’re exhausting,” you fired, standing up. “You don’t get to flirt with me like that, act like you want something real for half a second, and then just walk away like it didn’t happen.”

He leaned out the window a little, face hardening. “It’s not that deep.”

“Then maybe you should find someone who floats.”

You didn’t wait for a reply, you turned just in time for your friends to pull up in Bri’s Mazda, blasting SZA and waving dramatically out the windows.

Rafe watched as you slid into the passenger seat without another glance his way.

Lex flipped Rafe off with a grin when Bri peeled out of the lot.

Rafe just sat there, blinking, while you threw your head back and laughed with your girls, loud and unbothered.

That night, Rafe didn’t go to the usual bonfire. Neither did you.

But the next one? He was there early. Already sipping a beer, eyes scanning the crowd every five seconds.

You looked incredible. Dress, silky, short and painted with a bold floral print – clung in all the right places and dipped daringly low at the neckline. You stepped onto the beach like the main event — glowing, confident, and completely unbothered.

Rafe’s jaw practically hit the sand.

You saw him.

And walked right past.

Every time he tried to talk to you, Lex intercepted, or Bri pulled you into some fake emergency — “I need your opinion on this guy’s shoes, it’s life or death.” Rafe wasn’t used to working this hard. He wasn’t used to being ignored.

Rafe found you alone, near the edge of the party where the music didn’t quite reach. Just like before.

He approached slower this time. No swagger. No stupid grin.

“Y/N.”

You didn’t turn. “Didn’t Topper call your name again?”

He exhaled a laugh, but it came out a little bitter this time. “Okay. I deserved that.”

“No, Rafe. You deserved worse. But I’m tired.” Your voice dropped just slightly — not sad, just... done. “I’m not playing this game with you anymore.”

“I wasn’t trying to play,” he said, stepping closer. “I just— I panicked, alright? You kissed me back.”

“No,” you said sharply, eyes finally on his. “You almost kissed me. Then you left. Don’t twist it.”

He looked at you, jaw ticking, searching for something in your face. “So what? You’re done with me?”

“I’m done waiting for you to decide if you mean anything you say.” You paused. “You want me? Prove it. You want to joke around and run back to your boys every time things get real? Then stay out of my way.”

And with that, you walked away again — this time, not with bitterness, but with clarity.

Rafe stood there alone, mouth tight, heart pounding.

Rafe didn’t text. He didn’t call.

He showed up.

Unannounced, mid-afternoon, while you and your girls were poolside at Lex’s — laughing, lounging, and collectively trying to forget boys existed.

You spotted him before anyone else. You knew that shape, that posture — shoulders tense, chin tilted like he had something to prove.

“Is that Rafe?” Bri muttered.

Lex sat up, shielding her eyes. “Wow. Man really wants to be humiliated in broad daylight.”

You took a slow sip of your drink. “He’s already halfway there.”

But you stood up anyway.

Because no matter how furious you was, how much he hurt you, he wasn’t just some guy.

He was Rafe. Your Rafe. Your best friend. The one who used to sneak you snacks during detention and swore you’d never catch feelings for each other.

And now here you were.

“You really have the audacity,” you said flatly, meeting him at the gate.

Rafe looked at you like you still hung the moon. Like he didn’t remember you used to tell him exactly when to stop flirting so you wouldn’t fall for him. Like he hadn’t just made the dumbest choice of his life two nights ago.

“I had to see you,” he said.

“You had to ditch me mid-kiss first.”

“That wasn’t— I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

“You didn’t mean to? Rafe, you and I have been best friends since we were kids. You think I don’t know when you’re lying to yourself?”

“You pulled away like you were embarrassed,” you went on, voice quiet but cutting. “Like I was just another drunk mistake.”

“You are not a mistake.”

“Then why’d you leave like one?”

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I panicked, okay? I didn’t expect it to feel that real.”

“We’ve always been real,” you snapped. “You just finally couldn’t hide it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been sorry since the second I walked away.”

You crossed your arms. “And now what? You think one apology’s gonna fix a broken friendship and the fact that you shattered something that might’ve been more?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to fix it,” he said.

You tilted your head. “You better, Rafe. Because this isn’t just about flirting anymore. You don’t just lose me as a maybe. You lose me as your person.”

He stood there, quiet.

And when you walked back through the gate — back to your girls, your peace, your new boundary — Rafe didn’t follow.

He finally understood this time, he’d have to earn you back.

Rafe didn’t come back the next day. Or the day after that.

And you? You didn’t chase. You said your piece. You had nothing to prove. Let him sit with the silence — with everything they almost were.

But on Friday night, something shifted.

You were heading home from Bri’s when her phone buzzed. A text.

“Come to the dock. Just you.”

No name. Didn’t need one.

You almost didn’t go.

But curiosity is a dangerous thing — especially when it’s tangled in history and heartbreak and a boy who once made you believe forever could exist between best friends.

The dock was quiet. Moonlit. The water still.

And there he was. Hoodie, hands in his pockets, heart practically written across his face.

You didn’t say anything as you stepped onto the wood.

He didn’t speak either — just gestured to the blanket he’d laid out. Two drinks. A box of your favorite cookies. And something else sitting next to it.

A photo. The one from that dumb Halloween party freshman year — you in fairy wings, Rafe in devil horns, both of you grinning like idiots.

“I found it in my drawer,” he said quietly. “Been sitting there for years. I look at it sometimes. Always thought we were just… messing around. Having fun.”

You folded your arms, guarded but listening.

“But looking at it now?” His voice cracked slightly. “I was gone for you. Even back then.”

You didn’t respond. You waited.

“I messed up, I know that,” he said. “But I didn’t come here to ask for things to go back to normal. Because they can’t. And I don’t want them to.”

You raised a brow. “What do you want, then?”

Rafe stepped forward.

“I want more. I want us. No more games. No more pulling away when it gets real. I want to be someone you trust again. Someone who shows up.”

He hesitated. “And I know I lost that right. But if there’s even a piece of you that still wants this... I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give. Just—don’t shut the door all the way. Please.”

Silence stretched.

The water lapped gently against the wood.

Then—softly, finally—you spoke.

“You don’t get to come back just because you finally figured out what you want.”

Rafe’s jaw tensed. “I know.”

You stepped closer. “But you came back anyway. That’s a start.”

For a long moment, you both just stood there.

And then, for the first time in what felt like forever—you let your guard down. Just a little.

Rafe looked at you. “So… we good?”

You smirked. “We’ll see.”

Then like always, he smiled back, cocky and warm and yours in all the ways he never admitted before.

Two weeks later

“You’re seriously wearing that?” You asked, brows arched behind your sunglasses as you stared Rafe down in the Target parking lot.

He looked down at his plain white T-shirt and black athletic shorts, then at you — black cropped tank top hugging your figure, light-washed denim shorts and gold hoops shining in the sun.  “What’s wrong with this?”

“You look like you jogged here and forgot it was a date.” You popped the trunk of his car. “Get the bags. We’re doing a picnic and you’re not embarrassing me in front of the ducks.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rafe muttered, grinning as he grabbed the cooler. He didn't argue. He never argued anymore. Not with you.

You laid out the blanket under a willow tree at the park, spread out the snacks like a curated charcuterie board, and even lit one of those tiny portable candles from your purse. Rafe just watched you, utterly gone, leaning back on his elbows while you cut strawberries like it was an artform.

“You’re smiling,” you said, glancing over.

“I like watching you boss me around,” he said, deadpan. “It’s hot.”

You snorted and tossed a grape at his face. “You’re such a simp now.”

“I was before. Now I’m just allowed to show it.”

Later, they lay side by side under the tree, your head resting on his chest, one leg thrown over his like you owned him — which, arguably, you did.

“You still scared?” you asked quietly, fingers tracing shapes on his bicep.

“Terrified,” Rafe replied, voice low. “But it’s worth it.”

You leaned up slightly, eyes searching his. “Why?”

“Because I’m not just your best friend anymore.” His hand found you waist. “I get to kiss you now.”

You grinned, lips brushing his jaw. “Damn right you do.”

So he did.

Slow, warm, nothing rushed — just mouths pressed together like they had all the time in the world. You tasted like lip balm and peach lemonade. He tasted like want and sunscreen.

“Still afraid?” you murmured when they broke apart.

“Of you? Always.”

“Good.” You kissed him again, rougher this time. “Keeps you humble.”

EXTRA:

Rafe Cameron was sitting on a pink blanket at a Sunday morning yoga in the park class, sweating through his overpriced tank top while an instructor told him to open his heart center and “embrace the divine feminine.”

You, completely serene beside him, reached out mid-pose to fix his form.

“You’re stiff,” you whispered.

“I’m dying,” he whispered back.

You grinned and kissed his cheek. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he muttered. “This is Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Mm. That’s not what you said last night when you made me breakfast at midnight.”

He just groaned and reached for his water bottle. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

You leaned in close, lips at his ear. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you’re whipped.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled like an idiot. “I’m whipped.”

“Good boy.”

[nhmkhnh]

#SERIES—01 ──── CHAPTER—03

i blame it on my love, i can't help it, i can't stop.

pairings: dom!top!vi x sub!bot!fem!reader

author's note: finally done this series haha! enjoy, my girls!

rating: explicit. (minors & men dni) | words: 1.1k list: pevert!amab!vi ;; desperate!vi ;; obsession ;; unhinged behavior ;; bathroom sex ;; semi-public sex ;; dom/sub energy.

masterlist / janitor ai / c.ai / carrd

1 | 2 | 3

you weren’t supposed to show up tonight.

vi had come to milo’s party ready to act normal. ready to hang out, drink a little, crack dumb jokes. she told herself she could keep it cool. told herself she wouldn’t think about the pair of panties still under her pillow, the scent she buried her face into when the nights got too long.

and then you walked in — laughing, hair down, skirt short — and all her resolve crumbled.

she stared.

you didn’t even notice. you hugged your brother, waved at some friends, sipped a drink with that soft little smile that made vi’s hands curl into fists in her jacket pockets.

it was a warm night, and your skin glowed in the party lights. every now and then, your gloss caught the light when you licked your lips. you wore a perfume that made her stomach clench.

vi tried not to hover.

tried to be normal.

she drank a beer. laughed at someone’s joke. nodded along to the music thumping from the living room speakers.

but then she caught you looking at her.

just a second — just a glance — but it felt like a fucking bullet to the chest.

you smiled at her. not coy. not sultry. just nice. sweet.

and that was somehow worse.

you didn’t know. you had no idea what you were doing to her. no idea that vi was sitting there remembering the way your panties felt in her fist while she came moaning your name.

you ended up on the couch beside her an hour later, laughing at something milo said.

your leg brushed hers. she tensed.

“vi,” you said, tapping her arm lightly with your drink. “you’re quiet.”

too quiet. too stiff. too close.

she gave you a tight smile. “just enjoying the view.”

you laughed, not catching the way her eyes dropped to your lips again.

your thigh pressed into hers again and she nearly groaned.

fuck this.

she couldn’t take it anymore.

she grabbed your wrist mid-conversation.

you blinked. “vi?”

“c’mere.”

you followed, too trusting, too unaware — giggling like it was some kind of game as she led you down the hallway, away from the noise, the lights, the watchful eyes.

“where are we—”

she didn’t answer.

the bathroom door slammed shut behind you. lock clicked.

“vi—”

and then she was on you.

hands on your waist. mouth against your neck. breathing like she was starving, like she hadn’t tasted water in days and you were the first clean sip.

you gasped, pushed at her shoulders — “what are you—” — but her mouth found your collarbone, her hand sliding up your thigh, and your breath caught.

“been thinking about you,” she murmured, lips dragging hot against your skin. “for so fucking long.”

you trembled, heart racing. “vi—this—”

“i know,” she groaned, pressing you back against the sink. “i know you don’t get it. but i can’t—fuck, i can’t stop.”

her mouth met yours before you could speak again — open, desperate, messy. her hand cupped your face, tilting it just right, her tongue claiming you like she was staking something primal.

you whimpered, legs trembling, hands curling into the front of her hoodie.

she kissed you like she needed to — like it was this or death.

and you… you kissed her back.

your mind was foggy, spinning.

you didn’t understand what was happening. didn’t understand how her hands knew exactly where to grip — how her mouth found every soft spot with a kind of reverence that felt terrifying and addictive all at once.

her thigh slipped between yours. you gasped.

“fuck,” vi whispered. “you feel that?”

you nodded, barely.

“been dreaming about this,” she said against your jaw. “about you.”

your breath caught. “w-what?”

she didn’t answer.

her hand was already hiking up your skirt, palm hot and heavy against your thigh. she stared at you like you were something divine — lips parted, pupils blown, jaw clenched.

“i shouldn’t,” she muttered.

but her hand slid higher anyway.

“i know i shouldn’t.”

she pressed her fingers to the front of your panties. damp.

you whimpered.

her eyes darkened. “but you’re fucking soaked for me.”

“vi,” you choked out.

“i knew you would be,” she whispered. “knew you’d be so good for me.”

she didn’t even bother pulling your panties off — just dragged them to the side and slipped two fingers between your folds like she owned the place.

your back hit the mirror. “oh—fuck—”

“so wet,” she growled, fingers curling. “all this for me?”

your hips jerked.

“yeah?” she rasped. “you gonna let me have it?”

you nodded. desperate. weak. melting.

she kissed you again, filthier this time — tongue deep, possessive, dragging moans out of your throat like confessions.

her fingers fucked you slow at first. deep. measured.

she watched your face the whole time. memorizing. worshipping.

“you’re so pretty like this,” she whispered. “so fuckin’ soft.”

“v-vi—please—”

“you want more?”

you nodded frantically.

she added a third finger. your thighs clenched.

“there you go, baby,” she whispered. “taking it so good.”

she twisted her wrist, hitting that spot inside you with the precision of someone who’d practiced this in her head a hundred times.

maybe she had.

her thumb found your clit and your knees nearly gave out.

she held you up with one arm, fingers relentless, hips grinding against your thigh like she couldn’t help herself.

“can’t stop thinking about you,” she groaned against your neck. “your voice. your smile. those fuckin’ legs.”

you cried out, clinging to her hoodie.

“touch yourself to your selfies,” she admitted like a sin. “to the sound of your laugh. to your fucking underwear, baby.”

your eyes flew open. “wh-what?”

vi didn’t stop.

her fingers pumped harder. deeper. her eyes were wild, mouth trembling with how close she was to snapping completely.

“wanted to be good,” she gasped. “tried. swear i did. but you kept… wearing those shorts. smiling at me.”

you couldn’t breathe.

“started stealing shit. couldn’t help it. just wanted pieces of you.”

your orgasm hit hard and sudden — shuddering through you with a high-pitched gasp, thighs clenching around her wrist as you buried your face in her neck.

vi groaned like she came.

“fuck, yes,” she growled. “that’s my girl.”

she didn’t stop moving until you were shaking, overstimulated, hips twitching every time her fingers slid home again.

you sagged against the counter, weak, dazed.

vi kissed your cheek.

“i’ll be good now,” she whispered. “promise.”

but her hand was still between your legs.

and she was already hard in her jeans.

[kathaelipwse]

You Didn’t Have to Handle It Alone ✦ C.San

Pairing: Choi San x Reader

Requested: Yes

Genre: Fluff, Comfort, Established Relationship

Tropes: sick/injured comfort, protective boyfriend, established relationship, love confession during vulnerability, “you didn’t have to do this alone”, soft domestic moment, period comfort, caretaker!San

Warnings: mentions of menstruation, mild period pain/cramps, emotional vulnerability, comfort-heavy fluff

Word Count: 1,200-ish words

The cramps hit mid-morning, like a slow tightening coil in your lower abdomen that refused to let go.

You gritted your teeth and kept moving.

San was supposed to come over for a cozy day in—lazy cuddles, maybe a movie marathon. You didn’t want to ruin that. So you smiled through the dull ache, even though all you wanted was to curl up with a heating pad and not speak for three hours.

By the time he arrived, your smile was a little tighter.

“Hey, sunshine,” San beamed as he stepped inside, arms already outstretched. “I brought those chips you like and that ridiculous strawberry milk you pretend to hate.”

You chuckled weakly, walking into his hug. He smelled like clean laundry and warmth.

“Thanks,” you murmured, squeezing him briefly before letting go. “Let’s just chill today, yeah?”

San blinked. “Isn’t that what we always do?”

“Yeah, but I mean like… really chill. No games, no outside world. Just movies and snacks.”

He tilted his head a little, already suspicious. “Sure. You okay though? You look kinda pale.”

You brushed him off with a wave. “Just tired.”

But the truth was, every shift in position sent a shot of pain through your back and stomach. You pressed your lips together and focused on the TV screen while San started unbagging snacks in the kitchen. You thought you were doing a decent job of pretending—until he caught you mid-flinch.

You reached for a throw pillow and subtly pressed it against your stomach, wincing when the cramp flared up again.

That’s when he paused.

“…Are you in pain?” he asked, voice suddenly low and serious.

You hesitated. Then gave a sheepish nod.

“I’m fine, it’s just… you know. Monthly visitor.”

Understanding dawned in his features instantly.

“Oh,” he said. Then, more gently, “Oh.”

You braced yourself for teasing, or awkwardness, or some well-meaning-but-clueless comment.

But it never came.

Instead, San crossed the room in two strides and crouched down in front of you, his hands resting lightly on your knees.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t wanna ruin the mood,” you admitted, eyes avoiding his. “Figured I could handle it.”

San exhaled softly, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You don’t have to handle it alone,” he murmured. “Especially not when I’m here.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

Before you could respond, he stood up and announced, “Okay. Operation Period Survival is now in effect. Stay right there.”

You blinked as he vanished into your kitchen.

A few minutes later, San returned triumphantly, arms full of everything comforting you could possibly imagine. A heating pad. Your favorite hoodie (his, technically). A bottle of water. The exact brand of dark chocolate bar you were craving but didn’t have the energy to get. A fluffy blanket you didn’t remember even owning.

You laughed, touched and overwhelmed. “San…”

“Don’t ‘San’ me,” he said, draping the hoodie over your shoulders. “Put this on. It’s scientifically proven to increase comfort levels by 70%.”

You slipped into it gratefully. It smelled like him. Like safety.

Then he gently nudged you to lie down and tucked the heating pad against your stomach.

“This helps, right?”

You nodded, your voice catching slightly. “Yeah. A lot.”

He climbed onto the couch beside you and opened his arms.

“Come here.”

You hesitated, then curled up against him, your head on his chest, legs tangled with his. His hand found your lower back and began rubbing slow, soothing circles. No words. Just warmth. Just presence.

His fingers brushed against your hair, featherlight. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You snorted into his hoodie. “For bleeding?”

“For handling pain like this and still being sweet to me. For pretending nothing’s wrong because you didn’t want me to worry. You don’t need to do that.”

You were quiet for a beat, then whispered, “I just didn’t wanna be a burden.”

San pulled back slightly so he could look at you. His brows furrowed. “You could never be a burden to me. Never. If anything, I’m mad at myself for not noticing sooner.”

“You did, though.”

He smiled softly. “Because I love you. And I pay attention.”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t expected those words—not right now, not in this vulnerable state. But he said them so easily, like it wasn’t even a question.

You pressed your face into his chest to hide the tears prickling at your eyes.

“I love you too,” you mumbled into the fabric of his hoodie.

His arms tightened around you.

“For the record,” he said, voice teasing now, “I would fight the entire menstrual cycle if I could.”

You let out a laugh, your body relaxing for the first time that day.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh, I would lose, terribly. But I’d do it for you."

-- --

That day, the cramps didn’t magically go away.

But the pain felt a little more bearable. The world felt a little softer. Because you weren’t handling it alone anymore.

And San, wrapped around you like a warm blanket, made sure you knew it—every second.

The End

[zyafics]

I miss maybank!reader soo much!! What are they doing rn? Did they get married?

currently, in the fic im writing, they're arguing:

sneak peek!

The bell chimes, and since you’re the closest to the door, you lift your head to welcome the customer. However, it came to be some sick cosmic joke because the one person you don’t want to see steps through the door. Rafe’s holding a bouquet of flowers—your favorite, actually—and his eyes sweep across the small bistro. When his gaze catches yours, Rafe offers one of his charming smiles, taking a leisure stroll to reach you. “Hey,” Rafe greets. Upon arrival, you notice he has his own battle scars—spreads of yellow-and-blue bruising covering his cheekbones and jaw, a testimony to your brother’s hits. Half of you are proud of JJ for managing to procure such vicious swings, but the other half—quieter, more empathetic—is concerned over Rafe’s injuries. A juxtaposition of emotions, you blame Rafe for putting you in this position. You blame him for letting it get this far. Because it’s easier than admitting the truth. “Do you need something?” He raises a brow, not recognizing your indifference as resentment. “What’s up your ass? Bad tips?” You shrug, not answering. “I got a few ideas to cheer you up,” Rafe offers with a cocky grin, trailing down the length of your body in a suggestive manner. On any other day, you would reciprocate his flirt with a tease of your own—bantering and sharing sharp-witted comments as forms of foreplay. But today, you just want him out. “No thanks,” you answer blankly, turning back to your cleaning. Rafe bristles at your curtness, but he dismisses it as professionalism for your workplace. He understands that. Honestly, he shouldn’t be here in the first place but it’s been days since you returned to Kildare, and you haven’t returned any of his messages and as much as he refuses to admit it—he misses you. He holds out the flowers. “I got you these.” You don’t turn around to acknowledge them. “For what?” “Heard you won some big competition in Charlotte; thought you might like a congratulations.” You falter, slightly, slowing your sweeping circles. You almost turn around, to take a better look at the flowers, knowing there’s expensive, fresh, and exuding a pretty scent—but you stand your ground. “I don’t like those flowers.” Rafe’s taken aback from the comment. He was certain he remember the right ones. “I’ll get you new ones.” “I won’t like those either.” He blinks, trying to figure out if you’re messing with him, as some sort of cat-and-mouse game. But with your back remaining, and your attention reduced to a clean spot that’s spotless, he realizes it’s something entirely different. You’re distant. Cold. You refused to meet his gaze, nor spare an inch of your time, and Rafe is reminiscent of another period where you did the same thing. “You’re mad,” Rafe concludes, lowering the flowers to this side, holding them by the plastic wrapping. You spritz another round of disinfectant on the already-cleaned surface. “I did something.”

but timeline-wise, they're married! they eloped in shotgun wedding!

[sturniolo04]

hii could you make a single dad chris fic based on this

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

dividers: @issysh3ll

Chris could already tell madison was going to be a handful when she got older. You would think she was simply doing this just because she knows it would frustrate him but I dont think she thought that in he 5 month year old brain.

"madison please keep this in your mouth"

chris huffs out referring to the pink pacifer he was now dusting off for the third time now. For what ever reason madison refused to keep the thing in her mouth. Chris place the piece of plastic in her mouth once more hoping she would leave in her mouth this time. wrong

"no no no leave it"

chris rushes out as soon as he see her begin to push the plastic out of her mouth with her tongue. She really didn't mean any harm she thought is was a funny game. Madison's ehyes gleam into his as she observes chris' face noticing how he seemed to not want her to get rid of this contraption she had in her mouth. The way he held up his hands to signify that she should leave it be but why would she. Madison quickly spit the pacifier out of her mouth once more chris quickly catching it I his hands letting out a groan.

"madisonn"

chris groans out just look at the girl in front of him laiod out on the bed in his room. Madison just starts laughing at the expression his had on his face in front of the girl. Chris quirks and eyebrow up at her giggling and kicking her feet.

"what you find this funny huh"

chris sighs out chuckling lifting her up in his arms rocking her from side to side as she still giggled till she was pink in the cheeks. Chris looked at her for a second once she calmed down from her giggling fit putting the pacifer in her mouth once more to see if she would appease him this time. Nope

"okay thats a good girl"

chris coos out holding her close to his chest patting her back lett her head rest on his shoulder. Madison just as before spitting out the pacifer it falling behind chris' back falling to the floor. Chris subtly pulls madison to be sitting on his hip looking at her as if she didn't just do what he thought she did. Madison's matching blue eyes stare at chris innocently before bursting into another fit of giggles.

"you silly giurl what am i going to do with you huh"

chris chuckles out turning around and picking up the pacifer off of the floor.

Taglist🗂️

@mintsturniolo @spicymuffins03 @dirtylittleheart333

@stayingstromboli @wh0resstuff @ksturnz @chaoswithus @emely9274 @ivysturnss @sturniolo-szn2 @lezleeferguson-120 @courta13 @chrepsi @lyingonchris

@tezzzzzzzz @babytomatoes21 @sturniolosymphony @zenithsturniolo @bernardsbendystraws @sturnioloslut101

[ryangravytrain]

OK SO we're about to go to ot and im stressed but i just remembered a THOUGHT i had last night and like.

in fair DC where we lay our scene:

Leno - Willstrome's child returning from college and a weird situationship

PLD - the dads' long time friend that he hasn's seen since he was in like middle school or whatever, returned to their city for whatever reason

FT. Grandpa ovi who is an absolute menace. Long distance uncle burky who tries to help but only riles Willy up. A Plethora of weirdo uncles. Normal(TM) uncle Mat Roy.

WILL LENO LEARN WHAT LOVE REALLY IS, AND WILL PL ALLOW HIMSELF TO OPEN UP TO A YOUNG LOVE. WHO KNOWS BUT THERE WILL BE SHENANINGAS.

and as ot starts, i rest my case.

I swear I was going to answer this before the end of the game but then OT started and then OT happened.... Anyways!! I think in my OT panic I misunderstood your ask... please read under the cut:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The spectacular hockey season has begun. We have a fair share of eligible young gentlemen all vying for the attention of one Lord Stanley. Who will be the start of the season? Who will capture the eye and the heart of his royal highness? Only time shall tell.

In the meantime we turn our attention to the land of Washington. Watched over by the great Alexander. Rumor has it that the old lord will soon step down and his successor, the young but spritely Sir Tom Wilson will soon take up the mantle. Sir Tom’s succession was called into question not but a few seasons ago when he got into multiple altercations resulting in him disappearing from the public eye for quite some time. However as we all remember last season when he reammerged in polite society with the handsome Dylan Strome. A name not yet known to this author, as I’m sure many can agree, but Sir Dylan has made an impact that cannot be ignored.

As we focus on Washington we cannot forget who is emerging for his debut season. Ryan Leonard, the young upstart who has been taken under the Wilson-Strome’s wing, is set to finally make his formal appearance in society. 

But reader, we know you don’t pay attention unless there's scandal. Rumor around the Ton says that Leonard had an…intimate relationship with the princeling across the way. Young Leonard was caught unaware and unchaperoned with William Smith, who if we may remember has been recently betrothed to heir to the San Jose throne, Macklin Celebrini. Quite scandalous if you ask this author.

But if Leonard is to clear his name he must secure a title. As we all know Ovechkin is not one to back down without security. He won't give Wilson his title unless there is a proper heir named by Wilson.

Now who will catch young Leonard’s eye in Washington? Many speculate that the esteemed Connor McMichael may be in line, or perhaps the young upstart of Ivan Miroshnichenko, who if memory serves made quite the splash when he came on the scene. Yet there is another that this author would like us to consider.

Coming onto the Washington scene is the Disgraced Pierre-Luc Dubios. Cast out of Columbus, given a second chance in the state of Winnipeg only to be dropped into Los Angeles, there are only so many chances someone of Dubois pedigree can have before he is cast out…permanently.

After so many failed engagements and so many scandals, perhaps there is a plan in Washington, one that we have yet to see. Washington is not afraid of a bit of scandal as we can all recall. We remember the plight surrounding the disappearance of Ovechkin's partner, his Lordship Nicklas Backstrom. But recent sightings appear to show Backstrom and Ovechkin in high spirits.

So a match between Mister Dubois and Leonard may not be as outlandish as one may think. Only time shall tell. In the meantime, let us keep an eye out for Washington. This author is anxious to see what may come about this season.

Best Regards,

Ryangravytrain

[monktwo]

Part 9 of the missing piece series

Game prep

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you woke up with sunlight on your cheek and someone’s knee wedged into your hip.

Mapi was sprawled across half the bed, snoring softly with her shirt halfway up her back. Ingrid was still curled behind you, her hand resting on your side like it had been placed there hours ago and never moved.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting the quiet hold you.

It wasn’t like yesterday never happened — the conversation, the memories, the look Zara had given you when she walked away — but the ache wasn’t as sharp. Just… muted now.

Manageable.

You shifted carefully, slipping out from between them, and padded into the kitchen to start coffee. The motion was grounding. Simple, steady. Something you could control.

By the time Mapi wandered in, hair a mess, shirt stolen from Ingrid’s side of the closet, you were already finishing your coffee.

“You’re early,” she said, eyes squinting.

You gave her a grin. “I want to play.”

—

The mood at training was sharp from the start.

Not tense — focused. It was matchday prep, which meant short-sided drills, finishing sequences, and transition work. No slow jogs or weak passes.

Everyone was dialed in.

So were you.

The ball stuck to your feet like it was glued on. You split tight spaces, ghosted past markers, flicked the ball over an outstretched leg and sent it into the back of the net. One of the staff coaches shouted something in Spanish you couldn’t catch, but the tone was somewhere between impressed and exasperated.

During the possession box, you nutmegged Jana and ducked a shoulder just as she tried to pin you. You tapped the ball sideways to Vicky and dropped back into space like you’d never left.

“Damn,” Jana muttered, grinning as she jogged past. “I see how it is.”

Later, during the final progression drills, you were paired with Pina in an attack transition set.

Ball drops at midfield, two defenders back, one goal.

You scooped it forward with one touch, then pulled it sideways with the outside of your foot — sharp, Neymar-style. Pina adjusted fast, looping around the outside and drawing the right back away. You cut left, body low, slipped through the gap between both center backs and buried the shot low.

Clean. Confident. Efficient.

There were whistles from the sideline, clapping from the small cluster of support staff near the dugout. Someone yelled, “¡Qué golazo!”

(“What a goal!”)

You grinned, jogging back to reset. Sweat slicked your collarbone, and your chest burned — but it was a good burn. One you liked. The kind that reminded you this was real, and you belonged here.

—

After the session, one of the assistant coaches called your name while you were catching your breath.

You trotted over.

“We’ve been watching you,” he said. “The staff talked after the drills.”

You blinked at him, waiting.

“You’re on the roster for tomorrow.”

A small smile pulled at your lips. “Bench?”

“For now.”

You nodded once. “Got it.”

“You’re not surprised.”

You shook your head, grin tugging wider. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

—

You didn’t spot her until you were halfway across the pitch.

Your mom stood just past the fencing — arms folded, sunglasses perched on top of her head, hair pinned up in a quick twist like she’d done it in the car.

She didn’t wave. Just waited.

When you reached her, she pulled you into a hug without a word.

“You didn’t have to come,” you said into her shoulder.

“I know,” she said. “But I wanted to. After yesterday… I wanted to be here.”

You pulled back, throat tight.

She studied your face. “You okay?”

You nodded.

“I watched the whole thing,” she said. “Every touch, every flick, every little move that made someone mutter under their breath.”

You looked down at your boots, trying not to grin.

“You were having fun out there,” she said, softer now. “That’s the girl I want to see more of.”

“I was just playing,” you said, shrugging.

“Exactly.”

Then she nudged your arm with her elbow. “Now. You’ve been glued to those two like Velcro since you got here.”

You gave her a look. “We’ve been training mamma.”

“And sleeping. And eating. And skipping breakfast with your siblings.”

You groaned.

Your mom raised an eyebrow. “Tonight, you’re coming home with me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but she added quickly, “Just for the night. Your sister made cinnamon buns. Your brother swore he’d beat you at Mario Kart.”

You snorted. “Fine. But only because I want the cinnamon buns.”

—

When you found Ingrid and Mapi by the locker room exit, they were waiting — gear bags slung over their shoulders, sunglasses on.

“I’m being kidnapped,” you said flatly.

Mapi blinked. “By who?”

“Mamma,” you said. “She’s invoking full parent authority.”

Ingrid smiled. “Fair.”

“You’ve had her for like two straight days,” Hanne said from behind you. “Let her come home. You can survive until tomorrow.”

Mapi groaned. “Unbelievable. This is emotional blackmail.”

“It’s cinnamon buns,” you said.

“That’s worse,” Ingrid muttered. “Now I want one.”

Mapi rolled her eyes, but there was a smile behind it. “We’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

You grinned. “Can’t wait.”

As you slid into the passenger seat and watched them fade in the mirror, you let the silence settle.

Your name was going to be on a match sheet tomorrow.

And you were ready for the game and hopefully for the chaos that was waiting at your abuelas.

“You’re finally here!”

“I’m literally five minutes early.”

“My sign’s been ready for hours!”

Before you could blink, your sister was wrapped around your waist.

“You owe me,” she mumbled dramatically into your hoodie.

“For what?”

“You left us for months.” She said dramatically, like it was the betrayal of her life.

Your brother leaned out from the kitchen. “She’s been holding your signs like cue cards all day.”

“She made two,” he added. “They rhyme.”

“They do not rhyme,” she said, scandalized. “One says ‘Visca Barça y Visca Y/N.’ And the other says ‘GOOOO MAPITO.’”

“Mapi’s going to cry,” you muttered.

“She’s going to love it,” your sister grinned.

Before you could say anything else, you heard the familiar clack of heels on tile, then —

“Mi niña.”

“Mami!”

You met her in the doorway, arms already outstretched. Her hug was soft and firm and everything you’d needed without realizing it.

She kissed your temple and held you close.

“You’ve been gone for way too long” you said, leaning even more into the comfort of your mami.

“I know bebé, lo siento mucho mi niña.” She answered, giving your temper one more kiss. “You hungry?”

“Always.”

—

Your abuela didn’t give you a chance to sit before a plate appeared in front of you.

“Eat,” she ordered. “You’re all skin and bones.”

“That’s just not true”

“You need to bulk.”

“She’s not a bodybuilder,” your mom called from the kitchen.

“She could be. Mira esos brazos.”

(“Look at those arms”)

Your sister slid into the seat next to you. “I made bracelets too.”

“Of course you did.”

“One for Mapi, one for Ingrid, and one for you but it broke. So I gave it to the dog.”

“Great.”

“It says ‘Cool Big Sister.’”

“Thanks?”

“The dog peed on it,” your brother added.

“Because she loves it.”

—

Dinner was pure noise.

Spanish bouncing across the table like a pinball machine, your abuela controlling the entire flow with a spoon and dramatic gasps. Your mami kept piling second helpings onto your plate even though you were halfway full. Your sister narrated everything in whispers and your brother took stealth photos of your face mid-bite.

“Post that and die,” you muttered.

“You’re trending in the family group chat.”

Your sister leaned over and whispered, “I added a Barbie sticker to your boot.”

“I swear to God—”

—

Later, the three of you ended up on the living room floor surrounded by Mario Kart controllers and a growing level of hostility.

“You boosted into me!”

“You steered into me!”

“YOU THREW A BLUE SHELL!”

“I had to!”

“YOU HATE ME!”

Your mom walked past with a bowl of popcorn and didn’t even flinch.

Mami finally stepped in with a single look.

“Next scream ends the game.”

There was silence. For two seconds.

Then your sister shrieked, “HE UNPLUGGED ME!”

Game over.

—

The next morning, you were brushing your teeth when the shouting began.

“MAPIIIIII!”

“NO!”

“She’s on FaceTime!”

Your sister burst into the bathroom and held up the phone.

“Say hi!”

You mumbled something with toothpaste foam in your mouth. Mapi’s face lit up on the screen.

“You’re adorable,” she said. “Even with rabies.”

“She said she loves the sign,” your sister said. “And the bracelet.”

“I haven’t even shown it to her yet—”

“I sent a picture.”

“Oh my God.”

—

Twenty minutes later, Ingrid and Mapi showed up at the gate.

“Your girlfriends are here!” your brother yelled.

“They’re not—!”

The door opened and your sister sprinted out with her signs.

Mapi caught her in one arm, grinning. “That for me?”

“It says GOOOO MAPITO!”

Ingrid raised her sunglasses. “That’s a lot of O’s.”

“She said you have to shout it when you score.”

“I will.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping out behind them. “You guys look very cool.”

“We’re here for the star player,” Ingrid said, kissing your cheek.

“And also for the snacks,” Mapi added.

Hanne handed them a tupperware at the door. “Pastelitos. Don’t let her touch them until halftime.”

“I HEARD THAT,” you yelled.

Your sister tugged on Mapi’s sleeve. “I’m gonna wave from the stands.”

“I’ll wave back.”

She looked very serious. “I’ll know if you don’t.”

Mapi nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

Ingrid smiled at you, soft and steady. “Ready?”

You nodded.

[just-absolutely-super]

I'M SO PISSED OFF THAT I DON'T REMEMBER READING THESE CHAPTERS BACK THEN

BECAUSE THERE'S A HELLA LOT OF EXPOSITION GOING ON RIGHT NOW ABOUT WANO AND RAFTEL AND I HAVE 0 MEMORY OF IT ALL

[mxrtified777]

THE FUCKUVNG ROBOT

[miumiins]

[maxfieldparrishes]

the bridge of that one gracie abrams song has me in my caitvi feels like

[front-facing-pokemon]