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chahnniesroom · 6 months ago

Text

some loves

pairing: bang chan x female reader

summary: some loves are too hard to bear. years after being trainees together, chan still thinks of you all the time. he has no idea that a collaboration would lead him back to you.

word count: 6.9k

tags/warnings: reader is an independent singer/songwriter, hurt/comfort, angst, mentions of past injuries, a little bit of jealousy, i am still in denial that chan doesn't do lives anymore, hongjoong from ateez is in this fic

read it on ao3 | masterlist

a/n: once again, sorry for the long time between posts. disclaimer that i do not know much about how the music/idol industry works and i did not really do much research. also i'm not an atiny so sorry if my portrayal of hongjoong is not realistic at all. also also i did a lot of the writing on a new tablet doing handwriting with a stylus to text so please forgive any typos or weird formatting! i didn't have a chance to edit much so i may have missed some things.

Chan’s in his studio when he gets the call. At first, he doesn’t even realise his phone is ringing. It’s 2am on a weekday and he’s been working away for a few hours so the rest of the world has just about faded into the background.

He’s both surprised and intrigued when he looks at the caller ID and sees Hongjoong’s name. Chan would consider Hongjoong to be a friend, but they’re not particularly close and he can’t think of a reason that would warrant this late night call.

“Hey hyung,” Hongjoong greets him briefly before getting straight to the point. “What’s your schedule like in the next few months?”

“It’s actually not too bad,” Chan replies after a moment of thought. “We’re just finalising all the music for the next album so it’ll be a bit of time before we get busy with recording and filming for the comeback. What’s up?”

“You don’t have the answer now and I don’t want you to feel any pressure at all, but would you be interested in doing a collab together?”

“A collab?” Chan repeats. “Like, ATEEZ and Stray Kids?”

“We could,” Hongjoong says reluctantly. “But actually, if you’re up for it then I was thinking more like just you and me. I have a couple tracks that we could work off of and I’ve roped in someone to help me with recording, engineering, and production.”

“Who?” Chan asks, interest piqued.

“Not sure if you’ve heard of them, they go by the name HALLA.”

Chan recognises the name instantly. When Chan had first stumbled upon HALLA one late night scrolling and listening to different independent artists, they seemed relatively unknown. However, a little research revealed that they had KOMCA credits on a number of songs for idol groups, some of which had become widely popular. Their personal work was a variety of genres and a majority of the tracks didn’t have vocals, but the ones that did had clever or thoughtful lyrics. There were a couple of different voices featured in the original songs, both of which were smooth and melodic. HALLA has a style that Chan thinks would complement Stray Kids and he’s considered reaching out to them a few times, but was always held back by something.

There was little about HALLA posted on the internet and while Chan definitely appreciates their privacy, he’s curious to meet the person behind all the songs that he enjoyed. There’s just something familiar about all their music that he can’t quite place, something that he wants more of.

“I’m in,” Chan agrees.

“You can take some time to think about it, talk to JYPE to see what their thoughts are too.”

“No need, I’m interested and I know I can convince management to support this.”

“Well that was easy,” Hongjoong says and Chan can basically hear him grinning through the phone. “And for my own pride, I’m going to pretend that you said yes the second I suggested the collab instead of when I mentioned HALLA-ssi.” Chan instantly flushes and is glad that Hongjoong can’t see him over the phone.

“It wasn’t-” Chan begins to protest.

“It’s okay,” Hongjoong interrupts. “I’m also pretty thrilled to get to work with them, so I understand. Didn’t realise you were familiar with their work, but I guess a hidden gem like them can’t stay hidden for long. I’ll send some files over to you and we can organise a time to work.”

—

Chan finds it easy to work with Hongjoong and they make quick progress on the song, writing lyrics and creating a guide within a couple of weeks. Before he knows it, they’ve scheduled a time for Chan to visit KQ Entertainment to record vocals. Hongjoong knows that Chan is keen to be involved in the production and arrangement of the song too, so they also have a couple sessions booked for that, although Hongjoong teases him relentlessly about just wanting to work with HALLA. The worst part is that Chan can’t even deny it.

Hongjoong meets him at the entrance of KQ Entertainment and quickly takes him through security.

“HALLA-ssi is already in the studio,” Hongjoong explains as they wait for the elevator to arrive. “I was getting input on a track that’s been killing me for the past few days.”

“Did they help?” Chan asks, a little surprised that HALLA is involved in more than just this collaboration. He still hasn't had a chance to connect with them other than quick introductions through text a couple of days ago and he's just as excited to meet them as initially.

“Yeah!” Hongjoong grins, eyes curving into little crescents. “HALLA-ssi is amazing. She only had listen to it a couple times before she came up with suggestions on a few different ways to fix the part that I hated. I left her to finish cleaning the song up and then it’s basically ready for review.”

“How did you start working with HALLA-ssi? I’ve been meaning to try to connect with her.”

“It was actually a friend that suggested working with her. For someone who isn’t signed with a label- which I don’t know how nobody has signed her yet- she’s surprisingly well connected within the industry. I’m sure that KQ would be more than happy to have her work with us, but when I hinted at that, she didn’t seem interested.”

“Really?” Although KQ Entertainment is still one of the smaller companies in the industry, most unsigned artists would still jump at the chance to work there since they have a good reputation, especially due to ATEEZ’s popularity.

“I haven’t poked too much, it’s not really my business. I thought I might as well try. I just know that she’s amazing at her job and I’m grateful that I get to work with her at all.”

They turn the corner to the hallway that leads to the recording studio. The door is ajar and Hongjoong opens it, waving his arm forward to allow Chan to walk through first, before following closely behind.

HALLA’s sitting at the desk and the second Chan sees her face, he stops in his tracks.

“Y/n,” Chan breathes.

You look up, startled, and your eyes connect for a split second before Hongjoong crashes into Chan, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

“Hyung,” Hongjoong complains, unaware of Chan’s inner turmoil. “Why’d you stop?”

Chan lets out an apologetic wheeze from where he’s now trapped under Hongjoong, before resting his forehead against the ground. He needs a second to recover.

It feels like a punch to the gut to see you in front of the recording studio’s computer, fiddling with a track. You look different, but somehow it feels like Chan has been transported right back to his trainee days and all that time that the two of you had spent side by side.

It has been years since Chan last saw you. He had found out that you had left JYPE just months after Stray Kids officially debuted, but all efforts to track you down had been futile. You had changed your number and broken contact with all the other trainees. He had asked around a little bit, but everyone he talked to had been unusually cagey about the subject.

Suddenly, everything makes more sense, especially the little that he knows about HALLA.

As trainees, Chan’s favourite moments had been when you had regaled him with stories of growing up on Jeju Island. The two of you had connected early on through your shared love of the ocean. You had promised him that if he ever went to visit in his free time, you would take him on the best trails up to the Hallasan, the shield volcano, and show him incredible views from the highest point on the island. Occasionally, your parents would send you care packages and the two of you would open them hidden away in one of the vocal practice rooms, the sweet citrus of hallabong exploding in your mouths.

You had always spoken about Jeju Island so fondly, of course you would find a way to indirectly pay homage through the stage name that you chose.

“Oppa,” your voice rings out in the silence of the room. Now, Chan knows why the female voice on some of HALLA’s songs had always seemed hauntingly familiar. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” both Chan and Hongjoong say at the same time, then make eye contact with identical confused expressions.

“Hongjoong-ssi, you didn’t mention that the person you wanted to feature on the track was Channie-oppa,” you say, making it clear who you were addressing your concern to earlier.

“It was supposed to be a surprise!” Hongjoong gets up slowly, dusting off his clothes and scratching at the back of his head, still looking bewildered. “I had no idea that you two knew each other, hyung mentioned he hadn’t worked with you before.”

Chan stays quiet, not sure how much you’re willing to share. Hongjoong must not know about your time with JYPE if he can’t piece together how the two of you could have met.

“Oh- I used to- We trained together back in the day,” you explain sheepishly. “I was with JYPE for a little while and all the trainees knew who Channie-oppa was. That was a long time ago though, I didn’t use the name HALLA back then.”

The five years that you trained at JYPE are more than a little while, but Chan forces himself to bite his tongue at your deliberate understatement. You don’t elaborate further and while it’s obvious that Hongjoong isn’t satisfied with your answer, he’s willing to drop the topic for now. You look relieved when he switches the subject to the song.

The three of you finish recording quickly. It shouldn’t be a surprise, the work so far with Hongjoong has been smooth so adding you to the mix has just made things easier, but Chan knows he’s a perfectionist and it often takes him an almost embarrassing number of takes before he’s satisfied. The only delay comes when Hongjoong decides he wants you to sing some of the backing vocals and resorts to actually getting on his knees and begging. Chan doesn’t go so far, but he can’t help but agree that your voice blends with the song perfectly. Of course, he also just wants to hear you sing.

You relent when Chan quietly voices his agreement and it really shouldn't make Chan feel as smug as it does.

It’s not even early enough for dinner when things are wrapped up. Chan is usually eager to finish a schedule early, but he’s reluctant to leave, taking his time packing up his belongings.

Finally, he doesn’t have a reason to stay any longer so he musters up the courage to ask.

“Do you guys want to go grab some coffee or something to eat?”

You and Hongjoong make eye contact before turning to look at Chan guiltily. His stomach churns for some reason.

“I’m sorry,” you wince. “I actually promised to help Hongjoong-ssi with an ATEEZ song and we need to go over the edits that I made before his meeting with the company later today.”

“Oh,” Chan replies, feeling a little relieved. “Right, no yeah I get it. Hongjoong actually mentioned that earlier, but I forgot. My bad.”

You offer an apologetic smile before turning to the computer, opening up a file.

“I’ll see you guys next time, then,” Chan says, starting to back out of the room.

“Of course! Thank you for your hard work and good job today!” you say brightly. Looking distracted, Hongjoong mumbles an agreement and waves goodbye. Unlike you, he’s not staring at the computer monitor though. Instead, his focus is solely on you. Even from his side profile, Chan can tell that he’s enamoured.

Honestly, Chan can’t really blame him, you look comfortable and confident, swallowed up in an oversized hoodie as you start explaining the alterations that you made to the track. Your voice is calm, but warm and you’re careful to start off by complimenting the work that Hongjoong had done previously.

Chan leaves, resolutely ignoring the twisted feeling that’s back with a vengeance and any thoughts of what the cause might be.

—

Chan can’t sleep. His thoughts are all about you, what you’ve been doing the past few years, what happened to you at JYPE that made you leave, and mostly trying to remember how and why your relationship with him slowly fell apart.

That’s the hardest part. In the darkest time of his life, when Chan had been discouraged and disheartened, you had joined JYPE with a brightness and enthusiasm that gave Chan the motivation to continue being a trainee. He had adored you. He still does.

In those last few months before the survival show had been filmed, Chan’s relationship with you had gone from being everything to nothing. It happened in the blink of an eye, and Chan had never understood what caused you to withdraw so quickly and thoroughly. The two of you had gone from spending almost all of your free time together to you avoiding him at the company, pretending not to hear when he called out your name or tried to get your attention.

The regret of letting you slip away has always eaten away at him, but now more than ever.

Of course, at the time it hadn’t felt so simple. The survival show was Chan’s first serious chance to debut, and not just that, but the weight of having eight other people’s careers depending on his leadership took a toll on all his other relationships. Your absence in his life still hurt, but Chan had lots of practice losing people. He had coped in the way that worked best in the past, throwing himself headlong into producing, training, anything to keep himself from wallowing in his feelings.

Chan doesn’t have any schedules for today, but he still heads to the company. He knows this isn’t the healthiest way to deal with things, but he doesn’t know anything else.

When he arrives, Chan just barely manages to catch a glimpse of a few familiar faces. He calls out before he can think better of it, jogging slightly to catch up. Sana, Momo, and Mina watch curiously as he approaches. He knows that Twice also aren’t in a busy period of the year, so he doesn’t feel guilty delaying them.

“Sorry to bother you all. Sana-noona, I was just wondering if we could chat?”

Sana makes brief eye contact with the rest of the girls before agreeing and waving them to go ahead of her. She follows behind Chan as he leads them into his studio, clearly interested in determining the reason behind this atypical meet up.

“What’s up, Channie?” she asks once the door is closed behind them.

Chan tries to think of the best way to start, not wanting to just outright ask, but not knowing how to subtly steer the conversation into the right direction. Finally, he abandons trying to be casual and just blurts out, “Do you remember Y/n?”

“Of course I do,” Sana says, sounding amused at the sudden mention of you. “You both had reputations for being veteran trainees. I mean, other than Jihyo.”

“I was always surprised that she never debuted,” Chan admits. “I just thought it would happen eventually and I was so shocked to find out that she had left. I didn’t- I don’t understand why she gave up on something she wanted so badly.”

“Give up?” Sana asks, sounding like she’s offended on your behalf. “Why would you say it like that?”

“What do you mean? It was like she was there one day and gone the next, I just assumed that she had enough and quit. Nobody seemed to know anything about it. I never found out why and it’s been kind of killing me.”

“You didn’t hear what happened?”

“What- something happened? To her?” Chan swallows hard, suddenly feeling unwell.

“It- I thought that you of all people would know-”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, but- you never talked to her about it? You knew her better than any of us.”

“Noona, I didn’t know that she was gone until months later. She obviously didn’t want to talk about it to me, I never reached out at first. When I finally did, her number had been changed. What was I supposed to do?”

“I- It’s better if you were to hear it from her. I don’t know the full story and you know how things can be distorted through gossip. And you especially must know how dangerous that can be.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You really have no clue? The two of you were inseparable…”

“Please,” Chan pleads.

“You know how it is in the industry, you were so close, of course there were rumours…”

It suddenly clicks.

“But we were just friends! And the dating ban-”

“Chan, you know nobody actually sticks to those, right?”

“But really, we were never-”

“I believe you,” Sana says, carefully. “But you know that to management that it doesn’t really matter whether or not anything was actually going on. To them it’s all about the optics. A perceived relationship is just as dangerous as an actual one.”

“Management…” Chan repeats, his mind racing. “They never mentioned anything to me though.”

“You never found it suspicious? You two are extremely close and out of the blue she suddenly stops talking to you, then right after the two of you stop hanging out, you’re chosen for the survival show? Someone must have talked to her at some point. Maybe not management, but for sure someone.”

“You think that’s why it took so long for me to debut?” Chan asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“It was a liability,” Sana explains. “To have a dating scandal so early on? Neither of your careers would survive. It’s painful and a terrible part of the industry but it’s true.”

“And.. Why she left, you know about that too?” Chan pleads.

“I think I’ve said too much already. I know that it’s hard, but some things are really personal.” She pauses for a moment. “What brought this on, anyway? You haven’t mentioned Y/nnie in years.”

“I can’t say much, but I- I saw her today, got to talk to her, found out what she’s been up to.” Sana gasps. Chan continues. “It was so weird to see her after so long. In the back of my mind, I had always wondered, but…”

“I’m glad that you two got to reconnect,” Sana says gently. “The two of you cared about each other a lot, that much was obvious. Talk to her, I think at the very least you’ll be able to find peace about what happened.”

“Noona-” Chan reaches out and pulls Sana into a tight hug. “Thank you for telling me. I appreciate it.”

“Of course. I’m sorry that it took so long for you to find out.”

—

A few days later, Hongjoong schedules another session to work on the song. Leading up to it, Chan is both looking forward to it and nervous, not sure what to expect. Although he still really wants to know what happened to you all those years ago, he’s scared about what he might learn and any part he might have had in it.

After a sleepless night, he ends up arriving almost 15 minutes early. This time, Hongjoong isn’t waiting at the building’s entrance. Instead he had let him know a few days before that Chan could just sign himself in and had sent him the name and location of the studio that was booked. When Chan reaches it, he can make out conversation from inside.

“HALLA,” Hongjoong can be heard through the studio doors, which aren’t fully shut. His tone is petulant and much more casual than it was previously. Chan wonders how much time the two of you have spent together between then and now and he almost misses the next thing that Hongjoong says. “You never told me that you were a trainee before.”

That stops Chan in his tracks, interested in how you’ll respond.

“It was a long time ago.” Your voice is faint. You’re still nice, but Chan can tell that your voice is stiffer than usual. “It doesn’t really matter now.”

This time, Hongjoong doesn’t let it go.

“What happened?” he prods.

“Just drop it,” you warn him. “It’s the past, forget I told you in the first place. Nothing ever came of it anyway.”

“Y/n-” Hongjoong changes tactics, the nagging tone replaced with a quieter, more serious one. You sigh.

“It didn’t work out. Obviously. I’m just not idol material.”

“Oh come on, I don’t believe that for a second. Your producing is good enough that I know for sure you’ve been getting offers to work with more companies than just KQ. When you direct during recording, you can hit every note without any warm up or practice. And I’ve heard your original songs, you must have been considered for both the position of lead rapper and lead singer as a trainee because there’s no way that anybody would let your talent go to waste.” Hongjoong is breathing hard by the end of his rant and Chan can see that this is something that has been bothering him for a while.

“It’s okay, Hongjoong-oppa.” Your voice is gentle, like you’re trying to comfort him. “I’m happy with what I have right now. Really. I’m grateful for all the freedom I have. Getting to work on any project I want and experiment with my music without having to deal with the bureaucracy and politics of the industry? Having that independence is precious to me. I wanted to be an idol for a long long time. But even though that specific plan I had didn’t work out, it doesn’t mean I’m not happy with what I’m doing.”

Hongjoong stays quiet for a while.

“Do you think that if you had the opportunity to debut as an idol now, you would?” he finally asks.

“Oppa, it’s not possible. I can’t dance, I’m too old-” you protest.

“No no, just hypothetically. Like if someone walked into the room and handed you a contract and said that if you signed it in an hour then you’d be able to debut.”

“I- I don’t know.”

“What’s your gut feeling?”

“I think I left that dream behind, I don’t know if I want to go down that path again. I don’t think I have it in me.”

“I’m sorry,” Hongjoong says after another pause. “I shouldn’t have questioned you so much, you shouldn’t have to justify your decisions to me.”

“No, it’s fine. It seems strange, right? For me to be an artist in Seoul and not want to get signed, it's only natural for you to be curious. But I learned a lot when I was a trainee and I learned even more after that and I can say with certainty that this is what I want.”

Chan takes that opportunity to knock on the studio door and push it open.

“Hey, hope I’m not interrupting,” he says, as if he wasn’t just eavesdropping on their conversation and purposely chose when to cut in. “Sorry, I’m a little bit late.”

“Hey, no problem man,” Hongjoong says. “We haven’t had a chance to do anything yet, so you’re right on time.”

“Good to see you,” you chime in. “I think this should be pretty quick so let’s get started!”

As you predicted, it doesn’t take long before a majority of the song is finished. Normally, Chan would be keen to stay involved until the very last detail is finalised, but he trusts you and at the end of this day, it’s Hongjoong’s song so he’s happy to give him the final say.

At the end of the session, Chan once again uses the opportunity to try to catch you alone. The two of you are side by side, packing your bags and Chan asks if you have any plans for the rest of the day. You confirm that you're available and Chan is about to suggest that the two of you take the time to catch up when Hongjoong interrupts.

“Oh, Y/n-ah,” he says. “I was actually hoping to get your input on something and I didn’t have a chance to ask you earlier. Can you please stick around for a bit? Sorry, hyung.”

Hongjoong sounds so sincere that Chan almost doesn’t feel annoyed that he’s stealing all of your time and attention. Almost, because at the end of the day, Chan’s only human. Even though he knows he has no right to feel possessive over you, he can’t stop the petty jealousy that bubbles up inside of him. At this point, there’s no denying the emotion.

Just like the previous session, he leaves alone, heading directly to the studio. Hours later, his breath catches when he checks his phone and sees that you’ve texted him.

[Received - 8:04pm]

Channie-oppa~

[Received - 8:04pm]

This is Y/nnie

[Received - 8:05pm]

Sorry about earlier, I have a contract with KQ Entertainment and work comes first :/

[Received - 8:09pm]

But I’m free now! You still interested in catching up?

Chan stares at the messages until it feels like they’re burned into his retinas. Logically, he knew that you had his number, the two of you were in a group chat that Hongjoong had set up, but this was your first time messaging him privately. The first time you had reached out in years. A precious opportunity that he never thought that he would have. He doesn’t want to mess this up.

He’s also shocked to see you texting so casually. Although the two of you have been comfortable in person, he wasn’t sure that it would translate to one-on-one conversation.

[Sent - 8:10pm]

Hey Y/n!

[Sent - 8:11pm]

No worries at all, I understand. I’m the same way too

[Sent - 8:13pm]

I still wanna meet up… but I’m all the way back in Gangdong-gu 😅 It’d be a bit of a trek for you if you're still at KQ

[Received - 8:13pm]

Gangdong-gu?

[Received - 8:14pm]

Ohh JYPE

[Received - 8:14pm]

My bad, forgot that you guys moved

[Sent - 8:15pm]

Yeahhh

[Sent - 8:15pm]

Headed straight back to the company after we were done, sorry

[Received - 8:18pm]

Well… If you’re willing to wait then I don’t mind. KQ is close to a metro station anyway

[Sent - 8:18pm]

Wait, really?

[Sent - 8:18pm]

No no no, don’t take the subway

[Sent - 8:18pm]

I’ll send a driver. They’re gonna pick you up in 20 min

[Received - 8:19pm]

Wowow

[Received - 8:19pm]

Private driver?

[Received - 8:20pm]

You’re a real superstar now haha

[Sent - 8:21pm]

alsfjshkafs noooooooo

[Sent - 8:21pm]

It’s just faster

[Sent - 8:21pm]

and safer

[Received - 8:22pm]

I’m not complaining

[Received - 8:22pm]

but I’m going to get your autograph when I see you

[Received - 8:23pm]

If I sell it then I can probably afford my own private driver 🤭

[Sent - 8:24pm]

Knew it

[Sent - 8:25pm]

You’re just using me for my fame

[Received - 8:26pm]

Ah you got me this time

[Received - 8:26pm]

*Your fame, your talent, and your good looks

[Received - 8:27pm]

Even tho you were the one that said you wanted to meet up

[Received - 8:27pm]

Hmmm maybe you’re the one using me?

Chan listens to his phone as it continues to vibrate from where it’s lodged in between two of the couch cushions after he threw it across to the opposite side of the room. His face is buried in his hands and flaming red. He feels both giddy and terribly embarrassed.

Chan’s no stranger to flirting, he’s experienced his fair share being on either side through interactions with the members and with Stay, but he forgot how flustered he was being on the receiving end of your teasing. The part he never understood is that your playful tone always gave way to sincerity. Even when the two of you would joke around, he could always tell that you meant every comment that you made about Chan being talented or attractive and that flattered him almost as much as it baffled him.

[Received - 8:32pm]

?? Speechless that I caught on?

[Received - 8:36pm]

I think your driver has arrived… Otherwise I’m being kidnapped

[Received - 8:40pm]

Don’t think I would survive a horror film… I got into the car with no questions asked

[Received - 8:42pm]

It was nice knowing you I guess

When he realises how much time has passed, Chan grabs his phone and runs down to the back entrance of the company. Luckily you haven’t arrived yet and he takes the time to reply to your messages.

[Sent - 8:53pm]

Sorry, lost track of time

[Sent - 8:53pm]

They’ll drop you off at the back door, I’ll meet you there so you don’t have to get signed in or anything

[Received - 8:54pm]

Don’t think you’re getting away with ignoring my other texts

[Received - 8:55pm]

But thanks

[Received - 8:55pm]

Is this back door, the famous one that only allows in authorised people?

[Received - 8:55pm]

I’m honoured

Chan rolls his eyes at your cheesy reference and is in the middle of typing up a response when he sees the car pull up. You step out cautiously, then brighten when you see where Chan’s propping up the door.

“Hey,” Chan greets you. “Glad that you made it safely.”

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, looking around curiously as Chan leads you to an elevator that takes you to the rest of the building. “So this is the new and improved JYP Entertainment. I’d say that it looks the same as before, but I never got the chance to come in.”

“Yeah,” Chan says, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck as he walks. “I mean it’s pretty nice, but at the end of the day a practice room is a practice room and that’s where we spend most of our time.”

“Hmm I think we might have to agree to disagree on that one. You have your own studio don’t you?”

“Ah, kind of. It’s technically a shared one, but practically I’m the only one that uses it unless we’re out of the country for a long time,” Chan confirms.

“Seems a lot better than what we used to have! Do you remember when we used to cram ourselves into that tiny room that barely even fit two chairs and a table?”

“I almost forgot about that, it was so terrible! In the summer it would get so hot that we’d keep the door open-”

“And then someone would come yell at us because we’d be playing music too loud-”

“I remember begging management to install a portable air conditioner on multiple occasions, but they always refused.”

“Of course! Even if they weren’t so stingy, there weren’t any windows leading outside in there, how could they install it?”

“Is that why? I always thought they just wanted us to suffer.”

“That too,” you giggle for a moment, before your smile fades. “But they weren’t totally unreasonable. Management has a different perspective than us, sometimes they know better than us because of their understanding of the industry. They can see things that we don’t.”

It’s clear that you’re no longer talking about air conditioning anymore. A lump seems to have formed in Chan’s throat when he recalls his conversation with Sana. Luckily, the two of you have just arrived and Chan forces himself to smile.

“We’re here,” he says, opening the door and motioning for you to enter ahead of him. “Welcome to Channie’s Room!”

“It’s cute!” you say as you step in. “Very… neat. It’s actually more spacious than it looks.”

“Oh,” Chan says, faltering in his steps for a second. “You- you’ve seen my studio?”

“In case you didn’t realise, you go live every week from said studio. I think at this point everyone in the K-pop industry and every K-pop fan has seen it,” you tease.

“Right, yeah. I didn’t- I wasn’t sure how much you kept up with that kind of stuff,” Chan stammers.

“K-pop or do you mean specifically Stray Kids?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“Either I guess," Chan shrugs.

"I will admit that it took me a while to get back into it," you say slowly. "I wasn't... in the best mindset after I left." Chan stays quiet, sensing that you're not quite finished. "I know that I disappeared and I am sorry for not reaching out. I wanted to, but I also didn't know how. I know that I hurt you. That it was cruel to avoid you, not reply to your messages, ignore your calls. I had my reasons why, but it doesn't excuse the pain that I caused, and I'm sorry for that too."

“I think,” Chan swallows hard. “I think that the most difficult part was that for the longest time, I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what I did wrong. I asked Sana about it finally, after I saw you again. And I just felt so stupid to realise that it was obvious to everyone except me."

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I wanted to tell you, of course I wanted to. But I also knew you. If I had told you that us being together was preventing your debut-”

“I wouldn’t have cared,” Chan finishes your sentence for you, starting to understand. “I would have done anything to keep you by my side.”

"Even if it meant throwing away your career," you say softly. "I couldn't let you do that to yourself. You worked so hard, how could I live with being the reason that you were stuck in the training rooms? You belong on stage, making music.”

"The part that I still don’t get though is why you left? You should have been able to debut as well, I know it."

“Ah,” you say wistfully. You look around and grab onto the pillow that’s on the couch beside you, fidgeting with it as you figure out what to say next. “You know, I actually was supposed to debut.”

“What? How come I never heard about it?” Chan feels a pang in his chest. All these years ago, the two of you had promised that the other would be the first person that they would tell if they ever found out that they had the chance to debut. It seemed that neither of them had kept their promise.

“It was supposed to be a secret project. JYP wanted to see how successful a surprise debut announcement would be. You should have seen the NDAs that they made us sign.” You shake your head, letting out a huff of air. “It turned out to be a good decision because it meant they could cancel it without anyone knowing that we existed in the first place.”

"Who was in the group?" Chan asks.

"There were five of us. I think you know all of them, Sumin, Ryujin, Sojin, and Hyowon," you list. You're right, Chan is either familiar with or has heard of all the girls that you mention. It doesn't make sense though, the group was filled with talented individuals and Chan can't think of any reason strong enough to lead to disbandment. Even more baffling is that of the five of you, only Ryujin ended up staying at the company long enough to join the lineup for another group.

"And they just cancelled it out of nowhere?"

“No... It was- I know that for any idol, preparing for debut is tough, but I think that in some ways, it’s especially brutal for the girl groups," you say instead. Chan doesn't question you further, knowing that you must have a point that you're trying to make.

“How so?” Chan has an idea, he’s seen what the female trainees went through, the differences in how they were evaluated and criticised. But he wants to hear it from you, wants to understand what you’ve been through.

“The visual aspect feels like it’s more heavily emphasised than our talent or skills. We were measured for our music video outfits the second they finalised the concept. It was really early on, but at the time I thought it was so exciting and fun that I didn’t question it. I think that all of us were so thrilled by the thought of debuting that we didn't think anything of it. We did our final fittings for it a few weeks before filming and they had made them all a size too small, everything was just a little bit too tight. They didn’t outright say it, but it was implied that they weren’t going to alter them. It was a choice to lose weight or our chance to debut was gone. We were devastated and angry and eventually just resigned. If that's what it took then I would do it. We dieted like crazy for the time leading up to filming,” you laugh, but it's in disbelief, the sound is hollow.

Paired with what you’re saying, it makes Chan want to burn the whole world down. He doesn't say anything, not sure if he can even open his mouth without letting his rage escape, something that you don't deserve.

“We were practising, like always," you continue. "There was a tricky step that needed to be fixed by the next day when we’d be recording, a flip that we hadn't quite mastered. I was the smallest one on the team, so I was the one being flipped. It must have been like 3 or 4 in the morning, we were all tired, hungry, and nervous about filming. Honestly, I don't quite remember what happened, it was all a blur. There was just this feeling that something went wrong and then pain."

You roll up the pants on your left leg and show off the skin there. Chan has to hold back a gasp at the sight. Even though it’s long healed, the scarring is extensive and obvious. Chan can't imagine how much it must have hurt.

“I broke my ankle in two places and sprained my wrist. I couldn't believe it, five years of my life just gone in an instant. It took months before I could walk and even longer before I could dance again. Even now, I can't dance anywhere close to the way that I used to," you say with a watery smile. “Sojinnie had a concussion from the fall and Suminnie dislocated her shoulder, I must have knocked into them or fallen onto them or something. What could we do? Three out of the five of us were out of commission, there was no time and no budget for a group that hadn’t even debuted to find replacements or re-record and re-film everything. I woke up after surgery and they told me that they were sorry, but my contract with the company was over. That someone had helped me pack up all my things in the dorm. I went back to Jeju-do as soon as I was released from the hospital.”

"I- I'm sorry that I didn't know," Chan says, clearing his throat roughly when his voice breaks partway through the sentence. " I wish that I could have been there, to help or comfort you. I should have-"

"Oppa," you respond gently. "It's okay. I didn't tell anybody what happened and the company also kept things quiet. I'm glad you didn't find out at the time. You had other, more important things to focus on, I didn't want to distract you from that."

"You're not a distraction," Chan says incredulously. "You're important to me, I would have dropped everything to be with you in such a difficult time."

"And that's exactly why I couldn't tell you. You've always been too good to me, Channie-oppa," you sniffle. "Look at you now! I'm so always proud when I think of how far you've come."

Chan lifts a trembling hand and carefully cups your face, using his thumb to wipe away a tear that has started making its way down your cheek. He hears your breathing hitch, but you don't object to his touch. If anything, you melt into it.

Chan takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around you, bringing you close. The gesture breaks the dam of tears that you must have been holding back. Chan rocks the two of you back and forth gently, just letting you cry and trying to surreptitiously wipe away his own tears. It takes a few minutes before you calm, taking huge shuddering breaths that break Chan's heart almost as much as your sobs had.

"I'm sorry," you say with a voice thick with emotion.

"Hey, no," Chan reassures you. "There's no need to apologise. Are you feeling better now?"

You nod slowly, head still pressed against Chan's chest.

"I think- I think I just missed you. I always thought it would get easier, not having you in my life, but it never did."

At your words, Chan can't help his arms from tightening, squeezing you close.

"I finally found you again," he says. "And this time, I promise that I won't ever let you go."

read it on ao3 | masterlist

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starkwlkr · 5 months ago

Note

I really love your work, and if my message comes out as awkward, I apologize

I just had a brain fart while reading that hot to go fic and just imagined the Jackman family at a Chappell Roan concert. I don't expect anything, just sending :). Keep doing the good work💖

hot to go part 2 | hugh jackman

an: CHAPPELL AND HUGH?? yes pls <3 thank you for the request!!

Gov ball 2024

Ever since you and Hugh got Olivia and her friends tickets to the governors ball music festival, all she did was play Chappell Roan’s music on repeat. Occasionally she would play Fleetwood Mac or Joan Jett, but Chappell Roan was always at the top of her playlist.

You and Hugh had days off and they happened to land on the same days as the gov ball so you decided that a music festival was the best way to spend time together.

Your boys were in Los Angeles with friends so Olivia gave the tickets to her two friends. You were grateful you didn’t have to fly to another city for the festival.

“Who are we seeing again?” Hugh asked, probably for the tenth time. He was more old school when it came to music, but he still liked to listen to Olivia’s music.

“Chappell Roan, dad. Remember the dance I was showing mom the other day? That’s her song that goes with the dance.” Olivia explained.

“I really like her song ‘red wine supernova��. I hope she plays it.” You looked down at your phone. Alex and Reese had texted you pictures of them and their friends at the beach. You missed them, but you were glad they were having fun.

“So how does the dance go?” Hugh asked.

It took a while but, after many attempts, Hugh finally got the hot to go dance figured out. Olivia felt so proud when he finally got it.

“See that, honey? This old man can still dance.” Hugh said with a smirk on his face.

“Not to brag but it took less tries for me to learn.”

After waiting in the crowd a for what seemed hours (Olivia’s words), Chappell Roan finally arrived on stage. Hugh, like the dad he is, took out his phone and recorded both Chappell Roan and his daughter having the time of her life with her friends, singing and jumping along to the music.

“When is she playing the hot to go?” Hugh asked you.

“It’s just called hot to go, there’s no the in front.” You clarified.

“Oh.”

Eventually hot to go did play. That’s when Hugh and you got told by Olivia that this was the song that they had to dance to. Some fans had spotted the celebrity couple dancing along and recorded them. It’s not everyday you see the wolverine dancing to Chappell Roan.

Hugh ended up having a few mistakes when it came to the dance but he didn’t care. He was having fun. At one point he was being recorded by you.

“You can take me hot to go!” Hugh sang along. “That’s all I know! I don’t know the words, but I’ll learn!”

In a matter of minutes, you and Hugh were on trending everywhere. You even got several messages from Alex and Reese about your viral videos. At the moment, the boys wished they were there either you, Hugh and Olivia.

@kellyxo1

#marvel actress!reader #hugh jackman x reader #hugh jackman one shot #hugh jackman imagine #hugh jackman fanfic #actress!reader #hugh jackman fanfiction #hugh jackman

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coco-loco-nut · 7 months ago

Text

loml

pairing: max verstappen x reader

summary: a journey through your relationship with max

a/n: so for a little background... my ex (he wasn't an F1 fan, it was never gonna work, let's be real) broke up with me the night before this album was released, so writing this series has been very healing; however, this one was extremely difficult to write bc it's the only song i can't analytically listen to and find the deeper meanings yet, especially after losing your first love. sorry for the rant and making this short🙃

tw: emotional abuse, manipulation

masterlist ttpd masterlist part two

________

You and Max were fan favorites, it was evident to anyone with eyes who had eyes. But they say you never know what happens behind closed doors.

“She’s the love of my life,” Max would always say about you, looking at you like you held the universe in the palm of your hand. His fans could recite your love story by heart from how much he loved to talk about you. It only made sense that he could shatter that public opinion.

“Y/n and I have divorced, I would like to ask for privacy as we navigate the changes,” Max posted one day, his socials wiped of everything. Your accounts remained the same, your last post being from the fateful race months ago. You haven’t posted since. The fans should’ve realized when the WAGs and George unfollowed Max.

Your apartment was full of things that reminded you of Max, every time you walked in it reminded you of every memory. He was embroidered in everything. You look at a printed photo of when you first met him. Despite it being six months later, you couldn’t get rid of him.

~~~

All it took was locking eyes with him across the pier for you to fall in love on that breezy summer day. He walked up to you and asked you to join him, and you did. You kissed him at the top of the ferris wheel later that night, and you didn’t even know he was famous all you knew was that he made you feel safe. The breeze reminded you of the warm ocean breeze from that day, one you called the winds of fate.

Despite being young, you married him after a year of being together. Things weren’t perfect even then, he could be incredibly mean, but he was also a standup guy when it mattered. That erased any wrongdoing of his.

“You have made me a better man, you reformed me, the love of my life,” Max had said that fall evening, repeating the one line that brought you back to him every time.

You believed his words, his lies spun to make you believe the hell you were living in was actually heaven. When he takes his anger out at you, doesn’t defend you against his father, you start to second guess him but he calls you those four words.

“I’ll never leave you, Schatje,” Max holds you in his arms, your back against his chest as you both look at a tv in the Paddock. The fans loved that photo, calling your love legendary. They didn’t know about the growing hole in your heart.

Your marriage was looking like one of those black and white movies you and Max watch on snowy winter afternoons. You and Max had been talking about starting a family, but you couldn’t get pregnant and you were watching everything you loved slip away.

“God, Max, you are like a con-man. I feel like I’ve been sold a get-love-quick scheme. What happened to you?” you ask, voice laced with hurt, during an argument about it. Max just ignored you, pushing past to stream with some friend. He ignored the sobs coming from your bedroom. He told the chat that you are the love of his life when asked about you.

“Y/n, we need to talk,” some of the WAGs pulled you aside during a race. They told you how Max was shit talking you to other drivers, saying you were a waste of a wife for your inability to get pregnant, saying he should’ve never married you, pointing out every flaw he told you was beautiful when he was lying to your face. You stand up and leave, not saying a word even when the girls try to stop you. Max is confused but simply responds to your text saying you were sick with an okay.

You are laying in your bed sobbing when Max gets back from the race. You face the terrace, where you and Max would dance under the stars. You can see the ghosts of it through your tears, and you wished you could un-recall when you thought you had everything.

“Please get out of bed,” Max says, his concerned tone laced with venom. Maybe the ghosts of your relationship are embarrassed by the scene on the other side of the glass.

“No,” you cry, mourning the loss of your counterfeit relationship.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Max sighs leaving the room. You sent a text to the WAG group chat who helped you remove all your belongings from Max’s apartment into George’s apartment that he wasn’t using at the moment.

Your phone is flooded with messages from Max, so you turn it off unless you are talking to your lawyer. Max finds a divorce petition and your apartment key on the dining room table when he comes home from training a few days later. The relationship that had such a valiant roar ended with the blandest goodbye.

You sit in George’s apartment with Carmen and Lily drinking wine. You took over George’s lease after they insisted that you did.

“For someone who claims to be a lion, he sure is a manipulative coward,” Carmen says as the three of you comb through the years of lies he spun.

You took the dreams that you thought you and Max wanted and lit the match to destroy them with your divorce papers. Despite your somber eyes, you seem more at peace, even with the sadness you will carry with you until you die.

“He’s the loss of my life.”

part two

#f1 imagines #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 grid #max verstappen #max verstappen imagines #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #george russell

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secretlyazombi3 · 25 days ago

Text

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ Do I Wanna Know?

leon kennedy x gn! reader

๋࣭ ⭑⚝word count: 1k words ๋࣭ ⭑⚝ SFW, 2nd person, gender neutral reader, didn’t specify age for leon or reader

๋࣭ ⭑⚝ summary: leon’s desperate, he gets drunk and can’t stop thinking about you, which leads to drunken calls and pleas for you to love him back.

๋࣭ ⭑⚝ a/n: loosely based off the arctic monkeys song ofc >_<

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You sat in the luminescent glow of your TV, listening to the rain outside trickling down from the sky like tears. The rain hitting your window created a rhythmic and perfect background noise.

It was nearly 2 in the morning and you had been staying up late again. Your eyelids felt heavy but you couldn’t manage to fall asleep. You curled up in your blanket, watching the TV drowsily. Most of the words were simply going in one ear, out the other, not being processed.

Just as your eyes began to feel heavy and begin to flutter open and shut, you felt your phone vibrate against the couch. You sighed as you were dragged away from your chance of finally drifting off to sleep. It was two in the morning, who could even be texting you at this hour? Everyone you knew would be sound asleep by now. Well, except maybe one person…

Grudgingly, you moved your hand out of the warmth of your blanket and reached for your phone. Reading the message, you immediately knew who was messaging you. Leon.

"baby, i miss you so much right now."

Only he would text you in the dead of night, and you could probably guess why. You knew him, you knew how he liked to drink until twilight.

And then he'd text you things that you both knew he'd regret once he was hungover in the morning.

Another notification flashed on your screen. Same number.

"i know its late, sorry"

"if youre awake, please reply. i want to talk to you. i want you."

You sighed as your sleepy eyes scanned over the text. As much as you wanted to shut your phone off and curl back up under the blankets, the thought of actually leaving Leon like this gave you heartache.

You could feel the desperation bleeding out with each word, each new message. You could almost perfectly imagine Leon on the floor of his bedroom, inebriated after a long night of knocking back bottles, looking as pathetic as his messages made him sound. Looking like a wet kitten in the rain. Missing you.

The thought made you feel guilty for initially wanting to leave him on delivered. Deep down, you knew you had feelings towards him. And whenever you got tipsy or even just on late nights, you craved him.

Although, you never acted this level of desperate; never this despairingly.

You were quickly snapped out of your thoughts when you felt your phone vibrate in your hand. Leon's name was in big letters on your screen as he called you.

After taking in some deep breaths, you picked up the phone.

You heard Leon let out a shaky breath when you answered, he sounded relieved. He murmured your name quietly, then repeated it at a moderately louder volume.

"Sorry, did I wake you..? I know it's late." Leon asked, his words slightly slurring together, your suspicions of him being intoxicated nearly instantly confirmed.

"No, it's okay. I was already awake." you answered, although your voice was caked with drowsiness. You attempted to rub the lethargy out of your eyes.

"I just.. I've been thinking about you a lot." Leon said, swallowing before continuing. "You know, I've been dreaming about you most nights. I think every night, actually." he added.

"Yeah?" You replied simply, not wanting to sound as interested as you really were on the inside.

“Yeah, I…” Leon said shakily, taking a pause to take another swig of his drink. “I’ve been missing you so bad, I..I can’t get you out of my head. And I swear, you get more irresistible every time I see you.”

You hated how easily this man could make you fold with his desperate, drunk words.

“Seeing you in person doesn’t help, it’s like… it’s like it just makes me want you more. I always just.. Want to kiss you…” Leon mumbled, letting the words slip from his mouth without thinking. Sober Leon would never say this, maybe you liked drunk Leon.

“I just… god, you drive me crazy. I-I have really strong feelings for you. I need to know if you feel the same.” Leon finished with his mini monologue on how bad he had it for you.

You paused for a moment. Leon really had a way with words. He was really never this verbally affectionate in person or when fully sober, he’d always been one to show affection through actions instead. So hearing him talk like this was certainly making you feel a certain way.

You pondered on what your response would be. Would it even matter how you’d reply? He’d probably forget in the morning… right? “Yeah, I think I do. Actually, no, I know I do. I know it. I… I want you.” You replied, stumbling on your words and speaking in a tone that was completely unconfident.

“You do?” Leon returned quickly, his voice still gruff from having alcohol run down his throat all night. You felt like you could almost hear Leon smile. “I do.” you replied. “I’m not joking, I really do have feelings for you. So, you never have to question how much I care about you again.” Leon stayed silent for a second. “Really?” He asked again. “I need to see you. I-I’m gonna come over..” Leon blurted, words slurring.

“Woah, no, not when you’re drunk.” You responded quickly. “I’ll drive over to your apartment, okay? I’ll see you in about 15 minutes. Please don’t drive, Lee… you’ll crash.” you pleaded. Leon was already a shitty driver when clear headed, so you weren’t even going to consider letting him get behind the wheel of a car when he’s this sloshed.

“Okay… please don’t be playing with me.” Leon replied, voice shaky, sounding like he was scared you were messing with him. Like he was scared you’d hurt him too.

“Alright, well… I won’t keep you waiting.” you hung up and rushed to your closet to throw on something better, not wanting to show up in messy pajamas. You grabbed your car keys and shut the door to your apartment behind you.

#resident evil #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil x reader #writers on tumblr #{¬ºཀ°}¬ z writes ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ

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keerysfreckles · 7 months ago

Text

newsies — MV1 (smau)

pairing: max verstappen x musical theater fem!reader faceclaim; kara lindsay !

summary: when lando drags max to his favorite musical, max takes a liking to the leading lady

warnings: none!

a/n: this is 100% made for me, i can't shut up abt newsies or jeremy jordan... sooo why not combine my two loves (newsies and f1 😁)

masterlist !

⋆ ˚ ｡ ⋆ ୨୧ ˚

yourusername just posted !

liked by jeremymjordan, landonorris and 11,037 others

yourusername NEWSIES OPENS ON BROADWAY IN ONE WEEK WHAT IS LIFE

view all comments

user1 tickets have been secured since last year IM SO EXCITED

user2 oh to get a hug from jeremy jordan 😞

jeremymjordan IM EXCITED ARE YOU EXCITED

yourusername I CAN'T SIT STILL JERE

user3 "jere" they're too cute 😭😭

mikefaist guess who has a front row seat 😁

yourusername MIKEEE 🥹🥹

user4 OH MY GOD ITS HAPPENING OKAY EVERYBODY STAY CALM

user5 oh i've been waiting YEARS to see y/n in a broadway musical

landonorris missing fp1 to be there 🫡

yourusername lando no that's your job??

landonorris not that important 🤷‍♂️ plus there's someone i want you to meet

user6 someone to meet?? another driver??

yourusername just posted !

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 19,728 others

yourusername opening night, race weekend, and max picking me up from rehearsals! (eventful week if you ask me)

view all comments

user1 ABSOLUTELY LOVED THE SHOW!!!!!!!!

user2 y/n and jeremy being the power duo on stage IKTR!!

user3 lando looks like he's hating the rain 😭

user4 WAIT PAUSE WHATS MAX DOING THERE

user5 PICKING HER UP TOO??????

landonorris your fault i dnf'd ☹️

yourusername not my fault it was raining??

user6 WAIT WHAT IF MAX WAS THE ONE LANDO BROUGHT WITH HIM TO OPENING NIGHT

user7 oh your onto something

maxverstappen1 still can't believe you know how to tap dance AND sing at the same time

yourusername i'd say it's harder to be on broadway than it is being an f1 driver

maxverstappen1 no need to go around lying on social media sweetheart

twitter !

yourusername just posted !

liked by landonorris, jeremymjordan and 20,188 others

yourusername spent my time off with this guy, anyone know who he is?

view all comments

user1 he's so pookie ugh

jeremymjordan come back to new york ben and mike won't shut up about you (i guess i miss you too)

yourusername only if max can come too

user2 the duo i didn't know i needed

user3 okay but what's max's favorite newsies song 👀

maxverstappen1 i think he's a formula one driver, could be mistaken

yourusername thanks for clearing that up!

user4 max slowly becoming all of y/n's feed is so entertaining

user5 y/n and max the unexpected duo i didn't know i needed

landonorris you didn't hang out with me 😔😔😔

yourusername sorry max is just better company???

twitter !

yourusername just posted !

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 305,984 others

yourusername when f1 update accounts expose you and your boyfriend 😞😞

view all comments

user1 SO IT WAS THEM??????

user2 PLS THE CAPTION SHE'S TOO FUNNY

maxverstappen1 the secret was coming out sooner or later love

yourusername i know but now we can't soft launch ☹️☹️

user3 THE CUTEST COUPLE ON THE GRID

landonorris call me cupid 😏

yourusername no

maxverstappen1 no

user4 NEW BF MAX CONTENT IM SO READY

jeremymjordan proud to say i knew before twitter did 😁

maxverstappen1 just posted !

liked by yourusername, landonorris and 450,177 others

maxverstappen1 dating y/n means listening to the newsies soundtrack on repeat ❤️

view all comments

user1 THE MIDDLE SLIDE THEYRE TOO CUTE

user2 this had to mean max has a fav newsies song omg

jeremymjordan take care of her please

maxverstappen1 never plan on stopping

user3 y/n's bway bf 🤝 y/n's real bf

landonorris CALL. ME. CUPID.

maxverstappen1 still no

user4 THEY'RE MY EVERYTHING OMG

yourusername i don't think you can have your phone out in the theater sir 🤨🤨

yousuername but seriously you love the newsies soundtrack

maxverstappen1 i never said that

yourusername so what do you go to all the shows for??

maxverstappen1 my beautiful talented stunning girlfriend of course 😉

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little-diable · 9 months ago

Text

"Angel" He calls me – Priest!Tom Riddle (smut)

Listen, this is fucked up – even I was unsure where this came from. But I ain't sorry for it, I know y'all will love this, you filthy heathen (i love you). Shamelessly inspired by the song "The Fruits" by Paris Paloma. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Her mother accuses the reader of preparing a satanic ritual, so she hopes that Priest Riddle can free the young girl from the devil's grasp. What a shame that the young priest is even more cunning than the Devil himself.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, smut in a church, heavy dub!con, choking, wax play, blood play, Tom being Tom, religious connotations

Pairing: Priest!Tom Riddle x fem!reader (about 2k words)

My love, are you the devil? I would worship you instead of him, I have no time for confession, for I'm too busy committing sins

“Priest Riddle!” Her mother’s shrill voice echoed through the empty church, repeated with every further step she took. (Y/n) struggled against her mother’s grasp, feet dragged along the cold ground as if she prayed that the floor would open up, that something or someone would crawl from the eternal darkness to hold onto her, rescue her from the hell she would experience any moment now. “Priest Riddle!”

The tall man appeared after another loud call of his name, concern tugged on his features, a facade her mother instantly seemed to buy into; a facade (y/n) instantly saw through. Priest Riddle was a devilish handsome man, a man so handsome he easily fooled those who clung to him, distracting them from his sinful character.

“Mathilda, (y/n), what is going on?” His bright eyes carried concern as he looked at (y/n)’s mother, concern that changed into something dark the second his gaze found (y/n)’s. Her mother’s torture was nothing against what he’d do to her, that much she was certain of after all those confessions she had been forced through – confessions that had ended with her knees having a carpet burn, with her ass bruised, and her jaw pulsing in pain from being stretched open.

“She’s gone insane, I’ve found her worshipping the devil! He has his dark grasp on her, oh you have to free my girl, you’re my only chance of finding help for her sinning soul, Father!” Tears dripped from her mother’s eyes, tears (y/n) silently cursed. She had done no such thing, all she had done was read a book Priest Riddle had borrowed her, one of the few interests both shared – Latin prayers her mother had mistaken for satanic rituals as (y/n) had tried to pronounce the words.

For a second, he studied (y/n), the annoyance she couldn’t shake, the wide pupils he had grown all too used to, feeling his cock twitch in his trousers at the excitement now thumping through his veins. “Leave her with me, Mathilda. She’s in good hands. I’ll take care of our girl.”

"Angel“ he calls me, does he know that I'm falling from a precipice that I tripped off long ago?

“Rituals, huh?” Her mother had left the church seconds ago, leaving the two of them behind. (Y/n)’s skin prickled, she was fighting against the need to scream, to throw a tantrum against her mother’s foolish behaviour. All because of him.

“This is your fault! She heard me read that prayer book of yours.” Within seconds he stood in front of her, ringed hand wrapped around her throat. Her heart was pounding, blood rushing through her veins, he could feel (y/n)’s fast pulse against his fingertips, a sensation that left the man smirking.

“My fault?” The way he spoke the words, with a voice so raspy and deep, (y/n) didn’t manage to stop her body from reacting, her thighs from trembling and her walls from clenching around nothing. For a few moments, neither of them spoke, all they did was stare at one another. “My fault, really, (y/n)?”

“I,” her words got stuck in her throat as he squeezed, cutting off her strength to pronounce any words. Priest Riddle always enjoyed silencing her, showing her how much power he held over her. (Y/n) was shoved backwards as he let go of her, watching her fall onto the stone stairs leading up to the altar.

“You see, (y/n), your mother may think I’m the saving grace, the voice of reason, but I think you know better, don’t you? There is no saving left for you, no grace I can give you. The Devil would have tried to save you, what a shame that I’m not him.” Angry tears welled up in her eyes, tears that began to drip as a laugh clawed through him. There was no escaping him, no matter how much her mind begged her to run, to never return to these unholy walls, her body craved his touch, desperate for everything he could offer.

“Undress, lay down on the altar, for me.” It took (y/n) a second to snap into motion, to undo the buttons of her dress with shaky fingers. Not once did her glassy eyes leave his frame, not as she stood naked, not as she slowly heaved herself onto the altar, not as she watched him alight the red candle placed next to the Holy Bible.

“Do you remember what John teaches us, (y/n)? He tells us: Whoever makes a practice of sinning is of the devil, for the devil has been sinning from the beginning. But tonight you will sin, tonight you will offer yourself to the devil, even though he will never have you. He fears me, and he will fear my precious toy once I’m done with you.”

“In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” He was standing behind the altar, with his ringed fingers holding onto the burned candle. (Y/n) was forced to watch him tilt the candle, letting the wax drip down onto the valley between her naked breasts. She hissed at the sensation, torn between excitement and fear, and yet she craved more.

“Princeps gloriosissime caelestis militiae, sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio adversus principes et potestates, adversus mundi rectores tenebrarum harum, contra spiritalia nequitiae, in caelestibus.” Priest Riddle’s voice didn’t carry any emotion as he spoke the lines of the prayer to Saint Michael, a prayer used in exorcisms, a prayer he used to mock her now. The candle kept dripping, one by one the drops of wax marked her body, leaving (y/n) moaning as his cold hand joined the wax, touching her hardening nipples with a smirk growing on his lips.

“Veni in auxilium hominum, quos Deus ad imaginem similitudinis suae fecit, et a tyrannide diaboli emit pretio magno. Te custodem et patronum sancta veneratur Ecclesia; tibi tradidit Dominus animas redemptorum in superna felicitate locandas.” No longer did (y/n) try to keep her moans bottled in, she arched her back off the altar as he added more strength to his touch, tweaking her nipples as the wax dripped onto her stomach. It felt as if he was making an offering, sacrificing (y/n) for the sins they had committed together, giving her up for his eternal salvation.

“Deprecare Deum pacis, ut conterat Satanam sub pedibus nostris, ne ultra valeat captivos tenere homines, et Ecclesiae nocere. Offer nostras preces in conspectu Altissimi, ut cito anticipent nos misericordiae Domini, et apprehendas draconem, serpentem antiquum, qui est diabolus et Satanas, et ligatum mittas in abyssum, ut non seducat amplius gentes. Amen.” The last drop of wax fell as Priest Riddle ended the prayer, tossing the blown-out candle aside to press his lips against (y/n)’s. Both moaned in unison as her fingers began to work on his belt, needing to free his cock with the silent hope that he’d fuck her on the altar spurring her on.

He twitched in her grasp, a sensation so familiar, she found herself relaxing, giving her mind a few seconds to relax. Seconds he used to study her with danger laced in his gaze, danger that deepened as her eyes were drawn to his throat, watching him rip his silvery necklace from his neck. The necklace twinkled in the dim light, momentarily entrancing (y/n) as if she was studying a rare gem, an offering only God would make.

“We have been bound together for months, you are my possession, and you will do as I say, you will let me lead you till I no longer think you’re worthy of my time.” He tightened his grasp on his necklace, and without another warning, he ran the sharp edge of the cross along his skin, instantly drawing blood. Blood so red, it looked like sacred wine, richer than Jesus’ blood, more powerful than any other offering.

He wiped his bleeding thumb along her lips, letting her taste the copper staining her skin like a tattoo made for eternity. They held eye contact as she parted her lips, letting her tongue lick his skin clean, unable to stop her moan from clawing out of her. She was nothing but a toy, someone he used to pass time with, someone to fuck whenever his body called for excitement – and she loved it, every fucked up second of their time together.

Priest Riddle let go of her to position himself between her thighs, his fingertips dug into her skin as he wrapped her legs around his waist. Soon he’d fuck her, soon he’d remind her that she was his – his only.

You're faithless, for you pitched me, against your holy father and it seems that I am winning

Without giving (y/n) any chance to prepare herself, he pushed into her, forcing his cock into her tightness. Her arousal allowed him to move without any struggles, moving as if their bodies had been made for one another. In some fucked up way she could have found something romantic in this, claimed in a church for all holy and unholy eyes to see, but the darkness he emanated was enough to keep her from thinking these thoughts.

Months ago when this had happened for the first time, (y/n) had been frightened, not knowing what the man would do to her. But after the first of many orgasms had wrecked through her, she had felt like Judas, the backstabber, the liar she had been turned into. No longer held back by the fear of sinning, rather giving in – all for the promise of being punished by Priest Riddle.

“Even the devil wouldn’t take you in, a soul filled with sins that even He would turn his back on. I’m your only rescue.” He panted his words as he buried himself deep inside of her, eyes staring down at her. Without stopping his movements, his hips from snapping against hers, he pushed the cross past her lips, forcing her to hold it between her teeth. (Y/n) could still taste his blood – heightening her senses as her walls fluttered around him.

She hated herself for enjoying this, for being at his mercy with her legs spread and her back arched. He only spoke the truth, he was her only chance of guidance, the only one to cling to as the others had left her behind, engulfed in darkness. Her saving grace, the poison she was addicted to, the bruising grasp she couldn’t shake.

“Cum for me, show them that there is no chance of rescuing you from me.” With the cross held between her teeth, she moaned for him. (Y/n)’s orgasm wrecked through her, leaving her shaking and panting beneath him. But the priest kept moving, searching his own high with his fingertips digging into her skin.

A heavy moan rumbled through Priest Riddle as he came, imprinting himself on her walls without giving her a warning. Once again marked by the man who called her his own property, once again marked by the devil’s most brutal brother.

“I need you on your knees, it’s time to beg for His forgiveness, (y/n).”

……

Translation of the Latin prayer:

St. Michael the Archangel, illustrious leader of the heavenly army, defend us in the battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of darkness and the spirit of wickedness in high places.

Come to the rescue of mankind, whom God has made in His own image and likeness, and purchased from Satan's tyranny at so great a price.

Holy Church venerates you as her patron and guardian. The Lord has entrusted to you the task of leading the souls of the redeemed to heavenly blessedness.

Entreat the Lord of peace to cast Satan down under our feet, so as to keep him from further holding man captive and doing harm to the Church.

Carry our prayers up to God's throne, that the mercy of the Lord may quickly come and lay hold of the beast, the serpent of old, Satan and his demons, casting him in chains into the abyss, so that he can no longer seduce the nations. Amen.

#Tom Riddle smut #Tom Riddle x reader #Tom Riddle imagine #priest fic #Harry Potter smut

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coff33andb00ks · 6 months ago

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Until You - Part Four

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four charles leclerc x female pop singer!reader x oscar piastri x lando norris f1 smau with intermittent scenes Summary: they drive vroom vrooms, she sings soulful tunes. there's no way in hell this is gonna work, right? Warnings: language, author lied when she said lando was just there (i promise she's not getting anymore men omg), implied smut playlist a.n: the next part will have a q&a with y/n on insta/tiktok so if anyone has questions they'd like for her to answer please send them to my inbox (as basic or unhinged as you like)

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and others ynyln: SURPRISE!!! I present to you my new babies: Enchanted and Lover. Enjoy, my little lattes 💋❤️

↳user3: MY THOUGHTS WILL ECHO YOUR NAME ↳ user4: omg these are what her and the driver guy were saying ↳user5: DID SHE WRITE IT FOR OSCAR?!?!?! ↳oscarpiastri: Beautiful, love. 🧡 ↳ynyln: no you 🧡 ↳user4: omg ↳charles_leclerc: all's well that ends well to end up with you ❤️ ↳ynyln: I'll save you a seat, lover ❤️ ↳sabrinacarpenter: on repeat!! ↳ynyln:❤️ ↳landonorris: love ↳ynyln: thank you sweetie 🫶🏻 ↳user7: I'm here from f1, why does she call people little lattes? ↳user8: welcome!! it's a term of endearment for her fans. y/n said in an interview that we give her comfort and a burst of energy, like a latte midafternoon, and it just stuck.

Lando nodded along with the beat. "It just needs a little something extra… You want to keep it acoustic?"

She nodded, sipping her tea. She looked astounded that he was there. He knew he was. When she'd texted him he hadn't expected he'd be on a flight to London within two hours. But here he was, sitting with her in her "little" basement studio, listening to her song for the fifth time, mouthing the lyrics she'd probably written with Charles or Oscar in mind. Charles and Oscar, who were upstairs sleeping soundly.

How I obsessively adore you That's what I do I believe, I believe, I could die in your kiss No, it doesn't get, doesn't get better than this

Oh to be obsessively adored by her.

"I'll do some piano, hang on." She leaned across him, invading his space with her gentle floral aroma and her soft hair and…

He sighed, staring at her in awe as she worked her magic at the keyboard. It was crazy that he was even here, in her private sanctum, witnessing what would undoubtedly be a hit as it was created.

"The piano's too prominent," he said, wanting to feel useful. "The guitar should be the main instrument."

Y/n nodded, and he reached to adjust levels, standing up and hitting play. She looked tense and tired and stressed and he instinctively moved to stand behind her, hesitating.

"Ok to touch you?" he asked.

She tilted her head to look at him. "Yeah of course."

He rested his hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently as the song played. "It's a good song, y/n."

"You think so?" she asked in a small voice.

"It's a love song. Hopeful and adoring. It's beautiful. Charles is a lucky guy."

She hummed, relaxing under his gentle touch. "What's he got to do with it?"

Oh. "I uh… Osc then."

She turned her head to look up at him. "It's not for him."

Oh. Oh. "Someone else?" Christ how many boyfriends did she have--

"You don't remember? You float across the room. It's what you said to me at the club after the race in--"

"Monaco," he whispered.

"It stuck with me. So did the kiss," she murmured.

He swallowed, continuing to rub her shoulders. "You didn't... When I sent you those videos I didn't know about Osc and Charles."

Y/n turned and his hands dropped. "What do they have to do with it?"

A nervous laugh rose in his throat. "You're dating them? Both of them, which is insane to me but like I get it. You're like a mouse on crack, you probably need two boyfriends to keep you from taking off—"

She laughed. "A mouse on crack? Really?"

Sighing as she stood up, he looked down at her. "I just… Don't want to mess up what the three of you have going on."

"They don't own me, Lando. I'm a grown woman, I can do what I want with my body whenever I want. With whoever I want."

Lando blinked, his mind short-circuiting over the mental image that put into his head. Swallowing hard, he drew in a breath as she stretched. And held it, staring at her while she fiddled with controls and restarted the song. Let it out slow when he saw the tension returning to her shoulders.

He was reaching for her before he even registered the movement.

"C'mere," he murmured, pulling her to him. Reaching behind her, he switched off the song. "You're gonna drive yourself crazy, love."

"It's right there, Lando, I just need to push a little harder," she groaned, holding her head in her hands and letting him draw her closer.

"Hey, hey, shh…" It felt natural to kiss the top of her head, to wrap his arms around her and try to calm her. "I'm not gonna let you go insane over a song. It's fine, I know you'll come up with something amazing. Just give it time."

"It's not just a song," she whined. "I'm absolutely shit at talking about my feelings for someone, you know? Especially when it…"

"Might go up in flames?" he whispered.

Her hands were on his chest, her head tilting up. "Did you have any idea what you were doing when you stole my number and texted me?"

"Honestly thought I was shooting my shot and hoping I'd get lucky," he muttered, grinning when she laughed.

"It worked."

"Huh?" Lando grunted in surprise.

"Got me thirsty. The past couple weeks have been crazy, trying to fight it, but god, Lando." She sighed as though to ease the tension but it was still there, her body still taut with stress and worry. "I honestly thought you came tonight to fuck me."

His mind bounced like a padel ball in an intense match. He wanted to comfort her, to get her to relax, to ease her worries about the song. But oh how he wanted to kiss her again. He could just remember their half-drunken kiss in Monaco, the electricity thrumming through him, his heartbeat matching the thumping bass of the music. Thought you came tonight to fuck me.

He blinked, his mind going back to a quiet moment before the race in Montreal, when Oscar had been telling him about the unconventional relationship he'd found himself in.

"We're just taking it day by day. But she has a lot of love to give, mate. Sounds crazy, but… I don't think one person could handle it all."

Was there even room for him? Was he honestly considering entangling himself in what would, probably, end up being a PR nightmare for the four of them?

Why was he even thinking of love when he'd originally just wanted to be able to say he'd fucked the richest woman in the world?

"I…"

He leaned down, one hand rising to cup the side of her head. It was supposed to be gentle, sweet, the type of kiss that deserved the song she was working on, but it was harsh, deep and demanding, and he was swallowing her moans. Her nails lightly scraped his neck then they were sliding over his scalp and he whimpered.

"I didn't," he gasped between kisses, growing needier with each taste of her, each moan that fell past her lips. She tasted of tea and chocolate. "I didn't come here to fuck you."

"I know," she moaned. She leaned into him and he felt the need, the flames licking at both of them.

"That's new," Oscar commented, chin resting on her shoulder while she poured herself a coffee. His fingers brushed the side of her neck.

Y/n felt her cheeks warm at the delicate touch, sparking the very recent memory of Lando's mouth on her. "Yeah…"

"Did you get any sleep?" he asked, kissing the mark, his arms snaking around her waist.

"Maybe an hour," she mumbled. After breaking the chair in her studio with Lando, she'd had a burst of inspiration, and the sun had been coming up when they'd listened to the finalized track.

"Love," he sighed, taking the coffee from her before she could take a sip.

"Babe," she whined, her mind snapping to the present, though part lingered on the memory of the twisted sheets of the guest room, of Lando's panting moans in her ear.

"I'll fix you something to eat, then you're going back to bed." He kissed the top of her head and moved away, drinking her coffee.

"I've got to—"

"You don't have anything scheduled for the day. Or tomorrow. So it's rest. No recording, no caffeine, rest." Oscar looked at her over his shoulder. "Stop pouting."

"I just wanted to spend the day with my boyfriends," she sighed, climbing onto the stool at the island counter. Wrinkling her nose when he poured a glass of orange juice and set it in front of her, she reluctantly took a sip.

"We can spend the day here. Peace and quiet, love."

She felt herself melt at his gentle words. Peace and quiet and them. For the whole day. She'd only had snatches of time with them since leaving Monaco. She'd had a concert the day of the Canadian grand prix, and now it felt like some sort of cosmic kismet that her mini break coincided with theirs. They couldn't be together for the whole time, but she would cherish the days she could have.

"Bonjour, mon couer, bonjour koala," Charles greeted as he entered the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.

Y/n saw Oscar's cheeks tinge pink at the affectionate nickname Charles had started using for him. She sipped her orange juice, looking on as Charles brushed by Oscar, his hand resting briefly on the small of his back, and heard the whispered word. Rousseur. Freckle.

God, she loved them. Oscar's freckles, Charles's nicknames, and them.

"Good morning," she murmured after he kissed her.

"You didn't tell me we would have a guest, mon couer," he murmured, moving to fix himself coffee.

Oscar turned from the cooktop. "Guest?"

"Oh. Yeah." Y/n rubbed her neck. "Lando flew in last night. Late."

"He's snoring in the guest room." Charles was chuckling. "Leo went to bother him."

"I texted him. About the song. I needed input, and you were both asleep and—"

"Lando came to help you?" Oscar's smile was soft.

"He did."

Oscar tipped his head, regarding her much like a cat watching a bird through the window. "Ah."

"Ah, what?" Charles asked, rubbing his eyes while he sipped his coffee. Lowering his hand, he looked at y/n, snorting into his cup. "Ah."

She groaned, slumping down onto the counter. "Is it that obvious?"

"Love, you're glowing." Oscar grinned and turned back to the eggs.

"I've been glowing since Monaco," she muttered against the countertop. Slowly, she lifted herself, eyes darting from Charles to Oscar and back again. "You're okay with it?"

"I already told you, mon couer. I don't mind sharing you." Charles's smile was affectionate. "As long as you're safe and he treats you well."

"He's one of my best mates, y/n. Not to mention he's been obsessed with you for ages," Oscar quipped, sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of her.

"He's not obsessed," she snorted.

"Did he fly commercial or private?" Oscar asked, leaning against the counter.

Y/n sighed, taking a bite of the eggs. "Private," she mumbled.

"Day by day, love," Oscar said gently, leaning to kiss her forehead.

Liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others ynyln: rough night in the studio until this one came to lend a hand. magic: made. forever grateful, sweet Lando. Let's just enjoy the view tagged: landonorris ↳landonorris: thank you for giving me a chance. soz about the chair ↳ynyln: chairs can be replaced. and you'll always have a chance while I'm around ↳user4: aww wait what did he do to the chair??? ↳user3: lando was streaming with quadrant until 1am monaco time ↳ user4: god did he fly out to help her? my heart ↳user5: wait that's really sweet 🥺 ↳oscarpiastri: will you rest now? ↳ynyln: yes darling ↳user6: aww ↳charles_leclerc: I adore the new song, mon couer ↳ynyln: it sounds better when you sing it ↳user7: omg did she collect another one ↳user8: omg stooopppp 😂😂😂

#f1 #formula 1 #oscar piastri #charles leclerc #lando norris #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc social media au #charles leclerc smau #f1 x reader #f1 social media au #f1 smau #f1 fanfic #oscar piastri smau #my writings > uy #lando norris x reader

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estrellami-1 · 1 year ago

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If I Should Stay

Y’all are the absolute funniest most of the tags/comments on part 2 were either “oh shit Nancy????” Like we as a collective Steddie hivemind genuinely forgot Steve and Nancy were a Thing for a minute and I think that’s so sexy of us. OR y’all went “OH THANK FUCK ROBIN REMEMBERS” which. Y’all. Y’all don’t understand how little control I actually have over this fic 😂 like genuinely I’m not creating anything, it’s writing itself, I’m just writing the words down. It’s fantastic. 😂 also keep in mind I have a tentative posting schedule of every 4 days so expect something on/around the 16th! ❤️

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Eddie runs.

He’s terrified and a coward but it’s kept him alive this long so he runs, books it back to his van, ignores Harrington calling out for him, only realizes when he’s most of the way home that he’s still got the ring clenched in his hand.

He stares at it long enough at a stoplight that someone honks at him when it turns green. “What the fuck,” he whispers again, placing it on his desk when he gets home. “What the fuck.”

Wayne knocks on his door then immediately pokes his head in, which completely defeats the purpose of the knock, but Eddie’s door was open anyways. “Eds?”

“Yeah?”

“Y’alright, kiddo?”

“I think I hallucinated.”

Wayne’s silent for a few long moments. “Did you take somethin’? Or are you bein’ dramatic?”

“I didn’t take anything.”

Wayne sighs. “Wanna tell me what you think you hallucinated?”

He’s about to, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite say it. Like there’s a dam at the front of his mouth, and the words can’t break through. He lets out a desperate chuckle and shakes his head, flopping backwards onto his bed. “I don’t even know.”

Wayne raises a brow, but before he can respond, there’s a knock on the trailer door.

Knock is a polite term for it. It’s more like someone’s trying to break down the door with their fist. “Munson!” Someone yells. “Open this door, dammit, or I will drag you out by your ears!”

“Boy,” Wayne says, looking at him. “What the fuck did you get yourself into?”

Eddie groans, grabs his pillow, and screams into it.

When he surfaces for air, Wayne’s gone, talking to the person at the front door. Eddie vaguely recognizes the voice. Female, young, probably someone he has a class with.

Wayne, the traitor, lets her in, and Eddie’s suddenly faced with a furious Robin Buckley. He blinks. “Buckley?”

He tries to think back, but he hadn’t sold her anything recently—or ever, for that matter—so he has no idea why she’s here, looking like she’s about to murder him. “You said you’d listen.”

He blinks again. Sits up to face her. “What?”

“Steve. He told you.”

“Steve- Harrington? Oh, come on, Buckley, are you delusional too?”

Blue eyes narrow at him. “You’ve got a little stick-n-poke on your thigh. It’s an upside down star. It’s crappy ‘cause you did it yourself, but that’s why you love it. He already said your favorite song, so I won’t repeat it. You’ve had a frankly ridiculous crush on him practically since the moment you laid eyes on him. You call your guitar your sweetheart because that’s what your mom called you, and she’s the one who taught you to play.” She crosses her arms. “I can keep going.”

“I suppose you’re from the future, then, too?” Her words catch up to him and he suddenly blanches. “I, uh, I’m not sure about your second point.”

She softens some, which is rather unexpected, but he’s grateful. “Oh, Eddie.” She sits on the edge of his bed. “Me too. It’s alright. I’m sorry, I got upset because you ran, after you told Steve you’d listen, and…” she sighs, looking around his room, before standing when she catches sight of the ring on his desk. She picks it up and studies it. “This is practically all we have left,” she says softly, and Eddie feels like throwing up.

“Because I die?”

She looks at him like she’s seeing a ghost. “Yeah.”

Permanent Taglist: @justforthedead89 @ilovecupcakesandtea @madigoround @bookbinderbitch @suddenlyinlove @nburkhardt @artiststarme @paintsplatteredandimperfect @i-less-than-three-you @alyelf @quarble @messrs-weasley @littlewildflowerkitten @vankaar @starman-jpg @bornonthesavage @steddie-there @goodolefashionedloverboi @andienotannie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @platinum-sunset @just-ladyme @steddiestains @swimmingbirdrunningrock @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @martinskis-lydias @notaqueenakhaleesi @sleepyboosstuff @bestwifehaver @m-owo-n @thatonebadideapanda @finalmoondragon @velocitytimes2 @callmeanythjing @ajeff855 @ilikeititspretty @knitsforthetrail @sillysparrow @that-one-corvid @ace-is-bored @local-writers-corner @harpymoth @weirdandabsurd42

@paperbackribs @ninjapirateunicorns @bisexualdisastersworld @hiscrimsonangel @lolawonsstuff @xo-r4e @thedragonsaunt @l0st-strawberry

Fic Taglist: @blondlanfear @do-you-want-something-more @little-gae-shit

#if I should stay #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #time travel fic #starambles

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selfindulgentpoorlywritten · 11 months ago

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My Sweet Girl (Matthew Tkachuk Imagine)

This is by far-- I repeat, by far-- the longest reader insert I've ever written. It's my submission for @wyattjohnston 's Winter Fic Exchange, a gift for @matthewtkachuk ! Excellent URL, by the way.

The creative process here went as follows: Shelbs shows me her On Repeat Spotify playlist -> I see The Band Camino on it and remember that I love that band -> I listen to nothing but them for two weeks -> I hear the song Know It All and am struck with inspiration -> I write this and inflict it on everyone else.

I jumped around a bit while writing, so please let me know if there's anything I screwed up! This is also the type of fic that has had 20+ tabs of Wikipedia pages, ESPN articles, and stats pages open on my computer for two months, but there was still information I couldn't find, so please be gentle with any inconsistencies.

Anyway, I truly hope that you enjoy this one! I apologize for being a day late posting, my job sucks.

Rating: M

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk/fem!Reader

Words: 26, 028

Warnings: a lot of angst

Contains: best friend's brother, friends to ??? to strangers to lovers, situationship, idiots in love, everyone knows but them, Matthew being kind of a dick, guest appearances by the Weinberg-Hughes family and Jane Gaudreau

Summary: As Brady's best friend, it was your duty to love and support him. You're pretty sure falling in love with his brother does not count as "support", but here you are.

-----

You weren’t expecting this to be as hard as it is.

Luckily, you’d been given a little warning beforehand, but apparently a week wasn’t enough to prepare yourself. Was it kind of fucked up that the news had to come from Brady, because Matthew hadn’t bothered to tell you himself? Yeah, kind of. Sure, Brady and you have been best friends for years, but it’s not like you’re not close with Matthew, too.

You hadn’t realized what was going on at first, convincing yourself not to be upset when Matthew’s texts slowed and his calls stopped outright. It had been the beginning of the playoffs, you reasoned, of course he was going to be too busy to talk to you as much. Despite the fact that communication between the two of you had never waned because of the season before. It was his first year on a new team, you’d told yourself, a team with a great shot at the Cup, at that. You could deal with missing him a little more than usual if that’s what he needed.

When you’d called him to congratulate him on passing the first round, he’d thanked you and wrapped the call up as quickly as he could. Seeing the 3:24:41 call duration on your phone afterward had felt wrong. It was one of the shortest calls the two of you had ever had.

You’d brushed it off, chalked it up to him being tired or busy. Then they’d won the second round, and the process repeated itself. A quick phone call, a few scant minutes. It had sounded like other people were there that time, so you’d convinced yourself that he would call you back when he was alone. He never did.

You got to watch Game 4 of the third series, got to watch them sweep Carolina to win the Eastern Conference. Your friend Terri had laughed and clapped as you cheered, jumping up and down like a child. She was a Carolina fan herself, but was good enough of a loser to hug and congratulate you despite it. She’d offered to leave so that you could talk to Matthew, but you’d waved it off. You knew he’d be celebrating with the boys that night, so there was no real reason to try calling. You’d shot him a congratulations text and spent the night smiling so much your cheeks hurt.

When you’d tried to call Matthew the next day, his voice had been hushed when he answered. You’d given him your congratulations, bubbling over about how well they’d played. It’s not the first time you’d had a phone call exactly like that, him letting you gush about his team’s play and basking in the attention. This time, he interrupted you before you even got a chance to really get going. His voice was still quiet, almost a whisper as he said he had to go. The wind was immediately taken out of your sails and you’d barely had time to say goodbye before he hung up.

At that point, you’d given up convincing yourself that everything was okay. Something was very clearly wrong, and you’d spent the next nine days trying to figure out what it was. You’d reached out to Brady, and he’d told you that he hadn’t noticed anything weird from Matthew at all. Knowing that, you’d tried to downplay what was going on between the two of you, lest Brady go bother Matthew about it. You don’t do well with embarrassment, so you’d preferred that whatever was going on stayed away from any third parties.

The finals started, ending rather anticlimactically ten days later in a 4-1 loss for the Panthers. Knowing Matthew, he was going to go straight back to his hotel room and beat himself up. For the last three, almost four, years, you’d called Matthew after every big win or loss, and this was his biggest loss to date. Yet your finger hesitated at his contact name, hovered over the picture of him with bedhead and a lazy smile. With how things had been going, you knew he probably wouldn’t want to talk to you, even if you hadn’t figured out why yet. But part of you hoped that he would, that everything to that point had been stress, and there, at his lowest, he would talk to you again, and everything would go back to normal.

That, of course, is not what happened.

He hadn’t answered at all. And when you’d tried a second time an hour later, it rang once before going to voicemail. That meant that he’d declined your call, but you didn’t know what that meant.

Two more days passed without you hearing anything from him, so you’d called Brady. All of this had been concerning, but that had been too much. Miraculously, you’d managed to stay calm when you spoke with Brady, sounding impressively level-headed when you relayed what happened and asked him if he’d heard from Matthew. Brady had seemed shocked at the situation, immediately calling Matthew after he’d hung up with you.

Thirty minutes later, when you’d received a text from Brady, your heart had sunk to the pit of your stomach, and it’s stayed there ever since.

Because what the text had informed you of is that Matthew hadn’t lost or broken his phone, hadn’t been sick or depressed or, god, lost in the fucking desert or some shit. It told you that he’d been with his girlfriend, and hadn’t wanted her to see him call or text another girl. Because, apparently, Matthew has a girlfriend now. And just hadn’t deigned to tell you.

When Brady had told you that she would be spending the offseason in St. Louis with Matthew, you’d tried to hide your shock. You’d cleared your throat and told Brady how great that was, even as you wanted to throw up. They’d gotten into town a few days ago, and you’d done your best to keep your distance. But Brady asked you to come to dinner at his parents’ house tonight, citing the limited time you have to see him before he goes back to Ottawa, and you couldn’t refuse.

So now here you are, curled up in a chair in the Tkachuks’ den, across from said girlfriend. Her name is Tessa, she’s 26, and she does remote work for a marketing firm. That explains how she’s able to pick up and go to St. Louis for three months, at least. She’s already recounted the story of how they’d met, a romcom story of spilling his drink on her dress at a party and getting to know each other from there. She talks about the instant connection, the way they clicked so quickly that she knew they were meant for each other. That part of the story was when you’d excused yourself to get a glass of water, just so you could stick your head in the fridge and take a few deep breaths.

Matthew and Tessa are on one of the couches, the older, comfier one. Matthew is propped up against one of the armrests, Tessa curled into his side, his arm around her shoulders. You’ve spent the night pretending not to notice the way Matthew keeps glancing at you.

Brady and Emma are posted up on the other couch, one on either side, Emma’s feet in Brady’s lap as she lounges. Emma is great, and does a great job at keeping the conversation going, despite how little you and the boys are participating. Tessa either doesn’t notice your silence or doesn’t mind, chatting happily about some film she and Emma have both recently seen. You’re pretending not to notice the looks Brady’s giving you, either.

You should really be trying harder. You know Brady wasn’t expecting you to curl up under a blanket and mope when he invited you, and he really is right about time being limited. You should be engaging, enjoying the time you get with the boys while you have it. You would, if you could open your mouth without feeling like you’re going to scream.

Eventually, Chantal calls you all to dinner. It’s easier once you’re all gathered around the table, somehow, and you’re able to talk a little. Chantal has always put you at ease, has always made you feel like just another of her children. If you had it your way, Taryn would be here too. She has a way of lovingly bullying you that always makes you feel better. Unfortunately, she’s visiting some college friends out of state. But you’re doing okay, you think, at acting normal.

Then you lock eyes with Keith, and any sense of ease you’ve gained flies out the window. You wouldn’t be inclined to say that Keith is the most observant person in the world, so the way he’s looking at you– like he knows something is very, very wrong– makes it clear that you’re doing an absolutely dogshit job at hiding your feelings. You look away from him quickly, swallowing hard and forcing yourself to talk even more.

Maybe if you can just act normal, if you can push down the emotions and act like everything is okay, it will be. There’s nothing else you can really do about the situation anyway. Matthew has made it clear that he’s not interested in talking about it, so you’ll have to suck it up and deal with it on your own.

Dinner goes by a little quicker once you’re actually actively involved in the conversation. Typically, you help Chantal with the dishes after meals, but when you reach for the sponge at the sink, she shoos you away. She sends the girls back to the den, insisting that it’s the boys’ turn to help.

You curl back up in your chair, mind wandering as you operate on autopilot. You’re saying things, contributing to the conversation with Emma and Tessa, but you have no idea what you’re actually saying. Mercifully, they either don’t notice or don’t care.

This entire situation is fucked. What’s really getting to you, though, is how you’d been introduced. You’d walked in, giving out hugs to everyone except Matthew and Tessa. She’d approached you, shaking your hand enthusiastically.

“Matthew said you’re Brady’s best friend, right?” she’d asked. It was simple, innocuous, and true. Brady and you have been best friends for years, and that would be an adequate title in any other scenario. But it felt like a punch to the gut, knowing that after everything, Matthew had told her that you were just his little brother’s best friend. You’d glanced at him as she said it, and the intentionally cool, unaffected expression Matthew had in place still couldn’t hide the guilt in his eyes.

In that moment, you knew that he hadn’t told her anything about you, about whatever the two of you have been to each other for the past few years, and that he never intends to. There was a second where he’d made a decision, a second that you weren’t present for, that had cut off everything you’ve been to him and relegated you back to Brady’s Best Friend.

You want to pull Tessa aside, spill out everything. You want her to know that you’re Matthew’s friend too, that you’ve been more than that. More than that, you want Matthew to do it. You want him to tell her, to acknowledge whatever the hell you’ve been doing for all this time. You want him to admit that you’re something, anything to him.

Instead, you keep it all to yourself. The knowledge of everything between you and Matthew will live and die where it is now, in the minds of the two of you, and nowhere else.

June, 2018

You’re wiping down the counters when the man enters. You force a bright smile at him, still annoyed from the previous customer but doing your best not to show it. He returns the smile, approaching the register. You move to settle across from him, greeting him politely. The shop has a lot of regulars, but you don’t recognize this guy.

“I’ll be honest,” he says, giving a single nervous laugh, “I’m not really a coffee guy. Do you have any recommendations?” It’s not an uncommon question, and there aren’t any other customers right now, so you don’t mind.

“Do you like the taste of coffee?” you ask. He shakes his head. That eliminates about half of the menu, so it’s progress.

“How much caffeine are you going for?” you ask next.

“As much as possible,” he replies. The dark circles under his eyes could have hinted you to that conclusion. He has a laptop and notebook in one hand, down by his side. It’s normal for people to bring work along with them, and he’s definitely young, so you guess it’s probably school work.

“You could always do a triple shot latte with a flavor,” you suggest, your own go-to drink, “The caramel is the strongest. I can put in an extra pump if you want.” Technically, you should charge extra for that, but the kid looks kind of pathetic, and you feel bad. He can have a pity pump this once.

“That sounds good,” he agrees. You do the math in your head and punch in the price manually on the vintage register. The whole cafe is supposed to have a vintage vibe, a real hipster magnet. Math was always your weakest subject, but having to calculate totals in your head has made you a lot better with it.

Once he pays on the very not-vintage card reader, you direct him to the far side of the bar. You start on his drink, pulling shots with practiced ease. You’ve been working here since high school, so you’ve gotten pretty good at making coffee. He doesn’t try to talk to you while you work, which is nice. There’s something oddly calming about his presence, though, and it’s helping your annoyance fade.

You hand off his drink, and he retreats to a booth in the back corner after thanking you. You go back to wiping things down, bobbing your head along with the music playing quietly over the speakers. It’s later in the evening, so you only get a few customers over the next hour. It’s one thing you like about working the night shift. Not many customers, and most of the people getting coffee around this time are tired enough to not give you much trouble, and are usually extremely grateful for the caffeine.

It’s quiet for long enough that you pull your stool up to the counter, pulling your textbook and notes out from under the counter. You start working on the homework for your summer semester, singing quietly to yourself as you read.

“You have a nice voice,” the guy from earlier says, suddenly standing in front of you. You jump, hand flying to your chest as if you’re a damsel in a period piece. You’d forgotten he was here.

“Thank you,” you say, once the surprise fades. You laugh a little, shaking your head. He laughs too, apologizing for startling you.

“Could I have another?” he asks, holding up his now-empty cup.

“Of course,” you reply, “Same cup okay?” You do your best to be environmentally friendly, so you don’t want to use another cup if you don’t have to. He says that’s okay, so you take the cup and start pulling another shot.

“Y/N,” he says absently as he leans on the counter, “That’s a pretty name.” You thank him again, dumping the first shot into the cup. It’s odd, because people are usually flirting when they say something like that, but his tone isn’t suggestive at all.

“What’s your name?” you ask, feeling like you should say something. You start pulling the second shot.

“Brady,” he says, extending a hand toward you. You look between his hand and your own, feeling rude but needing both hands to pull the shot.

“Oh, um,” you stutter, “Sorry, I’m–” He seems to realize what’s going on and retracts his hand, using it to rub at the base of his skull.

“My bad,” he says, shaking his head at himself, “I’m tired, sorry.” You smile at him, much more genuine than the first time.

“What’s got you so tired anyway, Brady?” you ask, dumping the second shot and starting on the third. His face twists at what you’d thought was an innocuous question. He’s clearly debating something in his head, so you stay silent.

“I’ve got something big coming up in a couple weeks,” he explains, tapping his fingers against the counter, “I’m just trying to be prepared.” You nod, not minding how vague he’s being. You don’t actually need to know every detail of a random customer’s life. There’s a moment of quiet as you dump in the third shot and pour some milk into a metal container.

“And I might be a little nervous,” he says, looking at his hands instead of you. You smile again, beginning to steam the milk.

“Just a little,” you repeat, slightly teasing in a way you usually aren’t with customers.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, looking up at you, “Just a little.” You smile at each other for a second, both knowing he’s seriously downplaying his feelings. You wonder what it is that has him so anxious, sure that it must be something serious. He doesn’t seem to be the neurotic type.

“What are you working on?” he asks as you pour the milk, gesturing toward your books spread out next to the register. You shrug.

“Organic chemistry,” you reply, pumping in the flavoring, “The worst class ever.” He cringes at the mention of it, which you feel in your bones.

“I’ve heard it’s awful,” he says.

“It is,” you confirm. You snap the lid back onto the cup, sliding it over the counter to him. He cradles it between his hands, but doesn’t move to leave. He’s looking up at you from where he’s hunched over, and you can’t help but stare back.

“Do you want to come sit with me?” he asks, “We could be miserable together.” The smile that overtakes your face mirrors itself on his own.

August, 2018

When Brady walks in, right at his usual time, you give him a smile and lean over the counter to hug him. You’ve become fast friends, sitting together a few nights a week, probably talking more than studying. His Big Thing is long past, and he still hasn’t told you what it was, but you don’t really mind. You get to know about his family and his girlfriend and his upcoming move to Ottawa, of all places, but you don’t need to know everything if he doesn’t want to share.

You make two of the usual latte, one for each of you. You grab your books from the shelf, meeting him at the corner booth. You get through some small talk as you both set up, going back and forth with an ease that you were surprised to find has been there since the beginning.

“Matthew’s going to come hang out tonight,” he says as he logs into his computer. He’s spoken about his brother before, so you’re somewhat intrigued.

“Any particular reason?” you ask. To your knowledge, Matthew has never been to the shop, so you’re not sure if something special is going on to spur him into coming.

“He thinks it sounds cool,” Brady shrugs, flipping his notebook open. Maybe you’d know what he’s always working on if you could read his tiny chicken scratch. As it is, you don’t mind letting him have his secrets.

You get four pages into your chapter before another customer enters, laying your pen in the divot between the pages while you go make them their drink. Luckily, they don’t stick around. It’s not awful when other people are around, but you always feel like someone is going to complain about you sitting in the dining room and studying while you should be working. But if there’s no work to be done, you don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees. So you prefer if it’s just you and Brady.

Another four pages drag by, reading interspersed with breaks to talk. Honestly, the breaks are also a way to keep yourself sane as you read unnecessarily complicated science.

When the next customer enters, you spring up from your chair, shooting them a smile as you make your way behind the counter. You give your standard greeting, asking what you can get them.

“What do you recommend?” the man asks. You were kind of hoping he’d have something in mind so that this interaction could go quickly, because he may be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen and it’s making you flustered.

“Do you like the taste of coffee?” you ask. He nods, looking you up and down with a critical eye. It feels personal, feels like he’s searching for something, and you’re not sure if you like it.

“How much caffeine are you looking for?” you ask next. You do your best to maintain eye contact, ignoring the way you have to look up to do so.

“How much you got?” he asks in return. The crooked smile he gives you makes your stomach flip. You grasp for a drink to suggest, all knowledge having fled your mind in order to focus on the curl of his hair over his forehead, the glint of his bright eyes.

“A Lazy Eye would probably be the most,” you say, clearing your throat, “But if you don’t want to have a heart attack, you could do a regular Red Eye.” He tilts his head, smile turning smug, as if he’s noticed your distraction. Something about it snaps you out of your daze, slightly indignant. You’ve seen plenty of hot guys in your day, and you’re not about to look like a fool in front of him just because he’s pretty.

“Red Eye, Black Eye, Dripped Eye, Lazy Eye,” you list off with as much confidence as you can muster, “Each with one more shot than the last. Pick your poison.” Your attitude change only makes him smile wider. Your hand is poised over the buttons of the register, ready to ring up whatever he decides.

“Let’s go with a Black Eye,” he says, bearing a surprisingly sharp canine, “I’ve had a few of those in my time.” That doesn’t surprise you, with his smug face and oozing self-confidence. Something about it feels so disingenuous that it makes your teeth itch. It’s clearly an act, but you can’t exactly call him on it.

You give him his total, he pays, you get to work. You empty the last dregs of coffee in the pot into the sink and set the machine to brew a new batch. No matter how annoying a customer seems, you’re not about to serve them shitty coffee.

“Y/N,” he says, leaning on the counter, “That’s a pretty name.” It’s exactly what Brady had said when you’d met him, which makes you eye the man a little suspiciously. Whereas Brady had clearly not been flirting when he’d said it, this man’s tone is ambiguous enough that you’re not entirely sure what his intentions are.

“Thank you,” you say, dumping the first shot of espresso into the cup. Normally, you would ask for his name in return, but you’re not sure if you want to encourage him talking to you.

“How long have you worked here?” he asks anyway.

“Almost three years,” you reply. You’re not sure you want to tell him anything about your life, but you’re trying to be polite.

“Experienced,” he says, smiling like he’s a lion closing in on its prey, “I like that.” It’s cheesy and kind of sleazy, and you can’t help but scoff in disbelief. He’s watching you like a hawk, studying your reactions to everything he says and does. You dump the second shot, wishing the coffee would brew faster so this interaction could be over.

“I don’t think I want to know what else you like,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. You used to get embarrassed and rattled by customers making comments like this, but at some point something had changed inside you. Now you just get annoyed, no matter how hot the person may be.

“Feisty,” he says, smile changing slightly in a way you can’t parse, “I like that too.” You roll your eyes, making a quiet noise of disgust. It’s not great for business to react to customers this way, but you can’t help it.

“I like it when men are silent,” you reply, able to feel how withering your gaze is. His expression changes yet again, smile getting smaller but more genuine, scrunching the bottom of his eyes up a little. That feels more natural to you, looks more right on his face. Something about the new softness in his eyes soothes something inside of you.

The coffee machine beeps to signal that it’s ready, and you waste no time in grabbing the pot and filling the cup. You hand it off to him, giving your biggest, most obviously fake smile.

“Have a fantastic night,” you say, immediately rounding the counter and heading back to the booth. When you settle back into your seat, Brady is smiling at you like you’ve told the funniest joke in the world.

“What?” you ask, picking up your pen. Brady’s eyes flick up above your head, slightly to the left, staying there, prompting you to turn around. The man is standing behind you, small smile still in place.

“Brady’s told me so much about you,” he says, and it dawns on you, “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Matthew.” Your jaw falls open and you turn back to Brady, kicking him in the shin under the table. He yelps; Matthew laughs.

“You’re both the worst,” you spit, trying to hold onto your irritation and failing. You laugh alongside the brothers, begrudgingly amused by the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Sorry about that back there,” Matthew apologizes, seemingly genuine, “I couldn’t help myself.” You shake your head at him as he bullies Brady further into the booth so he can sit. Brady shoves him back, but moves his things over anyway.

“It’s okay,” you say, pointing at him, “But if you ever pull that shit again, I’m banning you from the shop.” That startles a laugh out of him.

“I didn’t know you had the power to do that,” he replies, using his crossed arms to lean on the table.

“I do now,” you say, tilting your chin up, “Gonna put a picture up of you with a big X on it and everything.” You stare at each other for a second, and he breaks first, ducking his head as he laughs.

“Fair enough,” he concedes, looking up at you through his lashes. Your heart skips a beat, but you do your best to seem unaffected. This is your friend’s brother, for Christ’s sake. You can’t be all aflutter over him. You’re not sure you have a choice in the matter.

June, 2023

You might actually kill your coworker one day. He’s such a smug rat bastard, and every meeting including both of you makes you think you’re going to grind your teeth into dust. It’s just lucky that the job is remote, so you don’t have to be around him physically. Probably best for both your sanity and his safety.

“I mean, at least you were right in the end?” Terri says, sounding uncertain through your headphones. You’re sauteeing some onions and peppers, moving them around more than you should be just for something to do with your hands.

“Yeah, I guess,” you sigh, “I just don’t understand why he wants to make me look bad.” Ian– the coworker– seems to always have some kind of comment on your work, some type of criticism. Constructive criticism is part of the game, but his is never constructive. It doesn’t help that you’re the only two in the graphics department, so he’s always there when you present work. And really, being the only two should mean that you work together and support each other, honestly.

“Because he’s an insecure man-child,” Terri replies easily. You shake your head down at the vegetables, startling as the oven timer goes off. You jab at the button to turn it off, opening the door to remove the chicken.

“I think I’ve had enough of insecure man-children,” you grumble. You cut open one of the chicken breasts with more force than is strictly necessary, grateful that it seems to be done.

“You finally wanna talk about that?” Terri asks, and honestly? No, you don’t. Ideally, you’ll never talk about it, just push it down into the darkest recesses of your mind and bury it there. Unfortunately, you possess some level of emotional maturity, which means you know that you have to talk about it eventually.

It’s hard, because despite Brady being your best friend, you can’t exactly talk to him about this. If he knew any part of what’s been going on, he’d probably go physically fight Matthew on your behalf. Part of you thinks that might actually make you feel a little better. But he’d also probably be mad that you’ve had a not-thing with his brother, and that would make you feel worse.

“She seems like a nice woman,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral. Terri sighs, and you take your plate of food to the living room to eat.

“She’s not the problem, here,” she says. She’s right, and you know it. You really don’t have anything against Tessa, and obviously you can’t blame her for any of this. Clearly, she had no idea about your not-thing with Matthew, and genuinely fell for him. There’s no point in being mad at her.

“Yeah, well,” you push some food around your plate, “He’s a fuckface and she can have him.” The mention of Matthew has ruined your appetite, the meal now looking completely unappealing. You push the plate to the other side of the coffee table with a huff. You’ll try eating again later, you tell yourself, knowing that you haven’t been eating nearly enough lately. You can’t help it, your inner turmoil chasing away your hunger most of the time.

“He is a fuckface,” Terri agrees, adding, “But don’t pretend you don’t still want him.” Ugh. Friends are the worst, actually, and you should just become a hermit in a cave somewhere. There’s no point even trying to deny the claim, both of you knowing that she’s right.

“I’m not allowed to want him anymore,” you say, voice coming out weaker than you want to admit, “I never should have let myself want him in the first place.” In the beginning, despite being attracted to Matthew, it was easy to maintain distance. He was in Calgary most of the year, and reminding yourself that he was your new friend’s brother actually worked as a deterrent back then.

You can’t pinpoint exactly when you started letting yourself get caught up, but you’d ended up completely entangled with him. Now he’s put that distance back between you, ripping away the strings you’d been tied up in, leaving you with all these empty spaces where he used to be. And it’s making you hate yourself, knowing that if you’d just kept things cordial, restricted your attention and connection to Brady like you should have, you wouldn’t be feeling any of this right now.

“You can’t help who you love,” Terri says, so gently that it only hurts more. You’re not fragile, okay? You don’t need the softness, the careful handling. You’re not fragile. You’re not.

“I gotta go eat,” you say, not wanting to lie, but needing a way out of the conversation, “Bye, Ter.” She says your name, but you just repeat the goodbye. She sighs, says goodbye, and you hang up. What you should do is eat something and go to sleep. Instead, you eye the easel in the corner of the living room. You sigh, heaving yourself up off of the couch to go grab a glass of water to rinse your brushes with.

April, 2019

It’s probably going to become your new favorite day of the year: the day Brady comes home from Ottawa. His plane had landed yesterday, and his parents had even brought you to the airport with them to pick him up. As quickly as you’d bonded last summer, you’d only gotten closer through the season. It feels like you can talk to each other about anything, like you were meant to meet, like he’s the platonic version of a soulmate. You had patiently waited your turn to hug him after his parents, squeezing him as tightly as you could manage. He’d only squeezed back harder.

With their seasons ending right around the same time this year, Matthew had landed the same night. Knowing they’d have to go back to the airport, the Tkachuks had decided to just spend the day out instead of going home. They’d invited you to come with them, an invitation you’d eagerly accepted. They’re quickly starting to feel like family to you, and you love spending time with them. For the first time in your life, it feels like you fit somewhere.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t been able to come along to pick up Matthew. You’d had to work last night, so the Tkachuks had dropped you off at home to get changed and get going. You’d still gotten to spend most of the day with them, which would have to be enough.

You’re going over to their place today, and you decided to bake and bring along cookies. All of their local family and friends are going to be there to welcome the boys home, and you haven’t met most of them yet, so you want to make a good first impression. Besides, it’s just polite to bring something along to someone’s house.

Though Brady still tries to hug you when you arrive, despite your hands being full, the plates need to be deposited on the dining room table before he can get a real one. There are a few people chatting in the room, so Brady introduces you to them.

Most of the next hour goes much the same, Brady introducing you to family and friends, having small conversations with all of them. You know that Brady isn’t trying to embarrass you, but he has a habit of hyping you up to people. He’s more outgoing than you are, and he uses that social ease to brag about how smart you are, how talented. It feels a little like he’s trying to justify being your friend to them, but you know better than to think that Brady cares what anyone thinks of him and his choices.

The kitchen exits onto a large cherry wood deck, scattered with chairs, some of them already occupied. The back yard is sprawling, green grass lined with lush bushes. There’s a pool to the right, not opened for the summer yet, a jacuzzi positioned between it and the house. You’re still not really used to all of this, the casual wealth of the family. It’s so far from what you’d grown up with, something that had astonished you when you’d realized just how far above you the Tkachuks are.

There are a few yard games set up in the grass, cornhole and ladders and something you don’t recognize. And there, in the center of the yard, Matthew is teaching a child how to play ladders. The kid is probably a cousin, of which they have many. Matthew is barefoot, wearing a bright red Flames hoodie and black shorts that only come to mid-thigh. You’ve narrowed your staring down to a minimum, so your eyes only linger for a second or two before you turn back to Brady.

He guides you around to meet the few people braving the chilly spring weather, much as he had done inside. Everyone is so nice, saying how pleased they are to meet you, and seeming to mean it.

Your last stop is Matthew, who interrupts his lesson to hug you. It’s only the second time the two of you have done so, the first having been the last time you saw him before he left for the season. Despite that fact, he squeezes you almost as hard as Brady had, as if you’re his best friend too. Not that you’d presume to be Brady’s best friend, but. Still.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” he says when you pull apart, and the expression on his face tells you how genuine it is. Your smile is almost involuntary, turning up the corners of your mouth and baring just a hint of teeth.

“Welcome home, Matthew,” you reply, “We missed you.” You’re not sure what “we” you’re referring to, but it feels less incriminating than saying “I missed you”. You get the feeling that he understands anyway, beaming at you.

The three of you chat for a few minutes, Matthew introducing you to his little cousin. With there being four of you, you decide to play a game of ladders, to test the little one’s skills. He’s pretty good, for a kid, and you and Brady make sure to throw well enough to convince him that you’re trying, but still let him win. Throughout, Matthew gives him tips and instruction, so kind and gentle that it makes your heart ache. They cheer when they win, high fiving and teasing you and Brady.

You go inside to spend some time with Keith and Chantal. Chantal gives you a big hug, as if she hadn’t just seen you yesterday. Keith gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder. Taryn appears at some point, sneaking up behind you and poking your sides to make you jump. You laugh along with her, enfolding her into the conversation easily.

Time flies by, the sun setting around you, the house lights turning on one by one as darkness descends. Eventually, you end up lounging in the den with the other adult kids. From your visits last year, the chair in the corner has become yours. You’re settled in, legs folded up under you as something that no one is watching plays on the TV. Brady and Taryn get into a heated debate about something or another, and Matthew gives you a long-suffering look as his younger siblings bicker. You just smile back at him, finding the family’s passion entirely endearing.

“Seventeen years of this,” Matthew gripes, clearly not as annoyed as he’s trying to seem.

“And sixty more to go,” you reply. Matthew chuckles at that, looking to Brady and Taryn with such fondness that you almost can’t stand it. It’s the kind of relationship you’d wanted with your own brothers, but that’s best not to think about.

“Hopefully,” Matthew says, turning that fond look toward you. Your heart skips a beat, and you’ve gotten good at ignoring that.

May, 2019

You shouldn’t be this nervous, but you are. Terri is on speaker phone, telling you about her new job. You’re half-listening, staring at the clothing laid out on your bed. You’ve been agonizing all morning about what you’re going to wear, how you’re going to do your makeup, if you should wear makeup at all.

“I’m glad that your boss defended you,” you say to Terri, still tuned in enough to follow her story, “She seems cool.”

“She’s so cool,” Terri gushes, “She’s my favorite now.” You’re so happy that Terri has finally found a good job, especially with how hellish her previous one had been. This one pays almost double what she was getting before, too, which definitely doesn’t hurt. She expounds a little more about the things she loves about her boss, and you decide to hang back up the dresses you’ve laid out. It’s still a little too chilly to wear them, especially after sundown.

“You’re still staring at those damn clothes, aren’t you?” Terri asks, switching the topic suddenly. Your face gets warm as you make a plaintive hand gesture, despite her not being able to see you.

“Clothes are stupid and I can’t decide,” you complain, trying to imagine how each of the final two options will come across. If you try too hard, Matthew might think that you think this is a date, but you still want to look good. You know it’s not a date, but you’re still kind of acting like it is, and it’s embarrassing.

“Definitely wear jeans,” Terri advises, “That’ll make it more casual.” You agree, putting away the skirt you’d paired with the one shirt, trying to picture how it would look with jeans. You move the pants between each shirt, before giving up and just putting them on. You’ll just try on both outfits and see which one you like better.

Once dressed in the first option, you take a picture to send to Terri. You look at yourself in the mirror, turning this way and that. After a minute or two of consideration, you switch tops. You take another picture and send both to Terri for her opinion.

“Oh, definitely the second one,” she says, “The first one makes you look like you’re going to a job interview.” You look at the picture again, and can’t deny that she’s right. You put that one away, settled in your decision. You’re not sure if Matthew has ever seen you in anything but jeans and a t-shirt, so you hope the red tank top layered with a tucked-in sheer pink printed blouse isn’t too much of a change.

When Matthew had invited you to take a walk around the park yesterday, just the two of you. You’ve never spent more than a few minutes alone with him, always having Brady or Taryn or Emma to provide distraction and distance. This time you’ll have nothing to focus on but him.

The time comes soon enough, and you gather your things, not wanting to make Matthew wait for you when he arrives. You’d offered to drive yourself and meet him there, but he’d waved off the idea immediately, saying that he’d pick you up.

A knock comes at your door right on time. You take a deep breath before you open it, settling your frenzied heart. Matthew smiles as soon as he sees you.

“Oh wow,” he says, almost absentmindedly, “You look great.” Your blush is immediate, and you hope he can’t see it. It seems that anything that comes out of his mouth makes you blush, sometimes.

The drive to the park isn’t too long. When you arrive, you gather your bag from the floor of the passenger seat, and by time you move to get a hand on the door handle, Matthew is already opening the door from the outside. It’s a sweet surprise, and you thank him as you climb out of the car.

It’s a nice day, not too cold or windy for once. The two of you walk, talking about this and that, moving from topic to topic as they arise. You point out a few birds as you go, and Matthew listens to the little fun facts you give about them. He seems genuinely interested, but even if he’s not, at least he’s polite enough to pretend.

“I guess we should have left a little earlier,” Matthew remarks as the sun goes down, the light fading around you. The sun sets quickly this time of year, so you’re still a few minutes out from the car by time it’s completely dark. The lights along the pathway bathe Matthew in yellow light, casting warm shadows in the dips and hollows of his face.

“At least I have a big, strong man to protect me,” you joke, elbowing him.

“Oh no, if we get jumped I’m running,” he replies, shooting a shit-eating grin down at you. You gasp and press a hand to your heart, as if you’re truly scandalized.

“You would really abandon me like that?” you ask. His smile softens at the edges.

“Never,” he says, looking so genuine that it makes your heart flutter, pausing before he adds, “Unless we’re getting robbed.” Your combined laughter rings out through the trees.

June, 2023

You’ve managed to avoid any questions about your odd behavior, and it’s getting easier to act normal over time. A couple weeks have passed since your first meeting with Tessa, and you still feel like ripping your skin off when you see her touching Matthew, but you’ve gotten better at hiding it. It’s not your place to be upset, anyway.

The diner is bustling at this time of day, the tail end of lunch rush. You had to wait a little bit to get seated, but now you’re sitting at the end of a booth in a chair they’d pulled up to the edge to make up for all five of you not fitting into the booth. It makes you feel a little left out, the only one not paired off, a fifth wheel to the two couples on either side of the table. You block that out, a skill you’ve had for years, but have had to strengthen rapidly over the past few weeks.

Brady has an arm around Emma’s shoulders, and you can tell by the angle of Matthew’s arm that he has a hand on Tessa’s thigh. You remember when that was you, Matthew touching you so casually, so naturally. Sitting across from Matthew as he nudges your foot under the table, sitting next to him with your shoulders pressed together, fingers tangled together on the seat, where no one could see.

Emma is telling a story about a night out with some of her girlfriends, and you’re laughing along at the antics with everyone else. When she asks you about work, you try to clear the perpetual lump in your throat before answering, succeeding in sounding happy, though the tightness remains.

When your food arrives, you spend most of the time pushing it around your plate to make it look like you’re eating. You never have an appetite around Matthew anymore, weirdly embarrassed about being seen eating in a way you haven’t been since you were a teenager. You’ll take it home and eat it later, if you can stop thinking about Matthew for two fucking seconds.

You’re not sure how long that’s going to be impossible, but you hope it’s not much longer.

January, 2020

You’ve been to a few games when the boys have played the Blues, but you’ve never made the trip up to Canada to see them play each other before. Ottawa is nice, Brady and Emma having shown you around a little when you’d arrived. Your nerves had been shot from the anxiety of traveling abroad for the first time, even though it was just to Canada. The couple seemed to understand, only taking you around for a few hours before bringing you home.

Brady’s apartment is nice, really nice. He’s offered you the guest room for a few days, and you appreciate not having to pay for a hotel. He’ll be home for six days before he has to go to St. Louis for the All Star game, so you’d arranged to stay in Ottawa and fly back home with them.

Luckily, the cafe is pretty cool about rearranging your schedule, so you’ll just have to work some extra days when you go back to make up for what you’re missing. You’d asked for the days of the skills competition and game off as well, Brady having managed to get you a ticket. Your manager has always thought it was cool that you were friends with the Tkachuks, so she had agreed to give you the time off if you brought her a souvenir. Matthew and Brady had offered to sign a jersey for her without you even having to ask, and you’ll owe them for a while, though they insist you don’t.

Matthew gets in that first night, the three of you meeting him at his hotel. You’re not sure how he managed it, but he’ll be staying a few days instead of returning to Calgary with the team after the game. Maybe he got a special exception because this game is the last before All Star week, and he has to go to St. Louis anyway. No matter the reason, you’re glad he gets to stay.

The game the next night is exciting, and definitely worth the trip. With the Senators’ performance in recent years, it’s mostly the diehard fans left, so the atmosphere is electric. You get swept up in the passion and joy, especially when the game ends with a 5-2 win for Ottawa.

The boys have to debrief and get changed, which you know will take a while. Emma and you wait with the WAGs, Emma excited to introduce you to them. Some of them think you’re a new WAG at first, which is honestly kind of flattering. All of the ladies are surprisingly kind and welcoming, and you enjoy interacting with them as you all wait.

Matthew emerges first, guided down the hallway by one of the arena staff. His steps pick up pace when he sees you and Emma, and he shoots a quick thanks to the staff member before jogging over to the two of you. He immediately enfolds you in his arms, squeezing tight and holding longer than usual. You know it’s difficult for him to lose at all, let alone to his brother, so you let him hold you as long as he wants.

Once he lets you go, he meets your eyes. His smile is soft, tinged with a slight sadness that you want to wipe away.

“Hey there, sweet girl,” he greets, and your breath catches at the term of endearment. He’d started using it a few months ago, and it still makes your chest tight. You know that it doesn’t mean anything, but you still imagine sometimes that it does.

He turns his attention to Emma, giving her a hug as well, just one quick squeeze before releasing. The three of you start talking, waiting patiently for Brady. It doesn’t shock you that he takes so long to come out, knowing his unofficial position of leadership in the team. The guys come out one by one, hugging and kissing their wives and girlfriends, the number of ladies dwindling as they leave with their men.

When Brady finally emerges, he heads straight over to give Emma a hug and kiss. He hugs you next, before punching Matthew’s shoulder. They have a little back-and-forth as you all exit the arena, taking harmless jabs at each other all the way to the car.

The main issue with the living arrangements for the trip had been that Brady and Emma were going to have two guests and only one spare room. Matthew had offered to sleep on the couch, but he’s too tall for that, and you don’t want him to end up sore or hurting his neck during the season. You’d insisted that you’d sleep on the couch, but both Matthew and Brady had immediately vetoed that idea. Then you’d found out that the guest room has two twin beds instead of one bigger one, and the answer was simple.

Matthew sets his suitcase and backpack next to the door when you get home. You’ve already claimed the bed on the far side, so he gets set up on the one closer to the door. Emma and Brady are in the kitchen, making a post-game snack for everyone, so it’s just you and Matthew.

“You excited to be roomies for a week?” he asks, unzipping his suitcase. Yours is already open under the window, so you grab some pajamas out of it.

“Depends how loud you snore,” you tease. He shoots you a toothy smile.

“Oh, it’s gonna be loud,” he says. You chuckle a bit, knowing he’s joking. Emma calls for you, then, and you leave your clothes on the bed to go to her. The four of you converse as you eat, seated in a row at the kitchen island. You’ve got Matthew to one side and Brady to the other, and they take turns kicking your ankles. You kick back, grinning at Emma when she kicks Brady’s other side.

Brady and Matthew had already showered at the rink, so they sit in the living room while you and Emma get ready for bed. She uses the master suite, and you use the bathroom in the hall. It’s nice, if small, with a simple stall shower instead of a tub. You go through your routine on autopilot, only realizing when you’re done that you’d left your clothes in the bedroom. You wrap yourself in a towel, doing your best to sneak past the door to the living room.

When you look to make sure your stealth is working, you meet Matthew’s eyes. It stops you in your tracks. You can’t discern the look on his face, and you’re not sure that you care to. He shoots you an easy smile, and you wave at him like an idiot, acting on instinct. It only makes him smile wider, and you scurry off to the room.

After you’re dressed, there’s a knock on the door. Brady asks if you’re decent, and you confirm that you are, so he peeks his head in. Once he sees that you truly are dressed, he opens the door the rest of the way. He and Emma bid you good night, telling you to just ask if you need anything. You thank them and say good night in return, Matthew entering the room as soon as the other two retreat to their own room. He’s barely two steps into the room before he’s pulling off his shirt.

“Woah there, cowboy,” you say, holding up a hand in front of you. He just shrugs at you.

“Gotta get ready for bed,” he says, bending over and lifting his foot to remove his socks. You’d figured that he would wear a t-shirt and shorts to bed like you, but you should’ve guessed he’d be the type to sleep shirtless, no matter who’s around. He’s naked in front of thirty people every day, who cares about being shirtless?

You do your best to brush it off, turning down the covers of your bed so that you can crawl in. Normally, you would read for a bit before bed, but you’re tired enough tonight that you don’t think you need to. You pull the blankets up to your chin, turning on your side. Unfortunately, you sleep on your right, so you end up facing Matthew’s bed. Is that weird? Should you try sleeping the opposite direction?

Matthew doesn’t say anything, flicking the lights off and crawling into bed. He sleeps on his left, apparently, so he’s facing you too. That’s a little awkward, right? As your eyes adjust to the dark, you’re able to see the glint of his teeth as he smiles over at you.

“Sleep well, sweet girl,” he says quietly. You return the sentiment, grateful that the darkness means he probably can’t fully see the embarrassment on your face. You’re backlit by the window, so you convince yourself that he can’t.

The next morning, you wake to Matthew already out of bed, stretching. Your eyes roam his back, taking in the dips and ridges of his muscles. Only at the last second do you realize that his head is turned to the side, and he’s staring at you through the corner of his eye. You quickly avert your gaze, turning to sit bolt upright on the other side of the bed, facing the window.

The four of you spend the day exploring the city, Brady and Emma seeming to have planned what they want to show you. It’s nice, peaceful and fun. You make them take pictures with you in front of landmarks or cool art pieces, all of you squished together to fit in the selfie.

It isn’t until the fourth night that anything out of the ordinary happens. You’re lying in bed, having turned on your back to stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep. You probably shouldn’t have had that affogato after dinner, though usually they don’t bother you this much. No matter how long you toss and turn, how many sleeping positions you try, you can’t even make yourself tired, let alone actually fall asleep.

“What are you, a rotisserie chicken?” Matthew asks rhetorically, breaking the silence. His voice is hushed, but it still startles you. You turn your head to stare at him, finding him staring right back.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, sheepish, “I can’t sleep.” Matthew’s lips quirk up at one end.

“Me either,” he says, sitting up. You mimic his posture, then scoot back to lean against the headboard. He slings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, and you think for a second that he’s going to turn on the light. Instead, he takes the two steps to your bed, motioning to the mattress. You nod, prompting him to start shoving your shoulder, bullying you into making space for him. You giggle, trying to keep quiet to respect the late hour.

“So,” he leads, taking a long moment to just stare at you before continuing, “Tell me something I don’t know about you.” You’re taken off guard by the request, not sure how to respond.

“I was an Aaron Carter girl growing up,” you pull out of thin air. Matthew’s face breaks into a wide smile, sunshine in the middle of the night.

“Really?” he asks. You nod, mumbling “yeah” in confirmation. That’s all it takes to get you both talking. You trade off back and forth, telling each other small things about yourself that may not come up otherwise, launching into short discussions about some of the statements.

“My favorite color is red,” he says at one point, when you’re starting to think you may fall asleep.

“I thought it was blue?” you reply, remembering Chantal mention that at some point. Matthew starts fiddling with his hands.

“I tell people it’s blue, but it’s really red,” he says. You tilt your head an inch or two, furrowing your brow at him.

“Why?” you ask. He ducks his head.

“Red is an angry color,” he explains, voice quieter than before, “With my reputation, I don’t want people to associate me with an aggressive color. I don’t want to play into the stereotype.” You hum, looking forward. It feels like this isn’t the best time to look at him, like he’ll clam up if you witness his vulnerability.

“It’s also the color of vitality, excitement, love,” you counter, leaving just a breath of a pause, “It’s a good color for you.” The entire room is still for a dragging moment, before Matthew gently knocks your shoulders together.

“What about you?” he asks when you look back to him. There’s a fraction of a change in his face, but you don’t comment on it.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re still sitting up, head resting on Matthew’s shoulder, his head laying on top of yours. You suppress the instinct to startle, not wanting to disrupt him, lest he wake up and move. His skin is warm under your cheek, your arms lined up from shoulder to the knuckles of your fingers. You close your eyes again, trying to keep your breathing steady, as if you’re still sleeping. You’ve been trying so hard to keep distance between Matthew and yourself, but you’ll allow yourself to enjoy this, just for a moment longer.

There’s a shift in Matthew’s breathing, his fingers twitching against yours. It settles after a second, into a different pattern, intentionally deep and even. You’re sure that he’s awake, that he’s doing the same thing that you are. You’re not sure what to do with that information.

The rest of the trip goes by smoothly, Brady and Emma showing you both the touristy things and the better local spots around the city. If the same thing happens the next night, and the night after that, you and Matthew talking in low voices until you fall asleep against each other, neither of you mention it.

April, 2020

While the initial prediction for lockdown was that it would only last a month, it’s clear that it’s going to last much, much longer.

It’s probably lucky that you’d just started a new job, one that can be done remotely, rather than either working at the coffee shop or being laid off. It’s not exactly what you want to do, but it’s at least in the artistic field, so you try to be grateful anyway. It’s difficult being locked away in your apartment, but you’re grateful that you’re luckier than essential workers and people who are losing their jobs altogether.

The thing that keeps you sane in all of this is your phone. More specifically, it’s your friends. You’ve developed almost a schedule with it, calling Terri in the morning for an hour or so before work. At lunch, you facetime Brady and Emma for another hour, not envying them being stuck so far from home. It must be hard to be in an entirely different country than your family.

The highlight of each day is the evening, when you facetime Matthew. Though he spends most of the day sending you videos and memes and updates about whatever little thing he’s doing at the moment, it’s still nice to talk to him out loud. Seeing his face helps your growing loneliness a little bit.

You’re in your living room, your phone propped up against the arm of the couch as you show off the few things you’ve made since picking up crochet a couple weeks ago. Matthew compliments each of them, commending you for your improvement. He’s the only one you’ve shown, too embarrassed to let anyone else see the wonky scarves with uneven stitches.

“You have time to work on any paintings lately?” he asks, once you’re done your little show and tell. The truth is that you’ve got three new canvases drying in the kitchen. The truth is also that the man asking about them is the inspiration for their creation. There’s nothing incriminating about them; it’s not like they’re portraits of him or something. But you’re still hesitant to show him, because even if he doesn’t know, you do.

You show him anyway. The painting of the park is his favorite, and you wonder if he knows that it’s the one you went to for your first time alone together. It’s mostly dark, greens and blues so deep they look black, yellow triangles of light splitting the canvas into section. If you look closely enough, the brush strokes fill in the details of the trees, the grass, the pavement. Your phone camera isn’t good enough for Matthew to see that, but he compliments it anyway.

“You should paint me something for my apartment,” he says after you show him all three. You’re not opposed to the idea, actually enjoy the thought of something you made being showcased in his home.

“What do you want?” you ask, a hundred ideas already flitting through your mind. The only way you’ve seen his apartment is through the background of pictures he sends you sometimes, or little glimpses you catch as he walks around while you facetime. You’re not entirely sure of the vibe, but you’re sure you can figure something out.

“What makes you think of me?” he asks in return. You stop in your tracks in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. The hand holding your phone lowers a couple inches unintentionally, your gaze drifting above the screen, staring into the middle distance. What makes you think of him? Hockey, obviously. Family. Curling up under a blanket on a cold night. Laying on the couch with your feet up on the armrest, your head propped up on a pillow, a sad replacement for his lap. Spruce trees, gold, pitbulls, mushroom pizza, black eyes– both the drink and the wound.

Everything. Everything makes you think of him.

You can’t say that, obviously. You search your brain for something personal but innocuous, something sentimental but still acceptable. You think of all the time that you two have spent together over the past few years, memories springing up, some that you’d even forgotten about. Some that you’ll never be able to forget about.

“Can I surprise you?” you ask. You’re given that familiar smile in response, any iteration of which makes your heart stutter in your chest.

“Yeah,” he says, propping his face up with one hand on his jaw, “I trust you.”

July, 2023

Some people may say that Terri’s apartment is cluttered, but you just find it cozy. She has decorations and knick-knacks on every surface, but the comfiest couch you’ve ever sat on. That’s where you are now, stretched out with your back against the side, Terri mimicking your posture at the other end, your legs tangled together in the middle.

“We should see the Barbie movie when it comes out,” she says, unprompted. You look up from the hook and yarn in your hands, tipping your head to the side for a second and shrugging.

“It looks good,” you say, an indirect agreement. You haven’t been to the movies since before lockdown, so it might be nice to go back.

“D’you think Gabe would want to come?” she asks cautiously, “He could bring the kids.” The mention of your brother still makes ice crawl in your chest, but it’s not as bad as it once was. He’d reached out last year, trying to reconnect with you, and apparently your other brother too. You’ve only seen him a few times since, but it’s more than you’d seen him in the four years prior, combined.

“It’s worth a shot, right?” Terri asks, eyes flicking toward your phone sitting on the coffee table. You look toward it as well, debating for a second. It would be nice to see your nieces and nephews, but it also hurts that they barely know who you are.

“Yeah,” you agree after a second, “Worth a shot.” You grab your phone, feeling as if it’s going to explode in your hands if you move too quickly. There are a few notifications when you wake the screen, which you ignore to unlock it. You open your texts, backing out of your thread with Terri from earlier. You have a picture message from Brady, just a selfie of him and Emma smiling, which you send a heart in response to. Backing out of that thread, you see another new message, underneath the contact name you haven’t had the heart to change. The red and purple hearts next to his name– each of your favorite colors– having been there so long that getting rid of them feels wrong, no matter how it makes your chest hurt to see them.

Can we talk?

You tap the back button as quickly as you can. You can’t respond. You should, to be polite, but you can’t. If you do, you’ll say something you regret. It’ll probably be agreement or the words “eat shit”, and either option will get you into trouble. You can’t respond. You want so badly to talk to him. You want so desperately to go back in time and never meet him.

Your fingers tremble as you draft a text to your brother, typing and deleting and re-typing a few times before you settle on the wording. You have more important things to worry about than Matthew.

August, 2020

The bubble was an interesting idea. It may not be the best idea in the world, despite the safety precautions, but you know Matthew is just happy to be back on the ice. He’s already sent you a dozen pictures of the hotel, of him with his teammates and friends, masked up together in the lobby. You tell him to tell the boys that you say hello, and he texts you each of their responses.

The first round goes well, the Flames only losing one game to the Jets. You know Matthew had been worried about going through all the rules and protocols just to be eliminated immediately, so you’re glad that that isn’t the case.

The series against the Stars starts out with an exciting back-and-forth, the teams trading off wins. Then the Stars win game 5, breaking the pattern. You’re not expecting the last game to actually be the last, convinced that the Flames would at least make it to a game seven. But the Stars pull a decisive 7-3 win, the Flames falling apart in the second period and unable to get themselves back together.

Matthew has called you as soon as he got back to his hotel room after every game, so you’re expecting your phone to ring some time in the next hour or two. You putter around the apartment a little, putting away some dishes and wiping down the kitchen counters. You’d been painting during the game, a commission from a friend of a friend of a friend. You return to that, losing yourself in the meticulous movements of your brush.

It feels like it’s been too long. You try to focus on the canvas in front of you, but there’s a nagging sense in the back of your mind that something is wrong. It sits heavy at the base of your skull as you try to ignore it.

Eventually, it becomes too much. You check your phone to make sure that you haven’t missed his call, but there are no notifications. It’s been a little over two hours. You unlock your phone and pull up his contact in a second, pressing the video icon. Typically, he’ll pick up after one or two rings, but you hear the third ring, the fourth. The call disconnects, shock shooting up your spine. It only lasts a second, your phone ringing with a voice call almost immediately.

“Hey sweet girl,” Matthew greets you in his typical fashion as soon as you accept the call. There’s something off about his voice, and it takes you a second to realize what it is.

“Hey there, darling,” you respond, voice as gentle as you can manage. It’s not the first time you’ve heard Matthew cry, but it breaks your heart every time. As much as he tries to seem tough and aloof, you know how deeply losses like this affect him. Now it makes sense that he didn’t want video involved.

“How are you?” he asks, clearly moving his face away from the receiver as he sniffles, but you can still hear it. You move to the couch, sinking into the cushions, as if you’re as crushed as he is.

“I’m okay,” you reply, “You holding up okay?” You know he’ll say that he’s fine, but you also know that he’s not. He may not be for a while. There’s a pause, a long stretch of silence, only interrupted by his deep, labored breaths.

“I wish you were here,” he says. He sounds absolutely miserable, his voice cracking in the middle of the sentence. The urge to hold him is overwhelming, your arms buzzing with the desire to wrap around him. You want to pull him down into your lap, let him tuck his head into the crook of your neck, let him cry on you as you scratch his scalp and kiss his head. Lockdown isn’t the only reason that can’t happen.

“I’m going to hug you so hard,” you insist, “As soon as I can see you again.”

July, 2023

While you’re still a third wheel with Brady and Emma, it’s better than being a fifth wheel with the entire group. You’d asked Taryn if she wanted to tag along, but she has training to do. Brady had already done his that morning, so he’s free for the rest of the day, and had invited you to spend some time together.

You’re certain that he doesn’t know how you feel about this place, how much it hurts to be here. As far as he’s aware, this is your favorite park, the one you visit with Matthew at least a few times a month every summer. He probably thinks it’s a great choice, something to cheer you up from the slump you know he’s noticed.

Despite the memories tugging at you from every direction, you’re mostly in a good mood. You’d gotten excellent news the day before yesterday, an opportunity you’ve dreamed of for a long time. You wanted to text Brady right after the meeting to tell him, but you’d decided it was better to share it with him and Emma in person. You’re debating something that absolutely doesn’t matter, all of you talking over each other. You’re waiting for the right moment to change the conversation. It doesn’t come until almost an hour into your walk, but you jump on it as soon as it does.

“I have some cool news,” you say, breaking the silent pause that had fallen over the group.

“Well?” Emma replies, “Go on.” The excitement is bubbling up inside of you again at the thought of it, your stomach turning, your chest too full.

“You know that gallery downtown that I love?” you ask, continuing after they agree, “I’m going to do a show there.” They stop in their tracks, Emma immediately enfolding you in her arms. You hug her back, squeezing tight as she bounces on her toes. When she pulls back, she holds your face in her hands, voice high and thrilled as she congratulates you. The smile on your face is unavoidable, happiness from the news mingling with the happiness of your friends being proud of you.

“Cool news, huh?” Brady asks, lightly smacking your shoulder as he says, “What an understatement.” The circle of his arms feels safe, his chest warm against your cheek as he holds you tight. The look on his face when he releases you is the best reaction you’ve gotten so far, his pride meaning more than anyone else’s.

“When is it?” he asks, taking Emma’s hand in his own once again and resuming the walk. You follow along, too excited to be self-conscious of the visible skip in your step.

“August 20th,” you say. There’s an unspoken question there, a silent invitation. You don’t want him to feel pressured to come, knowing that despite how supportive he is of your artistic endeavors, he’s not big on things like art shows. In the end, you don’t have to ask.

“You know we’re coming, right?” he asks, aiming a crooked smile at you, “You can’t stop us.” Though the smile hasn’t left your face since you brought up the topic, it gets brighter in return.

“I’d never dream of trying to,” you reply, and you mean it.

October, 2020

It’s odd to have the boys around at this time of year, the season usually taking them away at the end of August. You’re grateful for it, though. It means that you get to spend time with them, lockdown finally over, freeing you from the confines of your apartment. Your job has stayed remote, so you’re able to be around even more, saving time on what used to be an hour long commute each way.

Right now, it’s you and the boys, Emma, and Terri. You’d introduced her to them less than a month ago, but they already love her, just as you knew they would. She doesn’t always come around with you, considering how you spend nearly every day at the Tkachuks’, but she has some time today.

After twenty minutes of debating what you should watch, you all agree on a true crime documentary. You’ve given up your chair for Terri, squishing yourself onto the couch with Brady and Emma, pressing your cold feet against her leg and laughing when she yelps. She kicks you, only serving to make you laugh harder. Brady playfully threatens to fight you to defend his woman’s honor, and you put your fists up in front of you, jabbing out into the air as if you’re going to take him up on the offer. He chuckles, reaching out to fist bump you instead of punch. You drop your hands, looking past his big ass head.

Matthew is lounging in the second chair, the leg rest of the recliner up despite his legs being crossed under him. It’s the only way the chair will lean back, he’d told you once, and he doesn’t like sitting upright.

The smile on his face isn’t the wide grin you’d expected. It’s small, a gentle turn of the lips. Combined with the look he’s giving you– something unfocused, something unbearably soft– it implies an emotion that you know can’t be the correct interpretation. You swallow hard, turning your eyes back to Brady.

“Press play already, nerd,” you demand, tone playful enough to show that you don’t mean it. He sticks his tongue out at you, but does as he’s told.

Five minutes in, you glance over at Matthew, finding him already looking at you. You look away, slightly embarrassed to be caught. Another five minutes later, you can’t help but peek back at him again, as if your eyes are magnetized to him. It’s almost disappointing that he’s actually looking at the screen. It only takes a second for his eyes to move to the side, peering at you in his peripheral. The corner of his lips quirks up the tiniest bit, almost unnoticeable. But you notice.

You only make it maybe half an hour into the film before Matthew leans forward and snatches the remote from its place next to Brady. The plaintive sound Brady lets out is kind of funny, but you seem to think everything is funny today. Matthew pauses the show, declaring that the group needs snacks.

“Y/N, come give me a hand,” he says, beckoning you to follow him. You grumble a bit, but stand and follow him up the stairs and out of the den. He leads the way through the living room and into the kitchen. They’re fancy, so they have a walk-in pantry, of course. The two of you enter one after another. You start looking at the snack section, deciding what to grab. The good thing about being the one to retrieve the food is that you get to choose whatever you want and there’s nothing the others can say about it.

You’re rifling through the chips and pretzels when you feel a presence close behind you. It’s obviously Matthew, but he’s so close that you can feel the heat of his body radiating into your back. His left hand comes into your field of vision, pressing to the shelves next to your head. You twist your neck to look back at him, confused as to what he’s doing.

You’re not expecting the look he’s giving you. His eyes dark, completely focused in on your face. Your eyes flick from his eyes to his mouth without your permission. He’s not smiling, his lips parted just a fraction of an inch.

He rests his right hand on your shoulder, using it to turn your entire body around to face him. You can feel how dumbfounded your expression is as you stare up at him, your brow furrowed, your mouth slightly agape. He returns the gesture of looking at your mouth, his tongue quickly flicking out to wet his lips. He looks like he’s about to eat you alive. You would let him.

There’s a long, unbearable stretch of silence as the two of you just stare at each other, faces only a scant few inches apart. If this were anyone else, you would know exactly what’s going on, exactly what they want. But this is Matthew, your insanely wonderful, insanely hot, insanely out of your league friend. There’s no chance that he’s about to do what it feels like he is. No matter how many times you steal glances at each other, how closely he holds you, how many times he allows himself to be vulnerable with you, there’s no chance he’d ever want you. And just as you tell yourself that, he speaks.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his breath brushing across your lips from the proximity. Your eyes go wide, your mouth falling open wider in shock. You’ve spent the last two years valiantly suppressing any type of attraction you have to him, trying to respect his station as your best friend’s brother. And now, in just four words, he’s let it all loose. It floods you inside, so overwhelming, so much to take all at once that it triggers a full system reset. You swear your heart stops, your mouth opening and closing as you struggle to tear the words from your lagging brain.

The words won’t come. The look on Matthew’s face is changing, something embarrassed, something guilty. He moves back an inch and you reach out, unwilling to let him go. You cup his face in your hands, pulling him in to press your lips together.

It’s lingering, almost chaste, and entirely sensational. Your lips are tingling, sparks shooting down your spine. Your chest feels cracked open, your innards exposed for his inspection, your true self exposed for his judgment.

When you pull back and open your eyes, his are still closed. He looks like he’s in heaven, like he’s trying to imprint this moment in his mind the same way that you are. After a moment, his eyelids slide up and he looks at you again. His eyes are hazy, unfocused, his blown pupils leaving only a thin ring of blue around the edge of his iris.

“Again,” he says, breathless, “Please.”

Who are you to deny him?

The second kiss is as good as the first, your breath abandoning your body to pant out against his lips. You meet again, his tongue flicking out for half a second to touch your top lip. It makes you breath hitch, makes you kiss him again, makes you gently bite his full bottom lip. The sound he lets out is barely audible, but it only feeds the fire inside of you, an inferno that blazes up from your hips to your throat. You cradle his face in your hands, hold just strong enough to move his head how you want, to slot your mouths together perfectly each time.

“Hurry up, asshole!”

Brady’s shout violently snaps you out of your haze. You jerk backward, trying to step away, but already pressed against the shelves. Matthew doesn’t seem as put off as you, smiling as if nothing happened. You relinquish your hold on his face, dropping your hands to your sides. His hands had wandered as you kissed, one on your waist, the other on the back of your neck. He squeezes once at the base of your skull, dipping in to give you one last quick kiss.

After frantically grabbing random snacks, you return to the den. You can feel how hot your face is, and you can only hope that it’s not too obvious how flustered you are. You and Matthew deposit the snacks on the coffee table, everyone immediately selecting one. You curl back up in your chair, legs pulled up to your chest as you lay sideways, head on the armrest.

Every time your eyes drift to Matthew for the rest of the evening, he’s looking back.

January, 2021

Just as the day the boys come home is the best day of the year, the day they leave for the season is the worst. Sometimes you wish you were Emma, that you could follow them back and forth and never be without them. But St. Louis is your home, is where you have a job and friends and more recently, family.

You’d helped both boys pack for the past few days, but you won’t be able to go along to drop them off at the airport. When Matthew had left for the playoffs, Emma had offered you her spot in the car. You’d told her that she didn’t have to, but she’d assured you she wanted it that way. She has to go along this time, so the car is already overpacked. Besides, you have to work that morning anyway.

You still show up at the Tkachuks’ beforehand, so early that the sun hasn’t made an appearance yet. Matthew had forgotten to pack his favorite sweater, of course. You fish it out from where it had fallen under his bed, straightening up to hold it out to him. He thanks you, deciding to wear it for the flight instead of shoving it into one of his bags. It looks good on him. Cozy.

Brady and Emma are double checking their room as well, one door down from you. Keith, Chantal, and Taryn are down in the living room, waiting as patiently as they’re capable of, which isn’t very much.

Being alone with Matthew used to be exciting, used to make your heart change its rhythm, used to start up a buzz under your skin. Now, it’s just… comfortable. Safe. Right.

When Matthew approaches you, crowding up into your space, you know exactly what he wants. The first time you’d kissed should have been the last. You’re too drawn to him, feel too much toward him, more than you should. More than he will ever return. The two of you haven’t discussed exactly what you’re doing here, but it’s clearly meant to be casual. Matthew isn’t typically the kind to shy away from voicing what he wants, and he hasn’t spoken up to define anything.

Is that what you want? You’re not sure. Making out like teenagers for months has been nice, has satisfied a part of you. But only a part.

You’re avoiding thinking about what you want, too afraid of what you’ll find. Some part of you, buried deep inside, hidden behind a recently built wall, already knows. If you allow yourself to acknowledge it, this will end badly. If you allow yourself to want, you’ll destroy yourself in the process.

The kisses he lays on your lips stay sweet, gentle presses, just a tease of tongue here and there. His arms are wrapped around you, resting on your shoulders, while your hands rest on his hips. You haven’t progressed past kissing, and you’re not sure if he wants anything beyond this. You’ll take what you can get.

Keith calls up the stairs for you to hurry up, lest the boys miss their flights. Matthew leaves one last peck on your lips, just as he always does before you part. You glance around his room a final time, making sure everything is packed. You help him bring his bags downstairs, help him and Emma get their things outside and into the car. You’ll have to go home as soon as they depart, and you’re actually a little grateful that you have work to distract you from the first hours of missing them.

As per usual, Emma is the first to hug you. You squeeze tight so that you can lift her off of her feet for a second, just to make her laugh. Brady grabs you next, as if both of them know that Matthew wants to be last. Brady wiggles you side to side, planting a kiss on the top of your head. You headbutt his shoulder, then kiss the same spot you’d hit. He says how much he’ll miss you, something he always reiterates for a few days before he leaves. You return the sentiment honestly, earnestly. When he pulls back, you punch his chest lightly, and he returns the gesture.

Matthew steps up and opens his arms, and you step into them easily. He doesn’t squeeze too hard, just holds you close, hand cupping the back of your neck, calming your anxiety and dulling the sharp edge of your pain.

“Gonna miss you so much, sweet girl,” he whispers into your hair, just loud enough for you to hear. You try to swallow the lump that has suddenly formed in your throat.

“Miss you already,” you reply, a little uneven, a little raw, “Can’t wait to see you again.” He places a kiss on your head as Brady had, but his lips linger, hesitant to let go. But he does let go.

They all wave as they drive off, Brady, Emma, Matthew, and Taryn all crammed into the back seat. You wave back, watching the car go, staring down the street even after the car turns and disappears.

Time to work, you suppose.

July, 2023

Art has never frustrated you so much in your life.

When you were young, the struggle and annoyance came from trying to get things just right, though they were above your skill level. As a teenager, it was due to the struggle of developing your own unique style. In college, it was not having the energy to paint most days, falling asleep at the easel others.

For the past month, the art has been flowing. You’ve been painting most every day, the ideas coming easily, creating almost a compulsion that you can’t resist. It’s only satisfied when the painting is complete. There are a couple dozen or so canvases scattered around your apartment to dry, the most you’ve ever produced in a single month. But the frustration– the frustration comes from the fact that all of your ideas are about him. All of your paintings are moments with him, things he’d said, how you’d felt, how you’d hoped he felt.

There’s a feeling inside of you, as if you’re right on the edge of catharsis, as if you paint just one more thing, you’ll be able to let it all go. That’s your motivation for everything you’ve been making, just desperately searching for the release that will save you from the pain. At this point, you’re not sure it will ever come.

You’re working on a bigger canvas, the biggest you’ve used in years. You’re glad your current job allowed you to move into a bigger apartment, because you surely wouldn’t have been able to fit something like this in your old shoebox, packed so full of your things that you’d barely had space for an 11x14. You have to stand to reach the upper portion, swiping a brighter red over the dark red base. You don’t want it to be about him. It is anyway.

The show at the gallery is rapidly approaching, only a month away. You’ve been working with the curator to decide which pieces to use, filing through years of work. So far, everything that she’s found compelling has been about him. Things you’ve made recently, things you made years ago when things were still good. One day, you’ll get over this. But not today. Today still just hurts.

June, 2021

With neither of the boys making the playoffs, they’d come home earlier than usual this year. Sadly, Brady is pretty used to it by now, usually coming home around this time anyway. You’re used to getting a few weeks with Brady and Emma before Matthew comes home, but you don’t have that this year.

While Brady sulks for about two days when he gets home, Matthew is far more upset. The Flames had made the playoffs for the last couple years, and he was getting used to being a contender. So not even getting a chance at it this year clearly stung. He moped around for a week or two, face tight and arms crossed over his chest most of the time. The only time he let his arms down, let his guard down, is when the two of you were alone.

You’d comforted him through the couple weeks of upset, even staying the night a few times. It wasn’t intentional, you’d just stayed so late that you fell asleep, and Matthew didn’t have the heart to wake you. You have to get up early to get home for work, so you’d snuck your way out of the house before anyone else had woken. You’re not sure how Keith and Chantal would have felt about you staying the night in Matthew’s bed, but you know what they would have thought was going on, and you didn’t want to put yourself or Matthew in that position.

Once he’d relaxed, taken a deep breath and accepted defeat, he went back to being his regular happy, seemingly aloof self. You’re grateful for it, not a fan of seeing him upset and always wanting to help him through and cheer him up.

June had come kindly, bringing along more sun and nicer weather. You and Matthew had resumed your walks in the park, and the whole group of you spend about as much time outside as you do in the den. Things with Matthew had picked up where they left off in January, him pulling you into a secluded area any time he could get you alone, kissing you senseless. You’d missed the feeling of his lips, of his body pressed to yours.

Tonight is one of the more rare nights where Matthew comes to your apartment, instead of you going to his parents’ house. You’ve offered to make dinner and follow it up with movies. You’re already on the couch, your dirty dishes abandoned on the coffee table. You’re laying on your side, Matthew spooned up against your back, your knees hanging off of the couch with the way they’re bent to accommodate Matthew’s too-long legs. You’re warm and comfortable, enjoying the feeling of safety that he brings, something you’ve very rarely felt in your life before.

The movie is good, but you’ve found that being in Matthew’s arms makes you sleepy, so you’re having a hard time focusing. You manage to mostly follow it, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn when the credits start to roll.

You feel Matthew place a kiss on the back of your neck without comment. Then he’s moving you, rearranging your bodies carefully until you’re on your back, Matthew staring down at you from his position straddling your thigh. The way he’s looking at you is intense, somehow simultaneously fond and hungry. It wakes you up almost instantly, and you reach out to rest your hands on his thighs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly, reverently. It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it feels different now. Maybe it’s the position you’re in, maybe the way he’s looking down at you as if he wants you, as if he–

He takes your hands in his own, bending down as he brings them up to cradle his cheeks. You run your thumbs across his high cheekbones, tilt his head up a little by the jaw as his eyes slide shut. You press your fingers into the soft spot behind his jaw, under his ears, pull him down, down, down.

Kissing him feels as easy as breathing. Guiding his head this way and that to get a better angle, pressing your lips together over and over, longer each time, deeper. Matthew has one hand on the arm of the couch to hold himself up, the other wrapped loosely around your wrist. He’s not trying to move you or take control, just holding on as if he needs something to ground him. You press your thumbs into the hollows of his cheeks, feeling the solid wall of his teeth under the skin. His mouth drops open and he lets out a soft sound. You press your thumbs in harder, between the new gap between his upper and lower teeth, testing how far you can push from the outside.

He squeezes your wrist once and you release the pressure. His mouth stays open, lips wet and shining. He opens his eyes halfway, as if his eyelids are too heavy to get all the way up, eyes hazy and unfocused.

Again, he squeezes your wrist. He’s suddenly standing, using his grip to guide you up as well. He immediately crowds up against you, as if being more than an inch away will kill him. His eyes have managed to refocus, but there’s still a dreamy look in them.

He takes a step backward, using the hand that had instinctively gone to the back of your neck to bring you with him. He kisses you, lingering. He takes another step back, gives you another kiss. He rounds the end of the couch and you realize where he’s leading you, kind of impressed that he can find his way to the bedroom without even looking.

Of course, your heart is a frantic mouse scurrying around your chest, thumping hard like you’re a prey animal facing down a predator. But as much as it freaks out in the cage of your chest, there’s no panic in your head. Being with Matthew calms your mind, keeps your hands from trembling, feels so right that you can’t find a reason for the anxiety that used to plague you around him.

He stops you halfway between the door and the bed, pulling back a couple inches to stare down at you. You’re hesitant to put a name to the look on his face, not sure if reverent is being dramatic.

You flatten your palms against the front of his shoulders, shoving him gently, bullying him toward the bed. He allows it for a moment, but stops after a few steps. He takes your hands in his own, brings them to his mouth to kiss your knuckles. You try to swallow down the desire that grows inside of you, threatening to spill out. He holds your hands close to his face, enough that you can feel his lips move when he speaks.

“You don’t have to be in control, sweet girl,” he says, lays another kiss on the bump of your right middle finger, looks deep into your eyes with such adoration you feel ready to split at the seams.

“Let me take care of you,” he says. The part of you that’s spent your entire life with a fist clenched desperately around any sense of control that it could find, for the first time, relinquishes its hold. And Matthew does, indeed, take care of you.

February, 2022

It’s your first time in Vegas, and the atmosphere is electric. There are hockey fans everywhere, plenty of people wearing jerseys as they explore the strip. Everything is so big, so bright, so fancy. As exciting as it is to be here, it makes you feel a little off, a little like you don’t belong. It reminds you of the first time you’d been to the Tkachuks’ house, amazed at how different everything is from the way you grew up.

Each player was supposed to be allotted two tickets, but they had allowed Brady to take additional tickets for his family, considering Matthew is his brother, in addition to how well-known and beloved Keith is. He’d managed to get Emma included as well, luckily.

You weren’t sure how he did it, but Brady had gotten another player to give one of his tickets so that you could come. Apparently the guy’s family couldn’t make the trip, and he only had one friend that he really wanted to bring. He won’t tell you who it was, but the way that Timo Meier winks at you as he passes the stands gives you an idea. You weren’t aware that the two talked, but there’s always the possibility that he had just gone around and asked everyone. The idea makes something bloom in your chest, as if you could love Brady more than you already do. You’ll have to find a way to thank Timo some time.

The skills competitions are fun, though Brady doesn’t win anything. It’s nice to see the players relaxing and having fun, a well-deserved break from the stress of the season.

You all go out to an early meal before the games the next day. You don’t realize until you arrive that Jack Hughes and his family were joining you, and you trip over your own feet when you see them waiting for you. You’re a huge fan of Jack’s, but more than that, Ellen Weinberg-Hughes is an icon. You stumble with your words when you greet her, shaking her hand and screaming silently in your head. With how the boys are looking at you as you do so, they obviously anticipated your reaction and are incredibly satisfied with themselves.

For the meal, you’re sat between Matthew and Jack. You’re grateful that Matthew is next to you, needing his calming presence as you meet some of your favorite players. The families are friendly with each other, the parents catching up on the news of each others’ lives, the children doing the same in separate conversations.

You spend most of the dinner talking to Jack, Quinn, and Matthew. They tell you all sorts of things, including embarrassing stories about Matthew that you weren’t privy to. You grin at Matthew every time they share one, absolutely intending to tease him about it later. This seems to be what the Hughes boys want, eager to give you more ammunition. Matthew buries his face in his hands at one particularly humiliating story, even as he shakes gently with quiet laughter. When he emerges and sits back up, you take a chance, placing your hand on his thigh. You squeeze once, trying to reassure him. He does his best to not react, but he also rests his hand on top of yours under the table.

“So you’re a painter, right?” Quinn asks at one point, curiosity evident in his perpetually sleepy eyes.

“Yeah,” you confirm, asking “How did you know?” You’d told them about your official job, but you hadn’t mentioned being a traditional artist in addition to a graphic designer. Jack turns a smug smile on you.

“Matthew talks about you a lot,” he says, pleased with himself. You look to Matthew just in time to see his face flush.

“Shut up,” he says to Jack, which only makes him smile wider. Jack’s attitude rubs off on you a little, and you give Matthew a delighted smile.

“How much is a lot?” you ask Jack, feeling Matthew dig his fingertips into your knuckles.

“Like, a lot,” Jack replies, Quinn nodding from his other side. You look back to Matthew, who looks like he wants to crawl under the table and hide.

“I talk about him a lot, too,” you say. That makes Matthew look at you again, bright eyes nearly sparkling in the restaurant’s dim lighting. His expression shifts, a small, grateful smile scrunching his eyes up the slightest bit.

After dinner, you all make your way to the arena. Brady and Jack left a while before the rest of you, needing to arrive in time to get dressed and likely do some more media. Before he’d left, Jack had requested your phone, creating a contact for himself and inputting his number. As he dud, you turned your face away, toward Matthew, opening your mouth wide as if you’re screaming. He looked amused at it, but there’s a sharp edge there. Quinn took the phone next, doing the same thing. You squeezed Matthew’s thigh again, and his expression softened. You’ve been following the Hughes brothers since they were in Juniors, and having them like you enough to want to keep in touch– you can only describe the feeling as elation.

The lines are out the door at the arena, and a few people catch the boys to request photos before you can get to the special entrance for players’ guests. They’re all very kind and courteous about it, taking a few pictures with people, finding a way to move through the crowd even as they do so. You probably should have come a different way, or maybe gotten there earlier, but as long as the boys don’t mind, you don’t either.

The seats are good, the second row of the first balcony. It seems to be the section that they put all of the family and friends, people milling around and chatting with each other. You spot Johnny’s parents a couple rows away, the only people around that you’ve met before. You wave to them and they return the gesture. They make their way down to your seats, greeting each of you in turn. They start chatting with Keith and Chantal, so you continue talking to Taryn and Emma.

The games are great, surprisingly fast. The Atlantic division plays a great game again Central, despite losing by 3. You still can’t help being proud of Brady. You’ve been next to him since his first season, and you’ve loved getting to watch him grow and improve. As long as he’s in the world, you’re going to be proud of him.

The final is awesome too, and you jump up to cheer when Jack scores in the first. When the Metropolitan wins, you high-five Taryn, glad that Jack could win when Brady couldn’t. Not a bad consolation prize.

The group hangs around for a while after, and you get to meet a bunch of new people. Everyone is so nice, making you feel welcome, feel like you belong. When you finally start up the stairs to leave, Johnny’s mom Jane stops you for a second. She pinches your jersey and gives you a sly smile.

“Just a family friend?” she asks, not a question but a suggestion. A few years back, Matthew had given you one of his jerseys to wear to a game, and you’ve worn it tonight, despite him not playing. You realize now how it could be interpreted, ducking your head for a second to smile at the floor, before looking back up to Jane.

“Just a family friend,” you say, firm and definitive. She holds your gaze for a moment, looks behind her at Matthew, who’s waiting patiently a few steps up. He’s looking at you, that soft look he gives you sometimes. After a second, he smiles brightly at Jane. She waves and turns back to you.

“We’ll see,” she says. She pats your shoulder twice before making her own way up the stairs with Guy. Once you process the statement, you shake your head and make your way up to Matthew.

“What was that?” he asks as you enter the corridor. There’s no way you can tell him the truth, and honestly, you’re not sure what the fuck that was either. You just shrug at him, continuing your way out of the arena.

The comment sticks with you, no matter how you try to brush it off. Johnny is Matthew’s best friend, and you’ve met Jane a few times before. If it had been a stranger, you would’ve dismissed it outright. But to hear it from someone who actually knows the two of you? That’s harder to let go.

July, 2023

Laurel, the curator for the gallery hosting your show, is a lovely woman. She’s also very, very good at her job. You’ve been to countless shows at this gallery, and they’re always perfectly compiled, excellently arranged. You’ve brought her your most recent paintings today, which makes you glad that you have a car, because hauling them through the city would be a nightmare.

The only problem you have with Laurel is that she seems to see straight through you. You’re not used to someone looking past the professional figure you present, let alone someone seeing every part of you that you put into your art.

She’s staring at your offerings, examining every last detail. She’s already chosen about half of the pieces that will be displayed, creating a theme with your relatively impressionist style. She moves one canvas to the side, away from the others. She takes an extra few minutes to consider one of them, the largest one. It just finished drying yesterday. Having to see it every day as you passed it in the living room has been torture.

“Everything except that one,” she says, gesturing to the one she’d set aside. If she wants all of these, that’s likely going to be everything for the show. With everything else she’s chosen, this is all they have the wall space for, considering the way that you’ve seen Laurel arrange the art in previous shows you’d attended.

“That one is the centerpiece,” she adds, hand against her cheek as she continues staring at the large canvas. You swallow hard. Of course. Of course every painting she likes is about him. Of course the centerpiece will be him. No matter what you do, you’ll never escape him.

She asks a bit about your inspiration and motivation for the piece, and you give her vague answers that sound more philosophical than the real thing. The two of you discuss some of the minutiae of the show, trying to get everything finalized ahead of time. There’s less than a month left, and your excitement is starting to pair itself with dread.

When you get home, you go straight to your bedroom and throw yourself face first onto your mattress. You bury your face in a pillow, finally letting out the scream that’s been stuck in your throat since you learned of Tessa’s existence. It helps.

You make and have dinner, barely aware of what you’re eating. At least you can eat without getting nauseous now. You don’t feel like watching TV, probably wouldn’t be able to pay attention to a real show right now. Instead, you sit on your bed, leaning back against the headboard. You scroll social media mindlessly for a while, the ghost of Matthew next to you, his invisible arm pressed against yours.

February, 2022

Despite your better judgment, the first time you and Matthew had slept together wasn’t the last, either. It had continued through last summer, then again when he’d come to play the Blues. Now you’re in Calgary, in Matthew’s apartment for the first time, in his bed again.

A lot of people idolize the first time they sleep with someone, comparing every subsequent time to the first and often coming out disappointed. You had no reason to do so, because the sex only got better over time. As you and Matthew learned each other’s bodies, figured out what got the best reactions, the sex kept improving. Even if you wanted to fall back on your morals and resist him out of respect for Brady, you know you couldn’t stay away for long. It’s irresistible.

And it’s not just the sex. It’s the way he holds you after, lays on his back so that you can rest your head on his chest. It’s the way his breath ruffles your hair as you fall asleep together. It’s the things he says to you.

It’s the nights like this.

You’re in Matthew’s bedroom, the dark dead of night offering only the moon to light the room. Your head is on Matthew’s chest, his arm around you to keep you close, as if you would ever willingly leave. Your breathing had returned to normal a while ago, your body cooling off and beginning to recover from the rush of feeling. Matthew kisses the top of your head every so often, and you return the sentiment by tilting your head to lay kisses against his sternum.

“I wish I could keep you here forever,” he says, so hushed that you almost miss it. He’s always so quiet when he talks like this, as if he’s afraid to say it. He says these kinds of things anyway, but never above a whisper, not willing to share the vulnerability with anyone but you. Again, you press your lips into his skin.

“I wish I could stay here forever,” you reply. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To stay here, with him. No need to be quiet so as not to wake his family, no having to sneak out in the morning, no work to keep you away. Just laying here, together.

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he says. There’s desire in his voice, of course, but also earnesty, like he really means it. Part of you would like to believe that he does, but another part knows how important it is to not get caught up in the fantasy. It’s easier said than done.

“Not any of the other girls you’ve had?” you ask. You’d meant for it to come out teasing, but your honest curiosity wins out. Then there’s a hand on your chin, fingers gently guiding your head up until you’re looking Matthew in the eye. It’s not exactly comfortable to crane your neck like this, so you prop yourself up on one forearm, resting the other hand where your head had been as you stare down at him.

“Never,” he replies, insistent. He looks so serious, sounds so sincere. You don’t say anything, can’t think of anything. There’s something in the wide roundness of his eyes that speaks to you, pulls you in, encourages you to search deeper. It takes a second to figure out what it is that’s hiding in there, but… it’s fear.

“I never want this with anyone else,” he says, tangling his fingers with yours over his racing heart. There’s a question you want to ask, something you’ve been wanting to ask for a while, but the fear in him has mirrored itself within you. You should just shut up, keep it to yourself. The words come out before you can convince yourself to stay quiet.

“What is this?” you ask. You’re not sure what answer you’re expecting, but you know which one you’re hoping for. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and for the first time, you don’t divert your gaze to admire the sheen of them, unable to look away from his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says, pauses, presses your entwined hands harder to his chest, “But I never want to give it up.”

May, 2022

Again, Matthew is the second to come home. Brady returned almost a month before in April, the Senators not in the playoffs, as usual. You feel bad sometimes, because Brady is genuinely a great player, but his team has just struggled to gel together. Even through all of their trials, Brady insists on keeping hope. He loves his teammates, and that’s what really matters to him.

Matthew, on the other hand, isn’t so great at dealing with failure. The Flames make it to the second round, which is an achievement all on its own. But after winning Game 1, they’d lost four in a row and been knocked out. It feels to Matthew almost like they got swept, he explains over the phone after the final loss.

When he gets home, he once again spends a week sulking. You mimic what you’d done last year, though staying the night is intentional this time. So long as you sneak out before anyone wakes up, you’ll be fine.

On the eighth day, you tell Matthew for the hundredth time how proud of him you are. He shoots you a bittersweet smile and says that he’s proud of himself too, and you know he’s bouncing back. It doesn’t help that he’s been debating for months whether to re-sign with the Flames, an agonizing choice for him. He loves his boys, but he’s not sure he belongs there anymore. You’ve assured him that you’ll support him no matter what decision he makes. Johnny hits free agency next month, and if he moves, you’re not sure that Matthew will have the motivation to stay.

The next couple of weeks go by the same way that they always do, with you spending as much time with the Tkachuks as possible. At least, you think you’re doing a good job of acting like everything is the same as years past. No one knows about you and Matthew, and it seems like he wants to keep it that way. You like having this little secret life with him, getting to have him all to yourself. You’re okay with the way it is, you convince yourself.

June came quickly, having begun only four days after he’d returned. The weather improves, you and Matthew once again resume your walks in the park. You play yard games and watch trash TV with Brady and Emma. You help Chantal cook dinners, help Keith clean up afterward. Everything is back to the summer standard.

The day had been nice, sunny and warm. The light had turned the leaves of the trees golden during your walk this afternoon. The sun is long gone now. Nighttime has become your favorite part of the day, the only time you get to indulge in whatever it is that you and Matthew have. The only time you get to touch his skin, to hear the low sounds he can’t help but make, to feel his warmth against you, inside you.

It’s been some time since you’d finished, but you can’t quite fall asleep. Matthew is spooned up against your back, face buried in the nape of your neck. You’re not sure if he’s asleep or not, too distracted to bother trying to figure it out. You’ve been thinking about it since your visit to Calgary. Any time Matthew called, or texted, or even crossed your mind, you thought of it. It made your heart leap into your throat, your breath catching as you choked on it.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing together, what you are. He didn’t give the response you’d been hoping for, but he didn’t outright deny it either. Sometimes you think it would have been better if he had, if he’d said that it was just sex. Then you could start working on moving on. You wouldn’t have to lie awake at night, wondering.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his groggy voice making you startle and snapping you out of your head. You take a deep breath, debating yourself for a couple seconds before you decide.

“Nothing,” you reply, patting his forearm where it’s snaked around your waist, “Go back to sleep.” He takes a quick, deep breath, the air rushing out over your skin. You’re helpless to resist when he starts moving you. If you did put up a fight, push back against his hands, you know he would stop. But you’re tired.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again once you’re flipped to face him. He looks tired too, the exhaustion of the season still lingering. The moonlight paints his face in silver. It makes his skin shine, almost glowing in the darkness.

“I’m afraid,” you say. You wish he hadn’t turned you around. It would be easier to speak it into the wall than it is to say to his face. You say it anyway, watching his brow furrow, admiring the way the silver light adds contrast to the wrinkles the expression creates.

“Of what?” he asks. You could make something up. Telling him that you’re afraid of monsters under the bed would be less embarrassing. You’ve never been very good at lying to him.

“The day you move on,” you whisper, invisible pressure on your throat making the words come out tight and unsteady. The surprise on his face surprises you in return. He’d refused to put words or labels to whatever this is, of course you would think that he’s going to leave eventually. You’d have to be an idiot to think that he means it when he says forever.

“I won’t,” he says, resolute. You can only manage a half-smile for him.

“You’re not the first man to say that,” you reply. He reaches up and cradles your cheek in his wide palm, warmth seeping into your skin.

“But I’m the first one to mean it,” he says. You close your eyes. They begin to prickle at the corners, but you refuse to cry about any of this. He’s so adamant, so steadfast in his insistence. You try to remind yourself of what this isn’t, what it will never be, but you’ve never trusted someone the way you trust him, and you can’t help believing him anyway.

August, 2023

You hadn’t anticipated this happening, let alone how hard it would be, but finally, finally it’s a little bit easier.

You’re not over Matthew, not by a long shot. It’s going to take months, years. It may never happen, who knows? As long as you can cope with it, can keep your friends around, that’s all that matters.

The first half of the day was spent with both boys and their girls. You didn’t have to curl up so tightly on your chair, didn’t have to force words out so they didn’t think anything was wrong. Conversation was relatively easy, topics changing and flowing naturally. You’d smiled, laughed, and a couple of times you actually meant it.

Matthew had apparently planned a date for Tessa and himself, so they excuse themselves in the late afternoon. Brady, Emma, and you stick around the den for a bit, continuing to talk. Eventually, Emma stands, stretching dramatically.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggests. You’ve spent too much time lately sitting at an easel or curled up in bed, and a walk sounds like a great idea.

You expect it this time when Brady takes the three of you to the same park. It’s easier when you’re not blindsided by it, and you have the lovely memory of the last time you were here with the two to focus on, instead of Matthew. You walk for a while, music playing softly from Emma’s phone, tucked in her back pocket. Once you’re deep into the wooded area of the park, she stops dead in her tracks. You follow suit, spinning around to shoot her an inquisitive look. She takes the two steps forward to close the space between you two, grabbing you by the shoulders and walking you backward. You stumble, trying to look behind yourself to keep from falling. She pushes until the backs of your knees hit a bench on the side of the pathway and you fall onto it. You gape up at her, befuddled by the behavior and the way her arms are crossed over her chest.

“What’s going on,” she demands, not a question. You furrow your brow, at a loss for words. You know what she’s talking about, and you know that she knows that you know. But why would she wait until the day that it starts to fade, the day that you can finally think of something else, to ask you about it?

“C’mon, Y/N,” Brady says, plopping down on the bench next to you, “We know something’s wrong.” You had accepted the possibility of this back in June, but you weren’t expecting it to take almost three months for it to happen.

Your first instinct is that you absolutely can’t tell them. You’ve been keeping this secret for years, and if Matthew has his way, you’ll keep it forever. If Matthew gets his way, you repeat in your head. That’s it, isn’t it? All this time, you’ve been so focused on what Matthew wants that you ignored your own wanting. What do you want?

You want to tell someone, to finally have this horrid pain out in the open instead of keeping it caged up around your heart. You want your best friend and his wife to hug you. You want them to understand.

“Matthew,” the name tumbles out, and you don’t want to stop it. Brady and Emma are still looking at you, waiting for anything you want to tell them. God, Brady is your goddamn best friend and you’d convinced yourself that you couldn’t tell him something? That there was anything on this earth that he would shun you for?

It all comes spilling out in a rush. Everything from the first time you’d met him. Hell, some information that isn’t strictly necessary, but they don’t interrupt you or complain, so you venture on. It takes long enough to recount that Emma sits on the metal armrest of the bench. Brady’s holding one of your hands in his lap, Emma taking the other to do the same.

You’d promised yourself more than once that you wouldn’t cry about this, but you don’t really care enough to stop yourself now. The tears come two-thirds of the way through, falling silently as you recount some of the things Matthew had told you, the things he’d promised you. You’re not outright sobbing, so you manage to power through the rest of the story. Your eyes are squeezed tightly shut by the end, like closing them will block out the memories.

It takes a couple of minutes for the tears to stop. The three of you let the silence hang as you wait for it, nothing but the leaves rustling in the trees, something scurrying in the bushes. When you can safely open your eyes to face the world again, you look over to Brady. He looks devastated.

You watch his evolving emotions morph the expression on his face, from heartbreak to anger and back again. The anger makes your heart skip a beat, suddenly afraid that maybe the whole “I slept with your brother” thing will be a problem after all.

“Do you want me to kick his ass?” he asks, startling a laugh out of you. You know he’s dead serious, too. Part of you thinks it might be cathartic to see Matthew get beat up by his little brother, but your soft heart doesn’t want anything bad to happen to him. After everything he’s done to you, you still don’t want him to have to feel even a fraction of the pain you do.

February, 2023

This year, the boys don’t have to bribe anyone else to get you to the All Star Game. Each of them is allotted two tickets as per usual, but Taryn is too busy with school to come. She’d aimed a satisfied smirk at Matthew through the camera of her phone, saying guess you’ll have to take that one along as her eyes darted slightly to the left, clearly looking at where you were on the screen.

Since your work is remote, you’ve brought along your laptop. You spend the morning of the skills competition working, still averse to using your PTO if it’s not completely necessary. The boys have to do media, so there’s no one around to bother or distract you. You kind of wish there were.

The special skills competitions are as fun this year as they were last. You especially love Sidney Crosby in the dunk tank, seemingly having the time of his life. You may not know him personally, only having met him once in passing, but after everything he’s been through, you think he deserves some carefree fun.

The sun has set by time you emerge from the arena after the regular skills competitions. The days are shorter at this time of year, even in Florida. It is warmer than St. Louis, though, which you’re grateful for.

Jack is in the competition again this year, so you meet up with the Weinberg-Hugheses again that night. You’ve gotten much closer with Jack and Quinn over the past year, building relationships on texts and calls and dinners when they play the Blues. Luke has tagged along this time, and you get on with him just as well as his brothers.

Matthew shoots Jack a look when he slings an arm around you on the way back to your hotels after dinner, but Jack just grins at him. You’re still not sure what that’s all about, but you’re just going to stay out of it.

The games the next day are fantastic. You’ve never gotten to watch both of your boys win at once, and you love it. When the Atlantic wins the whole thing, you cheer so loudly your voice cracks. Emma laughs at you, but you just laugh along with her.

You stick around for a bit after the game again, Keith and Chantal mingling while Emma shows you the decorations she’s planning for the wedding on her phone. After a while, someone taps you on the shoulder from behind. You turn your head, immediately recognizing Jane. Johnny had made it again this year with his new team, so it would make sense that she’s here too. You stand, reaching up to hug her in her elevated position.

“Matthew got you a new jersey?” she asks, referencing the All-Star jersey you’ve got on. You wish you could say that you bought it for yourself, but it had indeed been a gift from Matthew. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, so you act like it’s not, even though it is.

“Yeah, he’s a great friend,” you reply, shrugging, “He likes to take care of me.” The thing about Jane is that she’s not really a jerk. Sometimes the you-and-Matthew comments bother you, but she’s generally a very sweet woman.

“It’s good to have someone like that,” she says, smiling gently at you, “Matthew is a good boy.” Jane had been at enough Flames games for you to know her, and definitely enough for Matthew to become a pseudo-son to her. They don’t interact much anymore, save for when she pops up in the back of Johnny’s facetimes, but you know she still has a soft spot for him. You don’t blame her.

“He really is,” you agree, nodding. The two of you make some small talk, and you get some updates on Johnny’s new life on the Blue Jackets. You give her some updates on Matthew in return. After a bit, Guy shuffles up next to Jane, telling her that it’s time to go. She acknowledges him quickly, turning back to take one of your hands in her own.

“I know he takes care of you,” she says, patting the back of your hand with her second, “But you take care of that boy, too. Okay?” You just nod, smiling and bidding her goodbye. Her and Guy retreat up the steps and out of view. You’re not sure why she feels the need to say these things to you, and you’re not sure why you take them to heart.

You meet Matthew and Brady outside the player entrance, the boys immediately scooping up you and Emma, respectively. Matthew sweeps you off of your feet for a moment, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Once you’re free, you start to dip forward, realizing what you’re doing at the last second and changing track to make sure the kiss lands on his cheek.

He beams at you, and you’re absolutely certain that you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to make him smile.

April, 2023

The day Brady comes home is the best day of the year, you remind yourself for the thousandth time. You’re excited to see him, you are. The way your chest has felt rent open for days isn’t his fault in any way. You’re not going to make him pay for being the messenger.

Once you all get the couple home, you go upstairs with Brady and Emma to help them unpack. They don’t really need help, obviously, but it’s an excuse to spend time together. Brady talks a little about the season, but mostly focuses on his plans for the summer. He talks about wanting to go see G, maybe even take a trip out to visit Tim.

For the most part, you just fold clothes and listen. Eventually, they switch to the topic of the wedding, Emma showing you even more pictures. She’d asked you to be a bridesmaid forever ago, so you’ve already seen most of it, had even helped her pick half of it out, but you’re never going to squash her excitement.

Exhausted from their travel, the two make their way down to the den after everything is put away, collapsing onto the couch. You curl up in your chair, allowing the couple to choose what you watch. They pick something or another, nothing that you can pay attention to right now. Instead, you find yourself examining Brady, picking apart his features, finding all the things he shares with Matthew.

It’s the best day of the year, you remind yourself again. The light of the TV highlights Brady’s jawbone and your skin crawls.

August, 2023

The show is going exceptionally well, exceeding your expectations. The space is filled with strangers, friends, and even your brother and his family. There are critics and collectors, some that you’ve seen at other people’s shows, some that you don’t recognize. Everyone wants to talk to you, and you don’t get a spare moment to breathe for the first few hours.

When you do get a chance to exhale, the rich couple that had been occupying you finally walking away, you catch the color out of the corner of your eye. You’ve been all around the building all night, mingling and networking in equal measure. You hadn’t realized where you ended up until right this second. You turn to the piece, staring as if you’d never seen it before.

You don’t need to look over to see who steps up next to you a minute later.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Matthew says. It doesn’t feel like an accusation, though it is one. All you can do is sigh.

“What did you expect me to do?” you ask, not expecting an answer. You glance at his hands out of the corner of your eye, noticing the wine glass in one hand, water glass in the other. Without a word, Matthew holds the water out in your direction, still fixated on the painting. You take it, feeling odd that not only does Matthew know that you forget to drink enough water, but also that he’s still trying to take care of you.

“It’s me,” he says after a pause. You’re both facing the largest canvas, the centerpiece. Swirls of bright red spread across a crimson background, highlighted with orange, accented with a royal purple. There, in the center, are two comparatively small, even circles of icy blue.

“They’re all you. Or about you, at least,” you say, seeing no need to deny it any longer, “About us.” It’s obvious that Matthew hadn’t expected you to admit it outright, thrown off for a minute by the admission.

“Can we talk?” he asks as you take a sip of water.

“We’re talking right now,” you reply, feeling petty. It’s his turn to sigh. He sets his wine glass down on the nearest horizontal surface before returning to your side, facing you this time.

“Somewhere private,” he clarifies, pauses, “Please.” You may be mad at him, enraged, incensed, but you’ve never been able to deny him anything, and you still can’t, even now.

You shut the storage room door behind you, flicking on the light to chase away the darkness. Matthew has his hands shoved in his pockets, looking around as if there’s anything interesting in here. You cross your arms over your chest, waiting for him to nut up and look you in the face.

“Listen,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck but still not looking at you, “I know I should have gone about this better.” You snort. No shit. The sound finally brings Matthew’s gaze to meet your own.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Matthew says, motioning with his raised hand, “I didn’t think you’d care that much.” You can feel how incredulous your expression is, and you don’t even try to hide it.

“In what world would I not be upset?” you respond, “After everything?” You can hear yourself, know you sound like a bitter, jealous old ex, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and looks away again. When he looks back, there’s an almost pleading look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says, more sincerely than the first time, “You shouldn’t have had to find out from Brady.” You avert your gaze, working your jaw for a second before you raise your chin and square your shoulders.

“No,” you agree, “I shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry I stopped talking to you,” he says, motioning helplessly with his hands, “You have to know how hard that was.” You shake your head, almost disgusted.

“Imagine how hard it was for me,” you reply. Your fingertips are digging into your own arm, fingernails biting into the skin. The fact that he would stand here and imply that this was a struggle for him– as if he expects you to offer sympathy– makes your stomach churn. The guilt in his expression makes you sickly satisfied.

“Listen,” he leads with that word again, as if he has any right to ask it of you, “I didn’t want to upset her. You know how some girls are.” You do know. And it’s still not an excuse.

“You didn’t tell her about me,” you say, anger and hurt straining your voice, “You said that I was just Brady’s best friend. You didn’t even tell her what we had.” You want to scream it at him, just want to scream in general. Maybe if you did, if you released your tight grip on control in a different way than you had with him, maybe it would make him understand.

“What did we have?” he asks. His voice is quiet, just as yours had been when you’d brought up the topic all those months ago.

“I don’t know,” you say, turning his own words back on him. It’s true, anyway. You’ve never known what any of this was. You’d only known what you wanted it to be, what you stupidly, fruitlessly hoped for.

“We never dated,” he replies, voice still low but seemingly not bothered by the uncertainty, “We never called it a relationship. You were never my girlfriend.” It’s a simple fact. It tears your heart out of your chest.

“Just because we didn’t name it doesn’t mean it was nothing,” you insist, squeezing your eyes shut for a second to push down the urge to cry before admitting, “I stopped dating.” He looks even guiltier at that, but it doesn’t soothe anything in you.

“I didn’t look at another man,” you continue, embarrassed and ashamed but unable to let him continue through life without knowing, “I didn’t even want to look at anyone else.” The shame makes the fiery anger burn brighter.

“I gave you three years of my fucking life,” you say, voice raising just enough to make Matthew flinch. You keep it reigned in enough that no one outside will hear, not interested in sharing this conversation with anyone else, especially not potential business contacts. The flames engulf your chest, lick up at your throat, threaten to consume you.

“I never asked you to do that,” Matthew replies, solemn. Your jaw drops, just half an inch, enough to part your lips as your breath hitches. He never asked. He never fucking–

“You–” you begin, breath catching in your throat as your eyes burn with tears you refuse to let escape, “Everything you said, everything you did, and you expected what? For me to just move on?” Your nails are digging so deeply into your biceps that you’re surprised they haven’t drawn blood. Matthew doesn’t respond right away, and you can’t tamp down the impulse to be petty.

“But I guess that’s what you did, huh?” you jab. Matthew shuts his eyes tightly, fists clenching like he wants to fight. It should be threatening, but you’ve always known that he would never dream of laying a finger on you in violence. But then again, you’d thought you knew a lot of things about him.

“Why do you care?” he asks, shoulders tense as he opens his eyes to stare you down, “You don’t even want me.” That shocks a laugh out of you, so completely ridiculous that you can’t help it.

“That’s the most fucked up part– I do want you,” you respond, simultaneously an answer and an admission. His brow furrows as he continues looking at you, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Did you seriously think I didn’t?” you ask, more of a demand, slightly offended because, “Do you think I said all those things for fun? For shits and giggles?” You can’t read his expression, don’t even bother trying. He can feel whatever he wants. That’s not your concern anymore. All you care about is the cold spreading through you, crawling up from the tips of your fingers, freezing your arms, creeping into your chest and beginning to extinguish your rage.

“I loved you, dickhead,” you continue, the words spilling out of you starting to sound pathetic, no matter how hard you’re trying to hold on to the anger, putting the last grasp of it into the words, “Stupid fucking idiot asshole, I loved you.” Matthew gapes at you, hands going lax at his sides. His jaw moves as if to say something, but nothing comes out.

“I loved you and you threw me away like garbage, and didn’t even have the balls to tell me yourself,” you force the sentence out, feeling like you’re choking on every syllable. Matthew’s breathing stutters. You’re expecting annoyance, irritation, maybe even shame or guilt. You’re not expecting his wide eyes, his eyebrows turned up in the middle, his slack jaw.

“You loved me?” he finally asks after a few agonizingly long seconds of silence. There’s something in his voice that you tell yourself you don’t care to analyze.

“Of course I did. How could I not?” you say, huffing as you look upwards, needing a momentary break from this staring contest, “The pathetic part, the part that makes me hate myself, is that I still do.” It’s physically painful to say, no matter that the hurt is psychosomatic. You’ve spent the last few minutes breaking open your ribcage, one bone at a time, revealing to him the space you’d made for him inside of yourself.

“You love me?” he asks, so dumbfounded that he’s repeating himself.

“Yes, Matthew,” you say, facing up to the dread inside of you, the one fact you’ve been struggling with the most since you’d found out the news.

“And I’m terrified. Because I’ve always loved you,” you pour out, barely able to hold yourself together as you meet his eyes, “And I’m afraid that I always will.” There’s not even space for half of a breath before Matthew speaks.

“Please do,” he says. His hands are open, palms facing your direction, as if pleading.

“What?” you ask.

“I didn’t know,” he says, and apparently he’s decided it’s his turn to reveal himself, “I was surprised that you wanted anything to do with me at all. But then you kissed me, and I spent the next three years waiting for you to leave.” The confusion comes over you so quickly that it almost masks the hurt.

“Why would I leave?” you ask. There’s been nothing subtle about your feelings. You’ve told him that he’s the only one you want, that you want to spend the rest of your life by his side, that he’ll always be the only one. How could he hear all of that and think that you would ever leave?

“Because you’re smart and kind and funny and hardworking–” he starts listing off.

“Tessa is all of those things too,” you cut him off. It doesn’t come out as resentful as you would’ve expected a sentence like that to. As you’ve told Terri, you really have nothing against Tessa. Besides, she really is everything he’s saying.

“But she’s not you,” his response comes immediately, emphatically, “I don’t want just anyone like that; I want you, and you happen to be that way.” You’re stunned into silence.

“It’s not the traits, it’s you,” he says, insistent, like he’s trying to convince you of your own worth, “And I kept waiting for you to find someone else, someone who wasn’t hotheaded and self-centered and–” He stops himself, swallowing so hard you can see his throat stutter under the thin skin of his neck.

“Someone better,” he finishes. The thing is that Matthew doesn’t have low self-esteem. He knows he’s a catch, and yet… And yet, he’s standing here, admitting that he’d still thought of you as being so far above him that you could never want him. And it’s not that there isn’t probably someone out there better than him–

“I never wanted someone better,” you tell him, voice almost a whisper. Growing up, you’d created this picture of the perfect man, told yourself that you’d find him one day, would never settle for less. Then you’d met Matthew, and he was nothing like that imaginary ideal. He was flawed; he was real. And you couldn’t help but love him for it.

“And I never wanted anyone else,” he replies, his own voice hushed to match yours, but no less certain, “I still don’t.” Three months ago, you would’ve given anything to hear that. But things are different now.

“I thought that if I went and found someone like you, someone close enough, that I could fall for them too,” he confesses, shame making his face tense, “I thought that if I stopped talking to you, if I kept my distance, that I could get over you.” A fraction of the anger buds in your chest at the idea.

“So you’re using Tessa,” you accuse, instantly offended on her behalf.

“No!” Matthew denies emphatically, pauses, shakes his head, “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” If he is using her, at least he seems ashamed about it. Something in his posture makes you think he isn’t, that he really thought he could love her.

“Look, she’s great. She’s amazing. She’s too good for me, too,” his shoulders have been hunched up to his ears, but they fall now, defeated, “She talks about that spark she felt when we met, the way she feels about me now, and I want, I really want to feel that way too. It would be easier if I could.” Believing this entire time that he truly loves her has been hell for you, but it’s still somehow worse to know that he doesn’t. That he did all of this, hurt you so deeply, for someone he doesn’t even love.

“As much as I’ve tried, I don’t. And I can’t,” he says, turning his gaze to the floor, “And if I’d ever thought that I had the slightest chance with you, I never would have dated her to begin with.” All these years, all those words, all the touches you’ve shared, and he’d still never taken you seriously. It’s not your fault, you know. But you realize now that for every time you’d indirectly confessed your feelings to him, he��d said the same things back. He’d returned every sentiment readily, easily. And as much as he’d apparently had the same idea as you, that the other could never love you back, you hadn’t seen it either. You’ve been just as ignorant of his feelings as he was of yours, just as deep in denial. And now there’s this rift between you, a deep chasm that keeps you apart, all for no reason.

“So, what now?” you ask. There’s nothing else to ask.

“What?” he seems genuinely confused.

“What now?” you repeat, too tired to be upset anymore, “You break her heart? Or do you keep pretending? Fake your way into a wife and kids and a house in the suburbs?” His confusion persists, tongue darting out to wet his lip the way it always does when he’s anxious.

“I thought–” he shakes his head the tiniest bit, as if he can’t believe what’s happening, “I mean, I love you. I want to be with you.” There’s a sadness sitting heavy in your chest, only getting deeper at his words.

“I love you too,” you say, tipping your head an inch to the right, perfectly aware of how melancholy your smile must be, “But you hurt me, and now you have to hurt her too. I thought you were better than this.” You’d thought the world of him. You don’t hate him now, could never force yourself to. But you are disappointed in how everything has played out.

“I thought you didn’t want better?” he says, not really a question. Your lips turn up another centimeter at that.

“Listen,” you say, turning the word back on him. You inhale deeply, exhale slowly. He stays quiet.

“The opportunity of a lifetime is on the other side of that door,” you gesture vaguely over your shoulder, then let your arms relax, your hands fall to your sides, “I don’t know what to do with any of–” you give another vague gesture, “--This.” The devastation is writ clear on his face, telegraphed by his posture, bared in the forefront of his miserably beautiful eyes.

“Out there?” you say, smile still in place, “I know exactly what I want. So I’m going to go get it.” you pause, take another deep breath, “And maybe you’ll be there tomorrow, and maybe you won’t.”

“I will,” he jumps in. You huff an almost-laugh.

“We can figure this all out later,” you say, sure a definite, “For now, I have to focus on the things that I’m sure of.” He nods, looks at the floor, raises his head and looks back at you.

“Did you used to be sure of me?” he asks, an uneven, shaky whisper.

“Yeah,” you say, your entire being feeling so heavy that you can barely hold yourself upright, “I used to be.”

September, 2023

While Brady had departed yesterday, Matthew doesn’t leave until tomorrow. It took some internal debate, but you’ve decided not to go along to drop him off at the airport. His family will think it’s weird if he doesn’t hug you, and you’re not sure if you can handle him touching you yet.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, letting yourself get lost in the story. A knock comes on the door and you startle. You mark your page and stand, rounding the couch to open the door. When you do, Matthew is standing there.

“Hey,” he greets, giving you the same bittersweet smile you’ve become accustomed to over the past few weeks. You’d given him a key to your apartment right after you’d moved, but you appreciate him not using it right now. You welcome him in with a gesture of your hand, turning to lead the way. You get four steps away before he speaks.

“I broke up with Tessa,” he blurts out. He doesn’t seem happy about it, but he doesn’t seem particularly sad either.

“Why?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest, “You’re that sure that I’ll take you back?” The anger comes and goes as it pleases, and it’s starting to sneak through the space between your ribs.

“No,” Matthew says, looking so unbearably fond of you, “I think you’ll tell me to get fucked.” Some days you want to.

“Then why did you break up with her?” you ask. Part of you has been wondering if, despite everything he’d said, he would stay with her. You’re not sure you would have been able to keep the conversation to yourself if he had, but you would have at least tried.

“Because none of this is fair to her,” he answers, shrugging, “She deserves someone who feels the same way about her that she does them. Someone who’s obsessed with her. She doesn’t deserve to be settled for.” You examine his expression, his stance, and realize that he’s truly being honest. He genuinely wants the best for her.

“How’d she take it?” you can’t help but ask. It makes him grin down at the floor for a moment.

“Honestly?” he asks when he raises his head, “Not great. Could have been worse, though.” As much as you love Matthew, you would have been proud of Tessa if she had slapped him.

“Probably should’ve been worse,” you reply. He grins again, tilting his head as he admires your face.

“Probably,” he agrees. For long moments, you both stand still, eyes locked.

“What now?” you ask, the same question as a couple weeks ago. He shrugs again, but he doesn’t seem as miserable or desperate as he had at the gallery.

“I don’t know,” he replies, that same phrase that you’re still trying to make peace with, “I know what I want. Same thing I’ve wanted this entire time. So I guess it’s up to you.” After three years of him encouraging you to give up control, to let go and follow his lead, he’s handing you the reigns now. However this ends or continues is completely your decision.

“You leave tomorrow,” you say, though you’re both viscerally aware of the fact.

“Yeah,” he gives you the crooked smile that had captured you the first time you’d met, “Don’t suppose you want to come with me? The winter weather’s nicer in Florida.” You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head at him.

“If you’d asked me that last summer, I probably would’ve said yes,” you admit. You kind of expect him to react with sadness, but you prefer the hope that blooms on his face.

“Maybe I’ll ask you again next summer?” he suggests, offering you the option. At this point, you have no idea where your relationship will be at this time next year. You don’t know if you’ll even have a relationship, of any kind. But if he’s willing to try, so are you.

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling wider than you have in a long while, “Next summer.”

June, 2024

The Hughes brothers are a funny trio. Seeing Jack’s upbeat, outgoing energy bookended on each side by two reserved, perpetually exhausted brothers is always kind of funny. You’d run down the pavement from the Tkachuk’s door to the driveway when you’d seen Quinn climb out of the car’s driver seat, immediately sweeping him up in a hug. The boys had decided to road trip around this summer, so of course you’d strongly suggested that they visit you.

You help them haul their bags out of the trunk, taking Luke’s backpack in hand and insisting on carrying it in for him. The three of them had started teasing you the instant they saw that Matthew hadn’t come out with you.

“Come on, I heard him at the All Star game,” Jack pesters, voice taking a mocking edge as he croons, “Sweet girl.” You laugh brightly, stopping the careful steps you’re taking backwards up the pathway to the house.

“We weren’t dating, I swear,” you insist. Plenty of people over the years have accused you of dating Matthew, but at least he’s funny about it. He stops in front of you, lifting his chin and giving a shit-eating smile.

“Wait, weren’t?” he asks, “As in, past tense?” You feel heat begin to crawl up your face. You’d intended to tell them, of course, but not the second they got here.

“Yeah,” Matthew calls from behind you, and you twist around to watch him close the space between you, “Past tense.” Jack’s glee is overt, but you can see the little signs of happiness on the other two boys’ faces too. Matthew lines himself up against your back, wrapping his arms around you, the gaudy Cup ring on his finger glinting in the light.

“Hey, sweet girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your hair. You can’t see him, but Jack’s smug face makes you sure that Matthew is staring straight at him. “My sweet girl,” Matthew says. It might be the best thing you’ve ever heard.

#matthew tkachuk imagine #matthew tkachuk fic #nhl imagines #nhl fanfic #the winter fic exchange 2k24 #RI #andi's coping mechanism

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stormcloudrising · 5 months ago

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Listened to the full lyrics of Long Face and I love them, and I have some random thoughts on the lyrics. Interesting meaning behind the words with the piano analogy.

The words are obviously meant to represent Lestat’s thoughts about Louis, and what I find interesting is that they see each other the same way. Makes me wonder who wrote the song. Did Lestat write it to put himself in Louis shoes in an attempt to understand him, or in response to the scene from Season 1 episode 2 after Louis kills the agent and they burn the body.

Louis sees their differences in terms of the world they live in and how others see them. Creole/French; Black man/white man; Queer/????? Etc. Lestat on the other hand sees their differences in more idolized romantic terms…basically how they see each other not how the world sees them.

Or was the song written as a duet with maybe Louis also writing Lestat a letter with the latter putting it to music. It’s a tin foil idea but the lyrics sound almost how Louis would describe the two of them…not the other way around.

If you asked Louis how he saw Lestat, he would say that he was filled with fire and energy. And it turns out that’s how Lestat sees Louis. Fire to his calmer self (LOL). But then again, you never see yourself the way others see you.

On the other hand, Lestat is always questing for love and so on that level, the lyrics do makes sense. The song also matches up to his thoughts about Louis when he first sees him pull a knife on Paul. And while Lestat always wants to test the boundaries, he’s always been lonely, which definitely matches up to how he sees himself in the song. Louis fills the void in him.

The lyrics are all about two pianos creating a harmonious sound. Makes me wonder if that’s what he was practicing with his board and Siri. Was he writing the lyrics then. Lestat sees them as opposites who together create the perfect sound.

I’m piano (quiet)

And you’re forte (loud and strong)

You’re Allegro (lively)

I’m Andante (slow or moderate pace)

We’re Bolero (here he’s talking about Ravel’s Bolero, which is basically a repeated melody that builds and builds to include the entire orchestra. It was also originally published as a piano duet.

He’s also saying that his stage persona is not him. He’s an actor wearing makeup. Louis knows the real him but Louis keeps running and he’s calling him out on it. It also interesting that he says “I get fatter, when we breakup.” That suggests some type of spiraling on his part when he and Louis break up. He gets fatter on the blood. The Rock Documentary is for Louis.

I’m very interested to see where season three starts because the lyrics almost sound like they got back together and Louis did one of his bunker like in the books and just disappeared.

Of course, the song is likely just an encapsulation of their relationship as it will be covered going forward and not about any specific off screen event. If so, we’re in for a treat.

Season 3 can’t get here soon enough for me.

#interview with the vampire #louis de pointe du lac #lestat de lioncourt #the vampire chronicles #amc iwtv #iwtv s3 #long face #vampire Lestat teaser #rockstar lestat #itwtv season 3

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vmpivory · 8 days ago

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but you're still a traitor.

౨ৎ﹒ [ 양정원 ] ☆ female reader / angst + cw. skinship + 0.8k wc - ( library ) now playing.. traitor by olivia rodrigo

raindrops hit the window slowly as you sat there, knees pulled to your chest. you were doing your favorite thing ever, listening to music with your earphones on a rainy day. favorite activities are supposed to make you feel better. but now it wasn't helping.

"brown guilty eyes and little white lies yeah, i played dumb but i always knew"

it was olivia rodrigo's 'traitor'. you know she didn't, but it felt like olivia herself wrote this song for you and jungwon. it explained everything happened between you two.

sad songs make you feel better, they say. then why are tears rolling down your face now? ─ more under cut!

"that you'd talk to her, maybe did even worse i kept quiet so i could keep you"

no, you shouldn't be crying over a boy now, you keep telling yourself. but the harder you tried to convince yourself, the harder it became to stop the tears.

you stood up and walked to the mirror right beside your desk as the song continued. you looked at your reflection in the mirror, your eyes puffy and cheeks red. your makeup was also ruined.

"and ain't if funny how you ran to her the second we called it quits?"

you quickly took your makeup bag, trying to fix your makeup. your friends were gonna come over in a few hours for a sleepover and you couldn't show up like this.

as you tried to fix your mascara, your hands trembled slightly. you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

why was this so hard? jungwon wasn’t worth it. at least, that’s what your best friend giselle always said. "you’re too good for him, anyway." maybe she was right.

"and ain't it funny how you said you were friends? not it sure as hell don't look like it"

you heard a loud knock on the door. you froze, mascara brush still in your hand, eyes locked on your reflection. you hadn't expected anyone so soon. you wiped your eyes quickly, swiping away the last traces of tears and taking off your earphones. you walked over to the door, your heart pounding in your chest for reasons you didn't understand. you opened it and there he was, yang jungwon. standing there in a hoodie you bought for him, his hair messy and soaked because of the rain. he was holding a cup of your favorite coffee in his hand. "can we talk?" he asked, quietly. you know you turned off the song before opening the door but you could still hear it.

"you betrayed me and i know that you'll never feel sorry for the way i hurt, yeah"

"there's nothing to talk abou-"

"have you been crying?"

you quickly wiped your cheeks again, even though you knew it was pointless. "no" you muttered, voice shaky "i'm fine."

jungwon stepped closer, his eyes scanning your face, searching for the truth. "you don't look fine," he placed the coffee cup on the table beside you and reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "i'm really sorry, y/n"

you flinched slightly at his touch, not sure if you were ready to hear those words coming from him. the last time he apologized, it felt empty. he promised change, but it never came.

"you'd talk to her when we were together loved you at your worst but that didn't matter"

"you're sorry?" she repeated, "are you serious? you hurt me, jungwon. twice." his expression softened, guilt taking over him. "i know i messed up and i hate myself for it. i shouldn't have done those things, i was such an ass and-" "aren't you dating her now?" jungwon pauses, avoiding your eyes for a moment. "yeah but.." he muttered "i regret how we ended and what i did" you shook your head, holding back tears. "that's not how this works, jungwon. you can't just show up here, apologize, and expect things to go back to normal. did you do the same with me too? did you go up to her and apologized while you were dating me too?"

"it took you two weeks to go off and date her"

jungwon looked taken aback by your words, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right thing to say. "i-i didn't know how to fix it" he said, "i'm really sorry, y/n. i wasn't fair to you. i wasn't fair to either of you and i really regret it." you wanted to yell, to tell him how much he hurt you, how much you cried when you found out about him and her, but all of that felt like it would break you even more. no, he wasn’t the boy you once knew, the boy you once loved. he changed. "i'm done talking. goodbye, jungwon," you said, your voice steady but your heart aching. he didn’t respond, just nodded, turned and walked towards the door.

"guess you didn't cheat but you're still a traitor"

i wrote this in an hour bc i was so bored and its not proofread TT hope ygs like it tho ! <3

PERM TAGLiST: @woniesprincess @orimuraa @heeaara

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oh-koenig-my-koenig · 7 months ago

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returning home

(cw: age gap 26/41; nsfw, mdni, smut, a bit of angst and drama, fluffiness and a lot of tears)

the part before: it's the parts of König that she didn't see

a/n: i'm sorry, this got a bit out of hand :') over 9k words, buckle in, we're in for a ride

I have been a mess those past four months. This has been the worst breakup of my life. I mean, not that I had that many partners before. And the only one I still sometimes cry after is my highschool sweetheart.

But this… we weren’t even an official thing. König and I spent a lot of time together in those few weeks, yes. But we never even clarified if we were in a relationship or not. Dating. Being exclusive. And sure, I was basically living at his place after only a week of knowing each other. But that didn’t mean anything in retrospect. Apparently.

You can’t really call in sick for a broken heart and I wasn’t able to leave my bed for a few days. Sleeping a lot, listening to all the sad love songs, barely eating. Until my mom came by, basically kicking me off my mattress. Forcing me – in a loving way – to get a grip and not mope around like a heartbroken mess.

The worst part was when I found one of his hoodies in between my stuff, I must have accidentally packed it with my clothes when I got everthing together, and it still smelled like him. It doesn't anymore because I have been wearing it nonstop when I'm at home. Not outside though, because the piece of clothing looks ridiculous on me with how big it is compared to my size. I could fit myself in there three times and the hem falls over my knees. If I press my face into the fabric, I still pick up hints of his scent. At least that’s what I tell myself.

The marks on my body faded too. The hickeys he left on my skin becoming fainter by each day, until they were gone.

I looked at all the pictures we took together. Well, more like, I took them and König is also in them. And the selfies we sent each other. The only ones I didn't keep were the filthy ones, because it felt wrong, so I deleted them. But I didn't have the heart to do that to the pictures of us, the ones that carried the memories. And it stopped hurting as much over time. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Lying in bed. The one he bought and we built together, because he broke mine. It's unfair, really, because he is gone and I can't escape him still. Repeating his words to me in my mind.

You should be with someone your age.

It never had been a topic for me, not something I would've spent a second thought on, at least not like this. But apparently, it had been on his mind.

Someone who can promise you that they'll come back every time.

And in the back of my mind there is still the little voice that wishes that he would just have had the guts to be with me. Despite the possibility of him not coming back in one piece, leaving me to mourn him. Because like this, he isn't in my life either. And I still worry about him, because there is no way for me to know that he still is in this life.

He didn't even want to hear my side of things. Or maybe he wanted to, but I was just too blindsided by it all, frozen in place as he “broke up” with me.

Afterwards, when I thought about what he said, I wanted to scream. To shout at him. Even if I could never really do that. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and ask him, what the fuck he was thinking. Why the fuck he was thinking that.

Fuck. I’m so sorry, Liebes.

His apologies didn’t help either. Because I wanted to be mad at him. I was mad at him, and I still am. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Because even though I get it - I get what he was telling me - I still don’t fully understand.

And I remember the look on his face as he was crouched before me. When it became painfully clear that I couldn’t read him.

I never meant for this to go this far or… this deep.

Well, I didn’t either. But it did. And he left, even though he felt the same way. Or at least so I thought.

After a few weeks I finally feel better. I’m okay with how it is. That’s what I tell myself.

Not at all ready to go out on dates again. Not that there is any rush. Not that there had been that many occasions, but still. The thought alone of being with somebody that's not him…

I get back to work, meet my friends, hang out with my family, and when they ask me how I’m doing, I can convincingly tell them I’m okay.

Almost every night the thing on my mind before I fall asleep is him. Nothing, but him, and how I wish he was lying right next to me. I still just want him to come back.

And I know I’m not making any sense. It’s just gonna take some more time to get over this.

When I wake up one morning and see the messages on my phone, I don't even realize what they mean at first.

I'm coming back tomorrow I don't deserve you, but if there's any chance that you'd want to see me again... I’m landing at the airfield in [REDACTED], at 1130 I'm sorry, and I understand if you've moved on or maybe we can talk sometime this week if you're busy whatever works for you or maybe you don’t want to talk to me at all which is fine as well, of course just let me know in Liebe, König

I blink, reading the messages over and over again. The little incoherent ramble until it finally clicks. He's coming back.

I groan, putting the phone away, hiding my face in my hands. Contemplating what I should do as the possibility of seeing him again churns in my stomach. And all the emotions come flooding back, tears pricking in the corner of my eye. God damn it.

Men and women are disembarking from the aircraft and I crane my neck, looking for him.

I’ve been waiting here for some time cause they were running late. And I’m not the only one, there are quite a bunch of people waiting. Probably families and partners? They all seemed relaxed, at least more relaxed than me.

I’m hopping from one leg to the other, my hands feel a little clammy as I knead them. And honestly, I’m a little nauseous.

More people in gear than I would have thought come off the plane, meeting up with their relatives, mingling with each other or just leaving.

I already fear that I completely misunderstood his messages, but that couldn’t have been possible, right? Maybe I shouldn't have come here, and just told him I’ll see him some time this week, maybe I shou-

Two more figures emerge from the cargo hold, coming down the ramp. I don’t recognize the man on the right, but the one on the left…

Beige cargo-pants, protectors on the knees and shins. A simple longsleeved shirt, black of course, and a bulletproof vest. Gloves and more protectors on his arms. The band of bright red beads around his wrist.

The mask, the hood fashioned out of simple fabric, red streaks down underneath the eyeholes, held in place by the helmet atop his head. Hiding his face away.

Fuck.

I only saw a picture of him in gear once, when he showed me, but I still would have recognized him instantly. His tall build, the attitude with which he carries himself, gives him away. This get-up can’t hide it.

He stills. Frozen in place, and from the distance I can’t make out anything.

I just stand there, unsure if he already saw me. And I lift my hand, just a little wave, before I drop it again.

Shit, maybe I should have told him that I was coming.

But then he starts running towards me. A slight jog at first, his strides getting longer with every step. I can’t just stand here either, my legs almost moving on their own.

Dropping the bag that hung over his shoulder. His gloved hands are fumbling with his helmet, until he gets it off, just throwing it away, and pulling of the mask too, and when I see his face for the first time in month, I feel tears prick in the corner of my eyes. Running a little faster, only a few meters between us now. The skin around his eyes is smeared with eyeblack, his long hair is clinging to his head, as he also gets rid of the balaclava, just pushing it down, so it sits around his neck, and then…

He stops, just a step before me, not to run me over, but I don’t, jumping up, jumping into his arms, the full impact of my body against his not moving the big guy a little bit. I’m clinging onto his shoulders as he catches me in his embrace. I’m burying my face in his neck, and when his scent hits my nostrils, a little sharper than usual, gunpowder and sweat mixing with his warm soothing scent, the tears flow free, staining his balaclava, wetting his cheeks. Sobs are shaking me as he presses me against him, my legs hugging around his waist.

“I missed you so fucking much.”, he says, his deep voice shaky, and I can’t even answer because it just makes me cry more. “Ssssh, Liebes. Don’t cry.”, he tries to comfort me, but hearing his favourite term of endearment only lets the tears flow freely. “I didn’t wanna make you cry.”

“To-oo late for - that.”, I press out between two sobs.

“I’m so sorry, fuck.”, he sighs, his arms closing even tighter around me. “I don't know how I will ever make it up to you.” His gloved hand is softly caressing down my back.

“I missed you too.”, I finally manage to say, my voice thick with tears, pressing myself against him, and I never wanna let go.

But I need to pull back, only a little, just to look at him again. Touch him. Convince myself that this is real.

My vision is blurred, but that’s still him, his face so close to mine. His gaze intently on me, while one of my hands grabs him, my fingers caressing over his jaw, the stubble a little longer than I’m used to, the smudged black colour around the eye area making him look a little different. He leans into my palm, the eyebrows pulling up and the tension melting away.

His hand cups mine, his thumb softly caressing over it, such soft touches and another small sob is shaking me.

“I don’t want to overstep anything.”, he whispers. “But I would really like to kiss you.”

And I nod, not able to speak the words yet. And before he can lean in, I already press my lips to his. When my mouth meets his, and I taste the saltiness of my tears intermingling with his scent, the wave of relief that floods me is indescribable.

It's as soft as I remember, something that always surprised me. How soft his kisses are.

The way his lips press against mine, like he's searching for something, tasting me. Nipping at my lower lip, his nose rubbing against mine. His stubble scratching over my skin as he tilts his head.

He presses kisses to the corner of my mouth, my cheeks, my nose. All over my face, slowly drying up my tears, and I take a deep breath, calming myself down. He really is back.

When I finally take a look around, I realise that we’re off to the side a bit, but not that far away from the others on the tarmac, so… this must be quite the spectacle for his colleagues and the people who waited for them. Some of them are in tight hugs or talking with the civilians, but some are also looking in our direction, every once in a while. I don't have any time to feel self-conscious though, about being a teary mess.

And the guy who disembarked the aircraft with König comes our way, a little hesitantly, but smiling at us both.

“Köni.”, he says in a deep, but friendly voice, omitting the g in his name.

“Horangi.”, König says, setting me down, but keeping me close by his side, and I wouldn’t have moved an inch away.

The man in front of us is dressed in green and beige camo, quite different from what the big guy is wearing except for the pants. A similarly coloured balaclava around his neck and sporty sunglasses on his head, sitting on top of it in his hair, complete the look.

“I heard so much about you.”, he says lightly, addressing me.

“You did?” My eyebrows shoot up, almost colliding with my hairline.

He nods, grinning, not fazed at all by the threatening stare from König. “Yes. Every time he drank just a little too much, he wouldn't shut up about you.”, Horangi says. “You did a number on the guy.”

I don't know what to say to that at first, honestly a little gobsmacked. “I did?”

“Yeah, yeah, now fuck off.”, König says to Horangi, patting the other man’s back, the frown on his face turning into a grumpy smile.

“See ya, Colonel.”, he says with a grin. “Enjoy your leave.”, adding a little joking salute, before stomping off.

I wave after him, confused for a moment. Colonel?

“Don't mind him.”, König grumbles as I turn to him again, but he doesn't look mad in the slightest bit. “He doesn't know how to behave sometimes.”

My arms closing around his waist, and he repositions me a bit, so the straps on his bullet proof vest don’t press into my cheek.

“So, you really did miss me.”, I say pulling him tighter. Not a question, a statement.

“I did.”, he answers almost solemn as he brushes a stray strand of hair out of my face.

Some of the soldiers are still standing around, talking to each other and the people around them, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

“They’re still looking.”, I whisper to him, unsure what that means.

“Yeah, cause they’re all seeing my face.”, he whispers back, smiling down at me.

Right, the hood!

“Oh shit, I forgot about the mask thing.”, I say, my hand clasping over my mouth. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine.”, he says softly. “They'll survive seeing my face. And I will too.”

“Right, still.”

“Don’t worry about it. I asked you to come here.” He pauses for a moment. “More on a whim, cause I didn’t really think you actually would.”

I take a deep breath. “To be honest, until this morning I didn’t know either.” My eyes pan up to meet his. When I woke up, I knew that I wanted to see him. But only when I got into my car, I called into work to take a personal day off and instead drove here.

“I’m glad you did.”, he says, holding my gaze.

“Me too.”, I whisper back.

“Cause Horangi was right. I was miserable.”

Just like I was. “Really?”, I ask him again, almost soundlessly.

“I was fucking miserable without you.”, he repeats, picking me up again and pressing another kiss to my lips.

I think I don't wanna leave his embrace ever again. But we still have stuff to talk about. Stuff to sort out. And we really can't do that here.

Plus his kisses have their usual effect. As the emotional turmoil and tears dissipate, a familiar feeling spreads through my body, my lower belly tensing up.

“You’re here in your car?”, he asks quietly in between two more kisses. Getting more desperate.

“Yeah.”, I say. “I parked it around the corner.”

“Okay, you wanna get out of here then?”

I just nod, kissing him again, and his little hum against my lips lets tingles erupt all over me. Then we're out of here.

Not before picking up his helmet and hood that he shed on the way, me still in his arms, getting his duffle bag, and I can’t help the little giggle escaping me, because he refuses to set me down when he bends down. Carrying me like I weigh nothing, also not willing to leave my side even for a moment.

On the way to the car, it gets even a little more heated and I’m glad when we turn the corner, hiding away from other eyes.

He’s taking huge strides, heading right for my car, that he spotted in an instant, the small silver one.

My fingers are tangled in his hair, his hands grabbing my ass and thighs, and I pull the car key out my pocket and unlock it. He opens the car door, lying me down on the cushioned seat and I scoot back to make room for him.

Reminders flood my brain how we did it in the back of his car, much bigger than the Toyota I drive. It’s way too small for him, but that doesn’t stop us.

I push off my shoes and get my pants off quickly as he climbs in over me, his shoulders pressing up against the roof of the car, while he sheds his protectors and gloves and shuts the door behind him.

A moment later, I’m folded in half, my knees against my chest, the feet up in the air brushing against the frame of the car. His hands gripping my thighs, spreading me for him.

König is eating me out like a starved man, soft mewls and grunts dropping from his lips, the vibrations of them against my sensitive skin.

“Oh fuck.”, I groan.

His hair is falling over his face, but I just want to see him, brushing the strands back. His gaze burning into me as he looks up at me, the eyeblack giving him a rugged look.

Desperately licking me, my juices glistening all over the lower part of his face. The stubble that is longer than usual is scratching against the insides of my thighs, but I don’t care about that right now, in the contrary, the soft scratch right there makes me even hotter.

It’s him. in this get-up, a little different than I was used to, but it’s him.

When he slips his fingers into me, his lips closing around my clit, sucking on the sensitive bud, something that always made me lose my mind fast, and this is no exception.

The way he fills me up, his thick digits stretching me. His tongue working my pussy, knowing exactly what makes me cry out. His mouth wandering, littering my inner thigh with kisses and hickeys.

The bites and nibbles send shivers down my body, my hips rutting forward, pushing my pussy into him. His arm comes over tummy, holding me in place, so I can't escape his touches.

“Yes, please, just-”, I sigh, and I can feels how he curls his fingers inside me, hitting just the right spot.

I come around them, my cries a bit too loud in my own ears in the small space, and I almost bump my head into the car door behind me as he doesn’t let up, but dives in again. His tongue is toying with my clit, dragging over it, slow, broad licks, and my body shakes and convulses.

“König…”, I plead, my hand tangled in his hair.

He finally pulls back a bit, still lapping everything up, even putting his own fingers in his mouth. His lips closing around them, his lids fluttering for just a moment.

“You taste so fucking good, Kleine.”, he whispers, not breaking eye contact as he meticulously licks my arousal off them, and I can’t help the blush on my face, especially when his tongues darts through between them. Fuck.

Instead of an answer, I pull him into me, to kiss him again, tasting myself on his lips, my hands dropping to his belt, fumbling with the clasp. I want more. I want him.

“Wait.”, he says, his hand coming over mine, I can feel the lingering wetness on them, and I still for a moment. “Shouldn’t we like…”

“You…. don’t want to?”

"No, of course I do, Liebes… I just want to do it right, you know? Make it right. In a proper bed."

I pull one of my eyebrows up. He thinks about that now after eating me out. "We can still do that later, no worries."

"But- I-"

"Yeah, that's all really noble, but right now I just need you." I kiss him again. "So shut up and fuck me. Please.", I say, still fumbling with his belt.

“I don’t have any condoms with me.”, he says, still not helping me to get his gear off.

I pull up an eyebrow. “And?” We did it raw many times, why would it be…

"Did you not... You didn't...?", he stammers, his eyes searching mine.

And then it dawns on me. "If you're gonna ask, if I slept with somebody else in the meantime, I suggest you don't. Because I fucking didn't." Adding after a moment’s pause: “Did you?”

"Fuck, no.”, he answers without hesitation, but his whole body is still shaken with agitation. “Fuck, I'm sorry, I just-" His hand strokes through his hair, exasperated, straightening up a bit and almost hitting his head on the roof of the car.

"König."

He stills, his eyes on me again and I can see the turmoil in them.

"I didn't want anybody else, I just wanted you back.", I say, my voice a little shaky. "And now that I've got you back, I just need to feel you. We can talk and do all the other stuff after getting home, okay?"

Home. The word slipped over my lips before I could think about it. It's out there before I can take it back.

He doesn't move a bit, just looks at me incredulously, and my hand shoots out to grab him which pulls him from his thoughts.

“I do not fucking deserve you.”, he whispers, and then it all happens very quickly. Pulling the zipper down and getting his dick out, the tip slipping between my folds.

He doesn't wait a moment longer and we both groan in unison when he slides into me, and the familiar feeling floods me, the stretch deliciously making me squirm.

Yet my eyes don't leave his for even a moment, not daring to close them, in case this is still a dream and he did not really come back.

But when he grasps my chin, tilting it up and leaning down to press his lips to mine, the tears that have been welling up again roll down my cheeks, the wetness blurring my vision.

I wipe them away, aggressively, a little mad at myself that I just can't stop crying. “Fuck, just… I-” I sigh. “Those fucking tears.”

He’s not saying anything, his thumb brushing over my cheek, a soothing gesture. His lips are peppering kisses all over my face as he starts to fuck me, slowly and sweetly.

I look down to where we are connected, seeing him push into me, seeing and feeling his dick slip into me. As deep as he can go.

With the position I’m in, folded in half, my belly is bulging with every thrust, just a bit, but still. And when he bottoms me out, time after time after time, I inadvertently squeeze around him.

“Fuck, you feel so good.”, he groans.

He’s not fucking me fast, more hard and deep. The sound of skin against skin when his lap collides with the plush of my thighs, loud and quite heavy. And I’m underneath him, framed by his strong arms, holding onto them.

Every single one of his thrusts lets a moan slip out of me, especially with how his pubic bone is pressing up against my sensitive clit, over and over again.

My breath hits his face, the look on it still a little incredulous, the almost enamored smile.

His breath is getting heavier too, rattling grunts shaking his chest. I wanna feel them, I wanna feel his rapid heartbeat against my fingertips. My hand slips under his vest, the other one holding onto it. The soft fabric of his compression shirt is warm, feeling his heartbeat strum against the palm of my hand, as I look up at him. Back in one piece. Alive.

The telltale signs how close he is are written on his face. The breath that halts in his throat every so often. The way his jaw drops. His brows draw together, not his usual frown, the ever-present scowl. Ecstasy visible on his features. And his eyes pressing together, for just a moment.

Looking down at me again, he’s still fucking me, my knees pressed up against my chest, his propped-up arms carrying most, but not all of his weight. My fingers are grabbing his bulletproof vest, needing him closer. The buttons of his waistband and the belt pressing into my ass with every thrust.

But all those sensations get overtaken when my second orgasm washes over me abruptly, just holding onto him, and I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, when he doesn’t stop. The pushes of his hips, how he rolls them into me, getting a little more desperate, almost losing the rhythm, as I clench around him.

He’s buried deep inside me, filling me up when he comes, and groans drop from his lips. His face contorting in pleasure. I missed his stupid face, and apparently I also missed his O-face.

He takes a big breath, backing off a bit, giving me a moment to reposition my legs. When his dick slips out of me, I sigh, feeling a bit empty and the wetness against my stomach as it rests over it.

His big heavy body slumps over me, and we just stay like that for a while. Cheek to cheek. My arms around his neck, his hands softly caressing down my body.

Maybe I could even stay like this forever.

Again I remember the time we did it on the backseat of his car, that was much more spacious. Half an eternity ago. Only the second time we ever did it.

Softly kissing now and then. The little sounds and our breath the only thing in the calm silence around us, until he breaks it.

“Can I take you home?”

“Yes.”, I answer without hesitation. We still have some stuff to sort out, and we should get going.

He’s zipping himself up, I put on my pants again, his cum seeping into my panties now, but I don’t even care and get into the driver’s seat, the doors close behind us.

And for once he is in the passenger’s seat, my car still way too small for the big man. It’s almost ridiculous how his stature fills the car. He almost has to duck his head like this, even without the helmet, dwarfing the whole space.

I chuckle a little, put on some music and start driving.

“So Colonel, huh?”, I ask him, pulling an eyebrow up.

“Yeah.”, he says, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know why I never told you.”

“It’s okay.”, I say. “I guess, that doesn’t really matter in the civilian life.”

“It doesn’t.”, he agrees. “But it also feels like I wasn’t fully honest with you. Which is shitty.”

I clasp my hand over his for a moment, squeezing his fingers. A little reassurance. I don't care about his rank cause it doesn't change anything anyway, and I also never bothered to ask.

“So, I wouldn't get in trouble for insubordination if I called you Sir and not Colonel?”, I ask him, teasingly.

His brows furrow, that certain look in his eyes like always when I was being bratty - and I missed that too.

“You won't.”, he grumbles.

I can't help the little laugh. “Good to know.”

I look to the side, and there he is. It’s him, even in this get-up, it’s him. In my car.

And he’s grinning back at me, not as bright as I was used to, but still. I shake my head as I look back onto the street. He really is back.

I pull into the driveway, the sight of his house alone pulling at my heartstrings. The heavy feeling hits me, the lightheartedness I felt before taking a little hit, even before turning the motor off, getting out the car and heading inside.

He unlocks the door and goes inside, putting down the duffle bag, as I follow him. I stand around a little unsure, taking my shoes off, before heading to the living room.

When I see the couch, I have to swallow my emotions down, not ready to cry again. The memories come rushing back and I just need a moment to take it all in.

Heavy steps behind me, warmth emanating from his body. His presence so tangible, even when he’s not touching me. I’m still so tuned into him.

And I turn.

God damn, I almost forgot how big he is. He fills the doorframe that has been fit to his height. His shoulders seeming even broader in his gear. His head almost grazing the top of the frame.

And I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. We just stand here for a moment.

“I need to shower.. you, uh-”, he starts.

“I’m just gonna wait here, okay?”

He nods. “Yes, of course.” He hands me his phone. “You wanna order something to eat in the meantime? For us.”

“I can do that.”

“Pick whatever you like.”, he tells me before rushing up the stairs with huge strides, taking his bag with him.

I sigh and take a seat at the dinner table we barely ever used. Not daring to sit on the couch like I usually would have.

Unlocking his phone, only clicking on the delivery app, of course. Searching for his favourite take-out place, the grill with the nice little garden out back.

Does he deserve it? I don't know, maybe not. But I'm not gonna be petty over food. I’m adding another dessert for myself, though.

After I placed the order, I put his phone away, picking up mine instead. Scrolling on the usual apps, waiting because I don't know what else to do. He’s taking longer than I’m used to for the shower. And I can feel myself getting a bit restless. My mind coming back to the things he said. When he broke up with me and then today when he came back.

Heavy steps are coming down the stairs, him emerging in a get up I’m more used to, a simple black shirt and shorts.

His hair is still a bit wet, clinging to him in strands. He’s freshly shaved too, the stubble he had before gone. And I can smell the clean and sharp tone of his after-shave when he walks up to me.

“Food will be here soon.”, I tell him, because I don’t know what else to say.

“Okay, thank you.”

“Your favorite.”

“You didn't need to do that.”

“I know.” I hand him back his phone. “And I didn't snoop through it or anything.”

He nods, acknowledging my comment. “I trust you.” He steps a bit closer, taking it. “But you wouldn't have found anything noteworthy either. My phone is embarrassingly empty.” He looks up from the device, to me, a lopsided wry smile adorning his face. “Mostly work emails and photos of you I couldn't bring myself to delete.”

“Yeah?”

He nods.

“What’s the other stuff?”

“Photos of Mimi.” His smile is turning into a grin.

“That little minx. I should have known.”, I say exasperated, but jokingly.

He’s still standing there, swaying from one foot to the other ever so slightly, and almost wanna tell him to just sit down.

“I thought about calling you. I just didn't know what to say.”, he says, his voice quiet. “I wasn't even sure you'd pick up.”

“I don't know if I could have handled talking to you over the phone.”, I say carefully, but honestly. I probably wouldn’t have picked up.

He just nods. “I understand.”

“I actually didn’t know what to think when you texted me.”, I continue. “It was a lot. After a few months of no bleep, no nothing.”

“I wanted to text you. I just chickened out every time.”, he says. “But Horangi kicked some sense into me.”

“Does he do that often?”, I ask, biting back a grin, when remembering the conversation with him earlier. How he basically snitched on him, painting the a bit pathetic picture of drunk König who missed me so much that he wouldn't shut up about me. After he broke up with me of his own volition.

He tilts his head to the side, grudgingly admitting: “Sometimes.”

“And we all need friends like that sometimes.”, I say.

He laughs a little and confesses. “Yeah, he actually helped me phrase the messages because I just didn’t know how I-” He breaks off. “I meant everything I said though.” His eyes find mine again. “I would've understood if you didn't have time or if you just didn't wanna see me. But I still had to try. And I meant it earlier, when I said that I’m glad you came.”

The look on his face, almost pleading. And I feel the same way, but being here with him still feels a little… overwhelming.

“I-”

The doorbell ringing disrupts our conversation. He turns and hurries to the door. I can hear him talk to the delivery person as I get up and hurry to the kitchen to get plates and cutlery.

We’re both coming back a few moments later, setting everything down on the dinner table, taking a seat next to each other. Opening up the containers of food, laying everything out. Loading our plates up, my stomach grumbling. I hadn’t eaten all day, too anxious and nervous. I dig in, taking spoonsfuls of the veggies with rice, and I feel how his eyes are on me, how he’s watching me.

I meet his eyes when he breaks the silence again.

“I missed your birthday, didn't I?”, he asks, but judging from the look on his face he already knows the answer.

“Yeah, a few weeks ago.”, I say, nodding.

“Now there's ‘only’ 15 years between us.”, he says, matter-of-factly.

“There are.”, I agree. “But it doesn’t matter. 15, 16, what’s the difference.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

I put my fork down for a moment and just tell him outright what I have been thinking: “When I teased you, it was never about that. Our age difference never was an issue for me, you know. But I will never call you an old man again, if there is a chance that you will throw it in my face like that.” I pause. “Again.”

“I’m not gonna do that - again.”, he reassures me.

“Good.” I take a deep breath. “If I had known that this was plaguing you, I could have put your mind at ease. Or at least tried.”

“It’s not on you.”, he says with a sigh, his hand dragging over his face for just a moment, rubbing over his eyes. I can feel the frustration emanating off him. “I just- I tried to hide it.” Like he also tried to hide it when he had shit days. I wanna grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

“I figured. Because the whole… conversation came out of nowhere for me.”

“Yeah, I felt like such an asshole afterwards. I went about it the most blunt way. The whole thing anyway… it was a mistake.”, he continues, point-blank. “And I’m sorry for that.”

If we had this talk only weeks after he left, I would have been so mad still. The distance helped. It's also helping right now. Acknowledging that it had been a mistake, it doesn't make the "break up"-thing go away. But I feel like I still needed to hear that.

“It’s okay.”, I whisper.

He shakes his head. “It’s not.”, he says. “It wasn’t okay.”

“I know.” I reach for him, our fingers intertwining, my thumb softly caressing over the back of his hand. Our eyes meet and I can see his emotions in them, clearer than ever before. Not trying to hide them anymore. And I understand. A little smile stalks onto my face.

“Let’s just eat, okay?”

And I never have to tell him that twice.

After we finished up, he carries the plates and leftovers to the kitchen, refusing my help, and I finally take a seat on the big couch, slumping into the cushions.

König emerges in the doorframe, just standing there. Frozen in place. I put my phone down and for a moment we just look at each other. The same familiarity hits me, but the guilty look on his face tells me why he’s not moving an inch closer.

It's a bit ridiculous. We fucked, we ate together, we talked about some of the shit that went down. He apologized - again.

I softly pat the cushion beside me. “Come here.”

He’s taking a few steps, hesitatingly approaching and sitting down. But he stops there. I look up at him from the side, and I have never seen him so unsure. It's almost a little sweet.

Grabbing him, I pull him down to me and he just lets me. Positioning his head in my lap, cradling his face, and he lies down the feet dangling over the side of the couch. When my hand caresses over his chest, he sighs. Relaxing into the cushions. I can almost hear the weight drop from his shoulders as he melts into my touch. His hand clinging onto my arm. His brows turning up as he looks up at me.

For a moment we just sit in silence and I let the calmness flood me that his proximity brings. Playing with the long strands of his hair. Softly straightening out the waves that always form when they are freshly washed. Looking down at him.

“I don’t fucking deserve you.”, he whispers.

And there it is again. That sentence. It bothered me when I read it in the messages he sent. And then when he uttered them today.

I grab his face and make him look at me. Squishing his cheeks. “Don’t say that.”, I tell him, my voice trembling. “Don’t fucking say that.”

He stills, his eyes flitting between mine, his mouth dropping open a little.

“I didn’t- I…” I’ve almost never seen him speechless, but today every time I’ve said something that he seemingly didn’t expect he just looked at me like that.

“You think it's flattering or whatever. It’s not.”, I say, exasperated. “It’s like I’m on a fucking pedastal. It doesn’t make me fucking feel good, okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. I don’t need anymore “sorry”s from him. “You already thought that before you broke up with me, didn’t you?”

He hesitates for a moment before nodding. Silence between us as I only look at him, reading what’s in his eyes.

“Beating yourself up over this isn’t gonna make either of us feel better. I don’t want you to grovel like a beaten dog. I just want you to be honest with me what’s going on in this thick head of yours.” Tapping on said thick head.

“Yeah, you fucking hurt me by just dropping me off in my flat and fucking off because you thought it was the right thing for both of us. I don’t need you to think for me. I just need you to talk to me.” Damn, I’m laying into him right now, but I fear otherwise I’m not gonna get through the thickheaded stubborness.

“I didn’t mean to go over your head like I did. I was too in my own head already, so it was the only thing that made sense to me.”, he says as calmly as he manages. “I thought it was the right thing for you.”

“Because you didn’t deserve me anyways and I would be better off with someone else, right?”, I summarize. I can’t help but sound a little bitter. And I realise now that that was the thing that hurt me the most.

He nods again.

I feel the jab in my heart. Not knowing what to say to that. It's not nice to have the person you're with express the sentiment that you should be with someone else. Well, it’s pretty fucking far from nice.

He casts his eyes down, fidgeting with his wristband, not daring to look at me. And I can practically feel his self-deprecation prickling at my fingertips, the hand still lying on his chest, clearer than ever before.

“I thought I would be selfish to have you wait for me. And I realised that the opposite is true. I was a coward, I just fucking ran away.”, he sighs, and I can hear the shame in his voice.

His hand clasps over mine, squeezing my fingers.

“You did.”, I simply say.

“And it didn’t fucking solve anything.” He laughs, a barking joyless laugh. “For the first time in a long time it was worse without someone else, you know.” He pauses for a moment, finally looking up at me again. You don't need to be Sherlock to know who he's talking about.

I nod, swallowing back my emotions again, squeezing his hand back. “And it didn’t have to be like this.”

“Fuck. I know, I just- wanna kick myself every time I think about it.” An exhausted and frustrated sigh rising up from deep in his chest. “I don't know what I can say to make it all okay again. I don't know what to tell you to-”

“Just show me.”, I interrupt him before he can go down that spiral. He stills

“I’m gonna make it up to you, I swear.” His hand grabs mine a bit tighter. Pulling it up to his face and pressing a kiss to my knuckles.

I nod, a little smile stalking onto my face. “Okay, good.”, I say, adding a “And don't ever say you're undeserving again.”

“I won't.”

“Thank you.” I lean down and press a soft kiss to his lips, and he answers it like it holds the promise he just made.

When I pull back, I don’t get far cause he is cradling my cheek, not letting me go anywhere.

“Did anybody ever tell you that it’s hot when you get all bossy like that?”, he whispers, a small grin forming on his face.

“Yeah?”, I say, tongue in cheek. “You like getting ripped to shreds?”

“Only by you, Hexe.” which makes me laugh. “But I deserved it too.”, he says.

“You did a little bit.”, I say graciously, and we both laugh.

We just stay like this for a while, holding hands, and I can take a deep breath feeling most of the weight drop away from me that I felt walking into the living room.

He turns to the side, his cheek pressing against my belly as his arms close around me, around my waist. As close as he can get.

I’m brushing his hair out of his face, playing with it. Massaging his neck and shoulders, softly caressing.

He almost falls asleep like that, and I don't think I’ve ever seen him so peaceful. Deep calm breaths. Not a wrinkle on his forehead as I brush over it with my thumb. His eyebrows are turned up. Not even a hint of a frown on his face.

He grabs my hand, pressing sweet kisses to my fingers. “Stay with me.”, he whispers. “Please.”

“You sure?”, I ask.

He nods, not letting go of me. “I just want my bed and you in it, like I dreamed about those last few weeks. So… please?”

And it finally sinks in that the break was just as painful for him as it had been for me. Because I dreamed of the same thing. “Okay.”

He doesn't need anything else, just gets up off the couch, picking me up as well.

I can't help the giggle rising up my throat when my legs close around his hips and my lips find his neck, kissing the sensitive spots, the ones that always make him shiver. My fingertips are digging into his shoulders. The soft lingering touches I know will get him riled up.

He hums. “Glad to see that your ass is still as bratty as before.”, he grumbles, but he can't hide the grin as he playfully places the tiniest spank on said butt.

“Never.”, I tell him before he kicks open the bed room and lies me down on the bed.

We both scramble to get rid of our clothes, pulling them off quickly. He crawls over me, his dick nudging against my pussy while he settles between my thighs and his lips land on mine. His long hair falls over me like a veil, the tips tickling my naked skin.

His hand drops down, his fingers rubbing over my clit as he pushes into me. Carefully enough. And I sigh taking him in.

His mouth is coasting over my neck, making me shiver as he kisses, nibbles and bites. Leaving marks where anyone can see. Licking the sensitive skin, his tongue drawing wet tracks over it. His heavy breath hitting the shell of my ear as he pulls my head back and sucks on the sensitive spot right beneath it.

My fingers are digging into his shoulders and back, his muscles, leaving my own marks with my nails. Dropping down further until I grab his asscheeks, pulling him into me.

He chuckles, pushing deeper, his thrusts picking up pace. I arch my back to meet his movements, my chest against his, the sensations making me throw my head back.

His hand catches my chin, and he’s telling me: “Look at me, Liebes, please just look at me.”

My eyes meet his, a satisfied deep hum rising up his throat. And I never felt more at the center of anybody's attention than in that moment.

He turns, and suddenly I’m on top, riding him, my hands placed on his hairy chest. Slowly sliding up and down his length. One of his arms around my waist, the other on my ass guides me. I almost can't handle it, the way he fills me up in this position, his tip nudging against my cervix. But fuck. I have missed this.

Not just the sex. The closeness. The familiarity. Him.

König looks up at me, the same look on his face that I have seen a few times today, the one that I still can’t quite place what it means. But I love when he looks at me like that. If the warm fuzzy feeling in my chest is any indication.

We spend the rest of the day in bed, talking, fucking, listening to music, sometimes almost dozing off. Until it’s late, almost a bit too late.

My head is resting against his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady, his legs entangled with mine. His burly tattooed arms embracing me, pulling me against him. His cheek resting atop my forehead with the way I’m nuzzled into the crook of his neck, so his hair is tickling me when he moves a bit.

His body all around me, with nowhere else to go.

I didn’t like sleeping like this ever before I got to know him. But I really don’t mind anymore. I really don’t.

When I open my eyes the next morning, I need a moment to catch up where I am. König’s bedroom. In his bed, the soft sheets against my naked skin. I stretch a little and turn to the side, expecting to find him still fast asleep. But I’m greeted with a smile on his face, his eyes on me. Wide awake already.

“Good morning, Liebes.”, he says softly, catching my hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it, and I have to swallow to not instantly burst into tears.

“Hi.”, I answer, trying a little wobbly smile.

His hand shoots out and he caresses over my cheek. A simple gesture, one he did so many times before, but right now it has me crying again.

“Oh Liebes.”, he coos as he sees the tear rolling down my face.

“I swear, I don't wanna cry! I must be getting my period or something.”, I grumble while he presses kisses to my cheeks, softly kissing away the tears.

“I’m gonna make you laugh and come twice as much for every time you cried.”, he says, and the twinkle in his eyes tells me that he is joking, yet at the same time seeming earnest.

I break out in laughter. “That would be a lot of jokes and a lot of orgasms.”, I gasp out, wiping the wetness from my cheeks.

He leans down and gives me a kiss. “That’s okay. Cause I’m not going anywhere.” He pulls back a bit.

“Don't make any promises you can't keep.”, I say.

“I wouldn’t.”, he says, his voice serious and his gaze soft. “I promise.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Now let me start with it. I already got a laugh out of you.”

“You insatiable man. Let me go get my teeth brushed first or-”

“No time!”, he exclaims, pulling away the blanket, to position himself between my legs.

I burst into laughter again, the sounds turning into moans when he pulls away my panties and puts his mouth on me.

“Another laugh… that means I need to keep up with the orgasms.”, he quips, mischief lighting up his eyes as his tongue dips into me.

I sigh, snuggling myself back into the comfy sheets, grinding my hips against his face. Meticulously he eats me out, getting all sloppy with it.

His hands are grabbing the swells of my ass, my legs over his shoulders, until he is buried between my thighs. They are littered with all the marks he left there. Faint bites and hickeys. And he’s leaving even more. Oh god, I missed them.

He spits once before his fingers push into me, soft squelching when he fills me up. I’m still a little sleepy, yawning once while I stretch. Meeting his movements and touches.

“Feels so good.”, I tell him, and a little smile forming on his lips as I look down at him.

“Yeah?”, he quips, his thumb rubbing over my clit while he fingerfucks me, slow and deliberately.

I barely can hold the eye contact, almost a little shy, although we did this what feels like a million times. “Yeah.”

He slips his fingers out of me, taking over with his mouth again. I feel the wetness on his fingers as he grabs my thigh again, his fingertips pressing into the plush.

In the time apart nothing had changed about this. It still feels like he has memorized every little part of me, which buttons to push to make me cry out.

His own moans and grunts give away just how much he enjoys this, and I don’t think I will ever get enough of him. Seeing how his hips restlessly move, almost fucking into the mattress, while his tongue dips into me, fucking into me, over and over again, it does something to me as well.

When he nips at my clit, I jolt, my hips lifting off the mattress, but he doesn’t let me go anywhere. Repeating the same move and I come on his face. My back arching, my fingers grabbing at the sheets, curses dropping from my lips.

With a deep breath I look at him again, the big man still very comfortable between my legs, his chin and lips glistening with moisture before he wipes it away.

“And that’s the first one.”, he says with a little grin, and I can’t help the little laugh.

I sit up and grab him. “Yeah, but it’s your turn now.”, I tell him as I pull him up to me, needing him closer.

A wry smile adorns his face. “I’m sorry, Liebes, I already...”

“You… what?”, I ask a little dumbfounded. Looking down while he sits back on his knees, his tummy all sticky, coated in his come. The sheets beneath him soiled, like he humped himself to completion spilling all over them, while eating me out. My jaw drops. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

This man. The lop-sided smirk, making him look younger than he is. The long hair all messy. Not ashamed in the slightest that he came like that, just eating me out.

“Just give me a few minutes, okay?” He grins down at me as he crawls over me. “And maybe a shower.”

“But I need to get to work!”, I tell him.

“Who said, you'll ever leave this house again?”

“König!”

“I’m keeping you.”, he says, like a definite statement, while he scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder.

“Brute.”, I say poutily while I can't hold back my giggles.

He just laughs, grabbing my ass as he carries me to the bathroom. “Gonna fuck you in the shower, two birds with one stone. Still need to make you come one more time.”, he lays out his plan.

And I could never say no to that, could I?

We manage to be on time though, even drinking a coffee in the kitchen together, and then he drives me to work.

He also picks me up again, not ready to spend any possible moment apart.

The stupidest biggest grin stalks onto my face when I head out of the office and see his car already parked, faint drum and bass sounds penetrating through. I run up to it and open the door, recognizing the song as Shadow of Intent’s ‘Oudenophobia’, one of the songs I showed him some time ago.

I get into the passenger seat, his hands already grabbing me before I’m properly sitting. Pressing his lips to mine in a kiss. The simple greeting turning into something else with the way he kisses me. Like he doesn’t want to let go.

“Hi.”, I finally manage to say, a little out of breath.

“Sorry, missed you all day.”, he whispers apologetically, backing off a bit, just looking at me.

“No, come back here.”, I say, my hand grabbing his neck, fingers tangled in his hair, and I pull him down to me again for another kiss.

When he pulls back now, he’s grinning down at me. And I don’t need to tell him that I missed him too. He knows.

König straightens up in his seat, shifts the car into gear and pulls out of the parking lot. (The only thing he ever pulls out of, really)

“What’s the plan for today, Prinzesserl?”, he asks me then.

“Oh oh, there is this new Asian fusion place that opened up a few weeks ago.”, I say. “I haven’t been yet.”

He pulls up his eyebrows. “Asian fusion?”

“Yes.”, I say. “They have all kinds of stuff from all over.”

“Spring rolls too?”

“I bet.” I grin up at him.

“Then let’s go.”, he says, the expression on his face mirroring mine.

I sit back, crossing my legs and snuggling into my seat. His hand lands on my thigh and mine clasps over it.

It’s like he never left. Well almost, at least.

And I know that not everything’s forgotten. It doesn’t work like that. My heart is content, but my mind is still catching up. Sometimes thinking about what he said when he left. The promises he made when he came back. Working out how this relationship between us will be from now on. Working with him on that, for both our sakes.

Because despite what happened and my efforts while he was gone... I still do love him.

And we both deserve it.

the whole story in the Masterlist

i'm sorry, i'm so in love with this man that isn't real :') (well, he is, in my mind)

#metalhead!könig #she likes the dark #könig #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig #konig cod #konig mw2 #könig fanfiction #cod mw2 smut #könig smut #konig smut #cod smut #könig x reader #tw: age gap

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